Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sharp tapping of quick, enthusiastic footsteps echoed through the empty hospital corridor. The unassuming gentleman to which the footsteps belonged, was of average height and stout build and statistically ordinary in every way.   In fact, the most remarkable feature about him would be the tuft of unnaturally blond hair sprouting from his head--standing on end and whirling delicately at the tips--which was hardly worth remarking on at all.

The average person may conclude that he was a middle-aged man of good breeding; with impeccable morals and even fussier peculiarities whose gentile mannerisms could have been plucked straight from early 19th century high society.

They would have been partially right.

Aziraphale hummed along to the musical score playing in his mind. His hips took on a merry wiggle as the angel flip-flopped a lunch cooler from one arm to the other–-fingers thrumming out a powerful, percussive beat against the plastic lid.

He’d just acquired a 1972 first pressing vinyl of “Mars, The Bringer of War”, one of Holst’s more robust symphonies, and spent the past 26 hours or so drinking in the complex arrangements and commanding instrumental switches. Although this piece tickled the boundary of his usual taste, the ensemble’s fierce, thunderous energy was rather contagious and had been pulsing through his veins in unbridled grandeur ever since. 

Even the dim overnight corridor lights casting dull shadows on the gray, chipping walls couldn’t dampen his mood. 

He’d put in a complaint to environmental services more than a few times about the floor’s dire need for cosmetic attention, but was consistently informed that while they were sympathetic to his concerns, his area did not qualify as ‘high priority’ when it came to fund distribution.

It wasn’t very long ago when 7th Floor was a bustle of activity, back when Dialysis still shared the space with Oncology. But that all changed in 2020 when the hospital designated the entire wing as a covid unit. After the worst of the pandemic passed, staffing took a hit and the unit was never reopened. Now the hospital mostly used the empty rooms as storage and to house staff during emergency situations.

But that was fine.

Aziraphale found he preferred it that way.

It wouldn’t be truthful to say he didn’t sometimes miss the quims of engaging gossip and pettiness that neighboring staff brought to his workday. He supposed it served as a poor-grade entertainment of sorts--a distractive purposelessness that brought dimension and character to an otherwise depressing situation. But after the adjacent unit closed, Aziraphale had found a new appreciation for the simple, peaceful solitude empty halls provided, especially during the long, odd hours (1) Acute dialysis demanded.

Finally, the muffled steps of the angel’s vintage, wing-tipped shoes slowed to a stop in front of wide, double doors of the dialysis unit. 

Aziraphale slid a hand inside a scrub pocket to retrieve his keys.

The angel’s energetic humming abruptly fell into silence, and he frowned. 

Aziraphale stretched his fingers wide–thoroughly exploring the space corner to corner and groaned when he discovered it was, indeed, empty.  

Goodness, had he really forgotten the keys at home?

Mentally retracing his steps from the morning, Aziraphale patted down every crevice and inlet on his person, quite certain he’d had his keys on him when he left the apartment 30 minutes prior.

Aziraphale threw his head back and groaned with annoyance.

Six AM was far too early to be going through this headache.

That was a figure of speech, of course. Angels didn't get headaches.  At least, he assumed they didn’t. He’d never experienced one himself and hadn’t ventured to explore the matter further.

Aziraphale dipped into his scrub pockets a second time, cracked open his lunch box, and patted down his backside.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he ran a hand over the inner pouch of his jacket and heard the familiar jingle of metal against metal.

“Ah! There you are!” he chuckled to himself.

Aziraphale yanked on the keyring without thinking and heard the fibers tear when it snagged on the tweed fabric of his jacket.  Wincing, he slowly looked downward to the fresh rip in his lapel. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale frowned, gravely disappointed in himself for being so careless. It was one of his favorite coats too–kept it in tiptop condition since 1852.

He grasped the string tenderly and gave it a gentle tug to see if the fabric would unravel further, but it seemed to hold well enough. 

He stared at the torn edge.  The jacket was such a lovely compliment to his extensive wardrobe–a fabulous statement piece really and he’d hate to retire it. Sadly, he grazed a finger over the broken, frayed threads of cream and warm chestnut. 

It would be so simple to mend, Aziraphale thought quietly to himself.

Just the tiniest wave of his hand to persuade the tight, intricate weave to stitch itself back together…

Good as new…

So easy…

But his hand didn’t move. Neither did the angel’s woeful expression. 

“Frivolous miracles” Gabriel had called them.

The Archangel had made it annoyingly clear that Aziraphale had NOT been assigned to this position to waste the divine gift on locating his misplaced badge, conjuring a roast beef sandwich if he’d forgotten his lunch, or re-heating blankets when the warmer broke down. 

He’d received a strongly worded letter on the matter just last week informing him that “low importance” miracles would be closely monitored—threatening a personal visit by a superior if it happened again.

Repairing a torn stitch was hardly a drop in the bucket when it came to celestial energy expenditure, but he couldn’t chance it.  

Sure, Gabriel often spoke of his appreciation for fine human clothing, but Aziraphale knew full well that shared common ground did NOT extend to sentiment. It was difficult to explain the emotional attachment to one’s personal items to someone who had never ‘owned’ anything. So, any effort expended to educate his boss on the ability for possessions to have value beyond cost would be laughably wasted.

The angel sadly shook his head.

Just Aziraphale’s luck that his beloved jacket would fall victim to Heaven’s bureaucracy and budget cuts.

With a hopeless, defeated sigh, Aziraphale resigned to the loss when a fresh thought side-stepped into view.  The angel smiled slyly to himself.

Then again…

It wasn’t until recently that Aziraphale realized nearly all of Heaven’s admonishments regarding excessive miracle use were pinged at his official assignment location–aka ‘the hospital’. 

The only exception he could recall occurred on a night two years ago, during Anathama’s 4th of July celebration at Snyder’s Bend.  The spirits had run dry earlier than expected, and being a tad more intoxicated than he should have been, Aziraphale got a bit sloppy with a basic summoning charm–accidently turning the entire lake into wine.  

Of course, he was mortified and set everything to rights the moment he realized his mistake.  Luckily, his friends,in their equally tipsy state, had not noticed, and, to his knowledge, no aquatic wildlife had suffered any permanent effects because of it. Still, the higher-ups were terribly cross with him and Aziraphale couldn’t fault them for the reprimand he received.

Anyway, the point was that he’d performed dozens of minor miracles in the last six months alone at various locations around the city that were never mentioned by his superiors. Initially, Aziraphale dismissed this as an oversight But he now deduced that, whatever the reason–be it conservation of resources or activity becoming more difficult to track-- Heaven did not scrutinize the exploits he performed outside the hospital walls.

So, in theory, unless the miracle plume was exceptionally powerful, Aziraphale should be safe executing one or two modest supernatural acts (such as repairing a torn lapel for instance) outside the hospital without triggering Heaven's radar.

What they don’t know can’t hurt him…right?

Aziraphale knotted the loose string to stabilize the damage, promising himself he’d fix it properly later that night.

He placed the handle of the lunch cooler in his mouth and began shuffling through the keys like a deck of cards. After failing to locate the correct key and nearly dropping them (twice) he groaned and set the cooler to the tiled floor to give the pursuit his full attention.

Once he found it, Aziraphale happily shoved it into the lock and tur–

NOPE. 

Wrong key.

Aziraphale chose another at random.

Then another.

And another.

Finally the lock clicked open and Aziraphale pocketed the keychain. 

He stepped into the unit and closed the door behind him,bright eyed and bushy tailed and eager to start another day of dialysis at the acute unit.

He breathed in the familiar scent of vinegar, bleach, plastic sterilant and alcohol wipes. It was hard to believe it’s been more than 20 years since he’d been assigned to this location. He knew every port, tile, and persnickety machine glitch like the back of his wing. This is where he applied his skills to vigilantly support the suffering, needy, and even provide an occasional miraculous intervention. His work was satisfying and all in accordance with God’s love, forgiveness, compassion, and the Great Ineffable Plan.

But first, CAFFEINE!

—--------

After sipping down the last few drops of his second cup, Aziraphale tended to his morning routine. He set the dialysis machines to rinse, ran up the water room, and checked the orders that had come through for the morning. Diligently, he analyzed the patient’s recent lab reports and progress notes to plan out his day. It was vital to ensure the more acute needs for dialysis were first on the schedule.

It was a busy job, but Aziraphale enjoyed it. And the part he enjoyed most, by far, was the endless hours of one-on-one time he got to spend with his patients.

Oh, how he adored listening to their stories and there was no limit to the questions he could ask on subjects of intangible value.

How did they interpret love, loss, and spirituality?

What simple things do they most look forward to and what mistakes did they never regret making?

It was an incredible, fascinating world and conversing with his patients was the closest Aziraphale could come to understanding what it was really like to be human.

—----------

It’d been just over an hour since Aziraphale had started prepping the unit for the day’s lineup when the unit door swung open and his manager, Jim, hustled in with a box of dialyzers.

“Good morning, Azi! Brought you some more 180s. Get any sleep last night?” He asked cheerfully, setting the box on the counter.

“Not a bit,” Aziraphale sang, pulling the tubing from its package to string the system. Jim chuckled.

Every day, Aziraphale responded to that same question with the exact same answer. The verbal exchange was utterly pointless of course, but silly little rituals like this were known to strengthen human connections.  And the angel never tired of the warm, pleased expression it brought to his manager’s face. 

“You’re like a machine.” Jim snorted out with a grin. “Are you ready for another fun-filled day?”

“Oh, yes, of course sir. We have two full shifts and a plasmapheresis today. Am I the only one here?”

Aziraphale didn’t really need to ask. He knew the answer. But still, it was fun participating in these little everyday exchanges. So delightful. So human.

“Yes, unfortunately” Jim frowned. “Newt was here late on an emergent run so he’s catching up on sleep before heading to the other hospital around 10. I have a (2) CQI meeting in the afternoon, so I’m sorry I won’t be much help to you. Do you need me to order the (3) FFP for the plasmapheresis?” He asked, casually running his eyes over the day’s schedule.

“Already done, sir.” Aziraphale smiled.

The angel's heart went out to Newt and his rough night, but it was part of the job. Still, he was pleased his coworker had the chance to get some extra sleep since the opportunity did not present itself often. Newt and Anathema had been running over 60 hours a week, and Aziraphale was pulling more than double that. Jim didn’t know how he did it, but he certainly wasn’t going to complain.

“Good-good. Glad to hear. Let me know if there is anything you need before I have to go,” Jim mumbled while riffling through the papers he grabbed from his inbox.

Jim shuffled into his office, but with a quick backstep, he popped his head through the doorway.

“Oh! Almost forgot! That extra help we’ve been requesting for the last year? Corporate finally found us one. The new (4) traveler is coming today. They’ll be on an 8-month rotation starting tomorrow. Sounds like they have quite a few years of experience so there shouldn’t be a lot of training involved. You just need to show them the ropes. Can I count on you for that, Azi?”

“Yes, Of course.  I’ll take care of it.” Aziraphale nodded followed by a clearing of the throat. 

As a general rule, Aziraphale tried to not grow too attached to people he encountered. However, he didn’t always succeed. Sometimes, he failed miserably. 

(5) Joan…Vincent…Oscar… Marilyn–couragious, passionate, intriguing personalities throughout history that left him spellbound–gravitating to their presence like bees to sweet nectar.  But not all the humans Aziraphale forged connections with were destined for notoriety.  

There was a young boy, Lamech, who shared his nightmares with the angel while fierce storms beat against the arch.  Or a young widow, Sara, who sold carnations on the corner near his book store for a decade before they spoke. They’d exchange pleasantries every morning followed by in-depth discussions on poetry,  philosophy, and the language of flowers.  Aziraphale was devastated when the plague claimed her some years later. 

And just like so many others, Newt and Anathema had, uninvitedly and unceremoniously, thrust themselves into his life.  Their kindness, dedication and quirky, unfiltered humor carved out a little nest of sorts in Aziraphale’s stale, monotonous existence and he didn’t have the heart to thrust them back out. 

His dialysis team was, sadly, far smaller than what was to be expected for the work load, but not for lack of trying. It was terribly difficult to fill positions. Even if they came with glowing dialysis experience, most new hires were woefully under prepared for what they would face in acutes and never seemed to last more than a few weeks. A traveler, however, was a step up. At least they knew what they were getting into and often took to their new assignment like a duck to water with little guidance. But it was still a contracted, temporary arrangement–already stamped and sealed with an 8 month expiration date. 

No traveler would forgo their adventurous, nomadic lifestyle to take root in Sioux City, Iowa of all places.

So, while Aziraphale would be an unequivocally gracious host– welcoming and appreciative, in the end, it was just another face he would not get attached to.

“What is her…um…his name?” he enquired, but Jim didn’t respond.  He'd ducked back into his office,no doubt already jamming to his favorite Buddy Holly tune via bluetooth.

—------

Aziraphale completed the first shift without issue and was in the process of turning over machines in preparation for round 2. Piercing alarms beeped and blared while their delicate internal mechanisms worked toward balancing pressures and conductivity. Aziraphale couldn’t hit the silencing buttons fast enough to keep up and he still had to do another water check before the next patients arrived. With all the chaotic disturbance filling the room, he wasn’t sure what had drawn his attention to the doorway in the first place.

Aziraphale lifted his eyes just in time to see a strange man enter the unit. He was curiously leggy for a man–almost feminine in their lines, with clinging black denim jeans that rode low on his narrow hips. He was also slim as a flagpole and Aziraphale had half a mind to offer him half of his sandwich from his lunch cooler. The man strode in with a curious mix of confidence and indifference that in no way screamed: “Stable, policy-following healthcare worker.” More like: “I’m the healthcare worker that made that policy necessary". 

The man looked left, and then right. Like an afterthought, he snatched the shades off his face, folded the bows, and tucked them into his inner jacket liner pocket.  Quizically, he scanned over the area as though he weren't entirely sure he was in the right place.

The man took another step into the unit. 

He was a fair few inches taller than Aziraphale and dressed in form-fitting black pants and a dark dress shirt that Aziraphale estimated to be half a size too tight. His low-dipping vest matched crimson hair that was meticulously styled in a sweeping, funky wave on top of his head. When he turned to check out the breakroom, Aziraphale thought he spied a tattoo just below the man’s right sideburn but couldn’t be sure on the design from where he stood.

Aziraphae supposed he was attractive in a low-key rebel without a cause sort of way, but something felt…off.

When the stranger’s view passed over Aziraphale, the man’s unnaturally animated brows arched high over a set of paralyzingly intense dark brown eyes.

The tiny blond hairs on Aziraphale’s neck began to tingle and stand on end.

Now, the angel didn’t give much stock to intuition. He valued the knowledge gained from hard study and experience above silly, baseless superstition.

That was Anathema’s territory and he was more than happy to play along with her harmless, metaphysical readings and ‘too vague to be useful’ prophecies for so long as it did not affect him directly. But, oh, how he dreaded the earful he’d get regarding her supernatural take on their newest team addition.

They each held the other's gaze for at least 5 heartbeats. The man’s thin lips curved into a devilish smirk and his right eye twitched not so subtly. After which, he resumed scanning the room.

Aziraphale scoffed.

Did he just WINK at me?!

The angel’s cheeks pinkened and the corner of his mouth pulled downward ever so slightly. Awfully cheeky for someone he had not yet met.

The redhead zeroed in on the door labeled "Manager". He replaced his sunglasses and sauntered around the nurse's station like he owned the place, but prepared to burn it all down if the fake plant on the desk so much as looked at him funny.

Aziraphale swallowed all his shallow, off the cuff assumptions and simply credited his body's reaction to nerves.

As the newcomer approached him, the angel applied his brightest, most welcoming smile.

“Um--Hello!” Aziraphale blurted suddenly as the man passed. “I’m…”

“Nice to meet you.” he mumbled flippantly, hardly glancing in Aziraphale's direction before breezing into the manager’s office and shutting the door behind him.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t till the 2nd shift was complete that Aziraphale saw the intriguing gentleman again. This wasn’t a surprise since new hire paperwork did indeed take a good deal of time.

Aziraphale had seen many new hires come and go. Working Acutes took a rare breed. Burn-out was common not only due to the physical demands, but also because of the stress of treating patients at the highest level of acuity. It was a hard fact that not everyone could be saved.

Of course it was hard to lose patients, even for an angel. But for people like Newt, Jim, and Anathema, the effects were devastating.

It was natural for humans to draw parallels between their own mortality and someone who has lost the battle for theirs.

That is not something that Aziraphale had to struggle with.

But through his work, Azi had learned that humans are deeply connected to each other, even if they don’t realize it. When one experiences the death of another, a piece that bonded the two dies as well. Grief clings like a second skin that can't be brushed off or washed away. It lays heavy on their souls as an ever-present reminder of their misery and sorrow.

Yet, even after gut-wrenching agony of loss, people are forever reaching for another connection.

Aziraphale found this to be quite a beautiful aspect of humanity and one of the many reasons he was drawn to an existence of living among them.

Although Aziraphale could not stop circumstances when a life was destined to end, he could lessen their suffering and fear as they did so. Being an angel, he especially enjoyed opportunities in which he could perform acts of the miraculous.

It was a delicate dance to be sure because (to Aziraphale's baffled amazement) humans were ridiculously and stupidly resistant to accept a miracle for what it was.

Suspicions would arise as to why a stage-3 decubitus ulcer completely healed within an hour, or how end stage small cell lung cancer went into full remission overnight.

Every blessing was met with allegations, investigations, and accusations that diagnoses were not accurate in the first place. He had to keep most of his miracles small or perform them at paced intervals so as not to risk alerting Heaven which would trigger a forced, emergency reassignment of himself and memory wipe for all humans involved....

Again.

But it had been more than 20 years now, and he was now a fine dancer of that particular line.

Aziraphale smiled.

Serving here was a good and noble use of his gifts. This hospital was Aziraphale’s domain. His to protect. He did his job well and that was enough to fulfill his angelic purpose.

The office door opened, and Jim entered the treatment area. The lanky new hire followed a few steps behind– a haphazard stack of papers in his arms. Wrinkled corners poked awkwardly from all edges and reminded Aziraphale of dirty clothes piled high in a hamper.

Peaking over the lenses that rode low on his nose for clarity, the man’s long nimble fingers wedged themselves between packets, tugging one free then awkwardly jamming each back into the stack when he determined it was not the one he needed..  

Whatever information he was trying to find seemed to elude him. 

Aziraphale didn’t realize he was shaking his head in bewilderment. It was difficult for him to imagine how anyone could function without basic organizational skills. It was a wonder how the man could navigate escape from his own bed sheets without a map to guide him. 

Another leaf slipped from the pile and floated to the floor. Aziraphale desperately wanted to snatch the papers and straighten them into a workable pile with a couple good taps on the table.

Jim was rapidly running through the layout of the unit–the row of dialysis machines and matching water hook-ups along the back wall.  He pointed to where the soft and hard supplies were stored, the cubby where the backup machines and portable ROs were kept, and the directory where he’d find the phone numbers he would likely need throughout the day. 

If the man wasn’t keeping up with the flurry of information, he didn’t say as much.  He nodded to everything the manager said, but his focus was still honed in on the papers upon papers in his arms–struggling to make sense of them.

Aziraphale stiffened slightly with anticipation as the duo approached him.

“Azi! My main dude,” Jim smiled–all shiny teeth and practiced charm.

Jim nudged his chin toward the hire, encouraging Aziraphale to make a good impression. It had been so busy, and they really couldn’t afford to deal with another walk out.

“Here’s the man I was telling you about. This is…”

Aziraphale waited patiently.

Then waited longer...

“I’m so sorry,” Jim winced apologetically. “What’s your name again?”

The man looked up, from the massive load of disarray, easing the weight of it onto his opposite arm.

“Wot?”

“Name.” Jim mouthed.

The redhead blinked, then glanced unceremoniously between Aziraphale and Jim as if he had forgotten there were other people in the room. He pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose and into their proper placement.

“S’Cro-”  

“ANOTHONY!” Jim cut in as though he never needed the prompting in the first place. “That’s right.” Jim chuckled, playfully bonking himself in the head. 

“Azi here is the best we have.  He’ll get you filled in with the basics.”  Jim poked Aziraphale hard but playfully in the rib. Aziraphale returned a weak smile and Jim beamed like someone just doubled the marshmallows in his hot chocolate. Truthfully, Aziraphale was not especially fond of the gesture. But Jim behaved as though it were a necessary human bonding ritual–one of great significance given how often it was utilized.  So Aziraphale allowed him to do so.

“He’s all yours, Sunshine!” Jim chirped.

With a final affirming nod, Jim returned to his office, while Aziraphale was left holding the paper bag of burning dog waste that was his new coworker.

Anthony kept his eyes on the manager until the door clipped shut. Then, without looking, he grumbled a string of swear words and immediately dumped three-fourths of the stack of new hire paperwork into the shred bin. Anthony made no attempt to hide his satisfaction when the bin buzzed to life and transformed the employee handbook and several other fundamental informational packets into confetti sprinkles before their eyes. Anthony went back to riffling through the remaining papers, as though he hadn’t just destroyed his w-4 forms and at least two permanent facility educational manuals.

Aziraphale gaped from the man's sheer audacity. Any glimmering concern Aziraphale had that Anthony may not be a good fit for their team had now solidified. In this limited first impression, Anthony had proven himself to be rash, disorganized, with severe deficiency issues and subpar adaptation skills. 

In short, Anthony was trouble. 

Aziraphale would very much like to march into Jim’s office and demand that he reject Anthony’s contract and request the company send a different traveler. 

But there were no other travelers, were there. In fact, Anthony was the first traveler in years to accept the assignment. 

Aziraphale shook off his reservations and reminded himself that this wasn’t about personality clashes. Anthony was here to help share the workload with not only him, but Newt and Anathema as well.  And Anathema would never let him live it down if he did anything to make Anthony feel his assistance wasn’t wanted or appreciated--regardless of how incompetent he turned out to be. 

And Aziraphale would never claim to be infallible.  It’s possible that he had judged the newcomer too harshly. He’s known plenty of staff throughout his time who have excelled marvelously at their job–despite being a “hot mess” as Anathema called them.

"I believe we may have mangled the introduction earlier," Aziraphale admitted quickly and he offered his hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Anthony.”

The movement caught Anthony’s attention, and he temporarily gave up on whatever illusive informational leaf he had been looking for.

“Oh, uh…yes. Sure.”

Anthony tucked the jumble securely under his arm and extended his free hand.

“Great to meet--"

Just before contact, a purple flash cracked through the air like lightning between their hands–sending a sharp sting exploding up their arms and down through their spine. Anthony gasped while Aziphale let out a surprised yelp and the two jumped apart faster than a snapped rubber band.

The papers that were left under Anthony’s arm immediately scattered into a fluttery cloud and floated lazily to the tile floor.

Jim’s head popped out from his office like a hungry prairie dog who just heard a peanut drop.

“What was that?”

“I uh…” Aziraphale's mind was spinning from the whiplash, and he had momentarily lost track of his vocabulary.

What in heaven's light WAS that?!

Aziraphale looked at his hand, bewildered, then glanced at Anthony who was doing the same.

“Static shock.” Aziraphale hollered back. “I think…”

“Oh, hmm,” Jim appeared concerned. “It must have been a pretty big shock.”

“It was.” Aziraphale responded quietly, making an effort to calm the uneasy fluster rippling in his chest.

Anthony was still looking at his hand and flexing his fingers to abate the residual tingle.

“Welp, I guess that happens,” Jim shrugged. “No incident report required. Azi, when you’re done with the machines, could you take Tony--"

“Anthony.” Anthony grumbled in a voice too low for Jim to hear. 

“-on a tour of the hospital? Be sure to hit the supply rooms on 7th and 5th floor, ICU, and lunchroom. Not that you’re going to get a chance to use that last one!" Jim laughed. Aziraphale shook his head disapprovingly, but his manager hadn’t noticed.

Jim could be quite lovely, and even his dimness could be sweetly endearing at times. His sense of humor, however, left much to be desired. Not that Aziraphale’s understanding of human whitisms and buffonery was any better. Yet even he knew that telling a new hire he’d be too busy to eat was NOT funny. 

“No problem.” Aziraphale called back, then turned his attention back to the traveler.  

Even though the sunglasses blocked Anthony’s eyes, Aziraphale could feel them staring hard into his own. Anthony’s brows were raised above his shades, his jaw clenched, and breaths coursed heavily through his nose. Without being able to read him better, Aziraphale would almost guess his new coworker was… afraid.

“So sorry about that. I am certain it was only--”

The angel reached out to touch Anthony’s shoulder, but the new hire countered Aziraphale’s forward step and quickly preserved the distance between them.

It occurred to Aziraphale that he may have made Anthony uncomfortable with his presumptuous nature. He adored physical contact--hugs being at the top of his list of warm-fuzzies. But not everyone liked to be touched uninvited--especially by someone they didn't know. The angel withdrew his hand and locked his wrists behind his back.

“Forgive me.”

Over the next couple hours, Aziraphaleraphale updated Anthony on as many inner workings of the hospital as he could think of to help smoothen his transition. The new coworker kept his head down and lips closed–giving no more than a mildly amused, shaded smile to anyone he was introduced to. But the redhead’s aloof, loner vibe must have checked the center square on some universal bingo card of desirability, because staff were corning Aziraphale at every turn—pumping him for details about the new guy with killer cheek bones, tight ass, and no wedding ring. 

Aziraphale was no stranger to playing middleman to interoffice relationships once before, believing it would enrich his understanding of workplace dynamics. But instead, to absolutely no one’s surprise, he quickly discovered that this placed him in the literal center of workplace drama.

Aziraphale hadn’t handled the previous experience well and he solemnly resolved to steer clear of similar situations in the future. Unfortunately, this vow was not shaping up to one he could keep. Still, he tried his best to minimize his involvement by informing anyone who asked, that he was not yet privy to any personal information at this time,breaking numerous hearts in the process. 

Dear Lord, Aziraphale prayed that Anthony was not one of those workplace drama queens that stirred up angst and scandal wherever he roamed. But the buzzing interest and whispers that followed Anthony like kittens skittering after a string had Aziraphale quite concerned this could be the case.

The odd spark between them earlier continued to rattle around Aziraphale’s mind like a loose screw. It was so strange. Was it truly purple or had he simply imagined the color? Whose hand had it initiated from? Or maybe he overthinking the entire thing and the spark was merely triggered by an electrical short from a nearby IV pump.

Whatever it was, Anthony’s stiff body language that shifted when Aziraphale’s hand gestures swept a bit too close, made it clear that he did NOT want a repeat of the incident.  As much as the angel would like to have an answer for whatever caused the bizarre electrical surge, Aziraphale decided, for the greater good, he would drop the subject and write it off as just “one of those things”.

After the tour, they returned to the dialysis unit. Anthony didn’t say much other than the occasional question for clarification purposes. Aziraphale made low key attempts to engage him in more casual conversation, but Anthony would not be baited.

It was nearing 7 pm. No emergencies had come through and the 1) ER was clear of frequent fliers. There were just a few things on the charting system that he wanted to show to his coworker before they left for the day.

Sitting down in front of the computer, Anthony positioned himself just behind Aziraphale’s chair. 

Aziraphale rolled through the Aces without issue, since Anthony was already familiar with that particular acute dialysis specific documentation system.They spent a little more time and detailed care on the hospital’s charting program–covering what treatment information dialysis was required to report. 

Anthony listened quietly. If he had any concerns about the programs being explained, he didn’t voice them. But a muffled rustle of fabric informed Aziraphale that Anthony had taken a step nearer to Azirphale’s chair.  

Then another.

And another.

He was quite close now–closer he’d allowed himself to be since the handshake that spooked them both.  

Aziraphale felt the line of Anthony’s  torso pressing softly against the chair’s high back.

Aziraphale bit his lip–hard pressed to contain his titillating excitement over the prospect of Anthony and himself finally easing into a more comfortable rapport.

Chancing small glances over his shoulder. Anthony was squinting fiercely at the screen, shades nested on top of his wave of red hair. Aziraphale suspected that the new hire had trouble with his sight. Not only did Anthony wear dark shades inside during most of the day, but he did an awful lot of squinting–especially when it came to reading small print and computer screens.

Whatever issues his coworker was experiencing, it would have been impolite for Aziraphale to inquire about any of Anthony’s personal issues. If Anthony wanted him to know, he’d tell Aziraphale in his own time when he was ready.

Anthony was squinting fiercely at the screen now, shades nested on top of his wave of red hair. He leaned even closer and took position just over the top of Aziraphale’s head. Though the circumstance may have been worthy of his pity, Aziraphale was exhilarated that Anthony felt comfortable standing so near to himself. 

Aziraphale clicked from screen to screen–explaining the output charting and method for charging individual dialysis services–subconsciously appreciating the pleasant motion of Anthony’s breaths grazing his hairs.

In and out.

Steady and calm. Even and content.

Until it wasn’t.

The steady, rhythmic pattern shifted like a seasonal breeze.

The change was subtle--a sharp inhale, pulled long, then exhaled. His intake moved with twice the energy as a moment before. Aziraphale could feel the blond curls of his hair bend and sway to match Anthony’s respirations and he realized what was happening.

Aziraphale slapped a hand over the spot in his hair where he felt the tickle of movement.  He spun in his chair to face Anthony and his coworker stumbled a few steps in retreat.

They stared at each other for what seemed like an indecently long time–Aziraphale’s mouth agape and Anthony looking atrociously affronted for someone caught red handed. 

“Were you…smelling me?”

Anthony did not hesitate to respond, as though he were expecting his coworker to say something.

“What?! No-of course not!”

Aziraphale knew he had not imagined it and would not be gas-lit into believing otherwise.

“Why would you say–You most certainly WERE."

Although Anthony's actions had been bizarre, it was the direct lie to his face that upset Aziraphale. Stakes were high in acutes, and being truthful was a fundamentally necessary part of the position. If he couldn’t trust Anthony, this was going to be a problem.

Anthony's eyes narrowed and his demeanor flipped like a switch from defense to offense. A growl rumbled through his teeth.

"Are you DEAF or just MENTAL?!" he snapped back. "I said I DIDN'T!"

Aziraphale frowned. He wasn't sure how this situation morphed into one that necessitated raised voices. But here they were and the angel needed to do what he could to deescalate the situation.

He drew in a deep breath and waved his arms in peaceful, inviting circles. 

“Let's calm down,” Aziraphale encouraged with a careful smile. “I promise, I’m not upset, Anthony. I'd just like to understand."

Anthony was silent. His glasses were back down over his eyes. He was so difficult to read when his shades were on.

“Is that it?” He croaked out, voice tight, looking anywhere but at Aziraphale. “For today--I mean?”

Aziraphale turned back to his computer and his mind ran through all they had covered.

“Yes.” His head bobbed in the affirmative. “Yes, I believe so."

Anthony nodded and shoved his hands protectively into his pockets.

“So…tomorrow then?”

Aziraphale didn’t want to leave things hanging like this–the weighty discomfort of the subject tugging on them both like a millstone around the neck.  

It was probably nothing.  Perhaps Anthony liked the smell of his spiced vanilla shampoo or the pumpkin-pecan hand sanitizer he’d applied recently. Then again, whatever captured Anthony’s olfactory interest may have nothing to do with Aziraphale. It could have been the scent of lemon disinfectant on the keyboard, or the small pile of used teabags drying in the garbage bin beneath the desk.

Yet, none of these options would justify Anthony jumping down his throat like that. It was disturbingly odd behavior given how brazenly cheeky Anthony had been toward him before they’d even been properly introduced. Aziraphale half expected Anthony to respond to his harmless inquiry with a mildly flirty quip–not deny it completely and then turn hostile when the angel attempted to press the matter. 

Aziraphale could speculate all he liked, but one thing was abundantly clear; Anthony DID NOT wish to talk about it. Rather than provoking his new coworker further and severely damaging their work relationship before they’d even had a chance to form one, Aziraphale conceded with a nod and watched some of the visible tension in his coworker’s shoulders unravel.

“Yes, of course. Tomorrow.” Aziraphale nodded again. There was a lot of nodding going on.

The angel stood up from his chair and prepared to thank his coworker once more, but Anthony backed away and made off for the break room to clock out.

Aziraphale only watched. Worried brows knotted over his crystal blue eyes. He had no clue as to why it all went so wrong.

Footnotes:

1. Frequent Flier (in a hospital setting) is commonly used for a person frequently admitted to the hospital. As a result, the person and their comorbidities are well known among the employees. The term is not inheritably derogatory but used more as a communication to other staff that they are familiar with the patient, their history, and unique needs and personality. Frequent admissions can be related to chronic illnesses, non-compliance with care recommendations, poor access to needed support, or overall fragile health. As it applies to acute dialysis, seeing a “frequent flier” name in the ER could indicate that the person will be in need of emergent dialysis and the employee’s work may not yet be done for the day.

Chapter Text

The next four weeks passed by in a blink.

Though autumn was creeping in, the days inside the hospital were long and hot, and the work matched the atmosphere. Anthony (much to Azi’s pleasant surprise) had taken a liking to Newt and Anathema, and his personality had started to bloom like an angsty, goth-coded flower.

They discovered he was, indeed, single, though he refused to give more detail on the subject.

When pushed, Anthony admitted he was from “All over” and left them hanging on that as well.

He was funny and sarcastic with people he liked, and just a sarcastic ass to people he didn’t.

He made a show of not caring too deeply about anything of consequence but had moments of sweet consideration when he thought no one was watching.

He didn’t eat much. In fact, Aziraphale couldn’t recall him eating at all. But he must eat sometimes, right?

Anthony worked hard and complained frequently, but you could count on him to show up when needed.

He drank without restraint and used the F-word like a comma when he was irritated. Aziraphale strongly disapproved of the swearing as he felt it was unprofessional. Therefore, Anthony thoroughly enjoyed dropping a few extra F-bombs into a conversation when he knew Azi was within earshot.

He fit their team dynamic as if he'd been with them for years.

At night, the group hung out at a 24-hour coffee shop named “Give me Coffee or Give me Death”

It was a fun little spot they had nicknamed “Death Coffee.” Not only did they serve coffee for all-nighters and odd hour staff who needed the caffeine at inconvenient times, they also offered comfort pick-me-ups such as French fries, Eccles cakes, buffalo wings and a few other munchies.

The location received a gold star in convenience from Aziraphale since he lived in the apartment just above the coffee shop. He’d been there for decades and had grown quite close to the owner, Nina.

The friends sat around a central table at the café. It was Sunday tomorrow, so everyone but Newt should be able to catch up on their sleep.

Aziraphale took the seat next to Anathema. He wiggled his bum comfortably into the stool and sipped his caramel frappuccino with extra whipped cream.

Normally he would be drinking tea at this time but was informed his favorite flavor was on backorder. Nina assured him it would arrive by the end of the week. Until then, Azi would have to settle for his second choice.

Sitting to his right, Anthony took his liquid refreshments with a shot from the flask he kept in his back pocket. Nina was aware but did not concern herself since his activity never rose to the level of intoxicated disturbance.

Anthony swiveled side to side on his seat. The heel of his boot hooked over the low bar of the stool and his upper body stretched across the table with his forearms supporting the weight. He had the most unique way of melting into any seating arrangement--proper posture be damned.

Anthony looked bored staring at his cup. Azi could only assume he was waiting for his drink to cool since it would normally be gone by now. The angel tipped his mug, and another rush of frappuccino filled his mouth.

“Mmmm,” Azi hummed, closing his eyes and savoring the caramelly sweetness. “Scrumptious.”

Ana started to chuckle and Azi (a dollop of whipped cream plastered over his upper lip) stared at her perplexed.

“What?” he inquired with the innocence of an angel who mistook his own halo for a hula-hoop.

Anthony now had his eyes on Azi as well. The corner of his mouth turned up and he appeared pleasantly amused himself.

“Oh, you got a…” Anthony pointed to Azi’s mouth.

“A what?” he asked, sliding the edge of his hand over his chin.

“Just a bit of…”

Anthony traced a finger over his own upper lip, followed by a lick to the spot he was attempting to indicate.

But Azi still wasn’t getting it. Anthony tried to reach for Azi’s mouth himself but changed his mind. Anathema watched the interaction unfold, nibbling her lip. She looked to Anthony, covertly sharing knowing smile.

“Here, I got it.” She reassured him.

Grabbing Azi’s shoulders, Ana spun him to face her and wiped the blob of whip cream from his lip.

Anthony watched, absent mindedly running his own thumb over his lip as she did so.

“Oh! Thank you, dear.” Azi huffed, only mildly embarrassed.

Aziraphale grabbed his napkin and wiped his mouth again for good measure.

“There, all better, Anthony?” she asked.

He shrugged his approval and blew cool air into his drink.

“Hey, you choked” she teased.

Anthony gave her the middle finger in return.

“Shut up,” he smirked, trying a sip of his spiked expresso.

“Choked what?” Aziraphale enquired after wiping his face a second time.

Anthony cough-laughed into his drink.

“You shut up too.” He growled.

“Grown up stuff Azi. You wouldn’t understand.” Ana reassured him while providing a sad, sorry pat to his shoulder.

“Fuck Azi!” Anthony sneered, touching the tip of his tongue. “You made me burn my mouth!”

“AWWWW…you burnt your tongue?” Anathema pouted sarcastically, “Guess you won’t be giving any tonight.”

“There are other ways…” Anthony grumbled, taking another careful sip.

“Suppose you need someone to kiss it and make it better?” Ana suggested. A sly grin spread over her lips like silk followed by a shot of her eyes to Azi and back.

Azi could swear he saw Anthony blush under his shades and the angel felt a rush of satisfaction.

It delighted Aziraphale immensely to observe these harmless little flirtations between his friends. It provided everyone a laugh, strengthened bonds, and raised moral. He especially enjoyed when Anathema gained the upper hand over Anthony--which it appeared she just had.

“Tempting offer, but I think I’ll pass for now.” Anthony took a larger sip of his drink. “I’m going to mingle, catch you in a bit.”

He shoved himself away from the table, strode toward a group at the counter, and wasted no time in chatting them up.

Aziraphale watched with fascination.

Anthony was indeed a charmer. No one could deny the gravitational effect he had on others. He was positively magnetic and a shameless flirt. He made it look easy and it was truly spellbinding to watch.

Of course he was attractive. Quite attractive Aziraphale had to admit. His corporation was slender and athletic which was accentuated by out-of-work clothing that fit him like wet toilet paper. His styled red locks reminded the angel of a flame dancing on a candle wick. He must spend hours on that detail alone. No strand dared move out of place without permission. Azi had never seen hair like his, and he imagined it to be an intriguing experience to run his hand through it. But Anthony was quite particular on the subject and didn't care for anyone other than himself touching it.

Then there were his eyes. Azi had only seen them a few times himself. They were the deepest of brown--almost black where you couldn't even see the center.

It is said that eyes are the windows to the soul, but his shades were kept closed--figuratively speaking. Pity he didn’t show them more often.

 Anthony was always surrounded by people. Beautiful people. They flocked to him like bees to honey. Wanting to talk...to touch.  Their graceful fingers tugged at the buttons of his shirt before dragging down the line of his stomach to--

Aziraphale’s thoughts caught in his throat, and he looked away. He shouldn’t be intruding on Anthony’s private interactions.

However, as effortless as coupling came to his coworker, he always went home alone at the end of the night. At least to the extent of Azi's knowledge.

Perhaps, he was not interested in a serious relationship.

Aziraphale could understand that. Sometimes it is simpler to be alone.

“You two seemed to be getting along better,” Anathema teased Azi, playfully bumping her elbow to his.

Aziraphale’s skin glowed at the idea. He was thankful Anathema and Anthony's friendship helped to grease the wheels for himself to foster one with him as well.

“I’d like to think so. It’s a work in progress.”

“He’s cute right?”

“Well, of course, he’s cute.”

Aziraphale thought this was an odd tangent for the discussion to take.

“I know he’s cute.”

“I’d do him.” Newt casually added into the conversation when he arrived with a plate of fresh French fries.

Unapologetic frankness was indeed one of Newt’s strongest suits.

“Too bad you can’t.” Anathema booped the end of Newt’s nose and grabbed a fry, “'Cause you are currently too busy doing ME.”

“And loving every minute of it.” Newt stamped a quick but meaningful kiss to Ana’s neck that made her squeal and giggle.

“Good to see you and Anthony getting along, Azi. But are you ever going to tell us what happened that first day?”

Newt picked through the fries, searching for the best one.

“He was so distant toward you that first week.”

“I don’t know...” Aziraphale fiddled with his fingers “I’m sure he wants to move past it, and I don’t wish to risk altering your perception of him.”

Newt stopped chewing.

“Ok, now you NEED to tell us.”

He pushed the plate closer to his girlfriend.

“You can’t say something like that and NOT tell us.”

Aziraphale worried his thumb against his palm. He heard once that this was a pressure point but had never found the action noticeably helpful. Suppose he still did it out of habit.

Perhaps…it would be good to share what he was thinking and set down his burden as it were.

“The first day at work, we were at the computer, and Anthony…”

Azi looked to his friends then lowered his gaze again. Why did he feel self-conscious sharing this?

‘I caught him--I mean…”

“What? Tell us!” Ana begged, shaking his arm.

She was deeply invested in the story by now. Azi checked over his shoulder to see if Anthony was close by. He was still by the counter and his attention was on the young man chatting something about 70’s fashion. Azi motioned with his finger for his friends to move in.

“He was sniffing my hair.”

Newt and Anathema sat back on their stools. Ana was smiling. Newt was not. The atmosphere was irritatingly silent.

It did cross Aziraphale's mind to bring up the OTHER thing that happened that day since he was more confused about the spark than the sniffing. But he had no idea what there was to say about it. Best to let that sleeping dog lie.

“I do I smell bad? Is this strange?” Aziraphale took a deep breath. “It felt strange.”

Anathema stuffed her nose into Aziraphale's curls and breathed in. It tickled and a giggle bubbled out before Azi shoved her away.

"You smell nice." She smiled sweetly.

"Honestly, Azi, I think he likes you." Ana swooned dramatically and rested her cheek in the palm of her hand for effect.

Azi shook his head hopelessly. Ana’s opinion on matters of the heart were heavily weighted toward "Happily Ever After". She would ship a balloon with a bumblebee if she thought they had a chance.

Newt pointed a fry toward Azi .

“Yeah-no. Don’t listen to her. It’s strange. Bordering on creepy.”

Newt helped himself to a sniff of Azi's head.

"She's right about you smelling nice though," and popped another fry into his mouth.

Ana began shaking her head insistently.

“It is not creepy!” She grabbed Azi’s wrist with a sense of desperation. “He LIKES you, Azi! He wants to be close but has been hurt in the past and is afraid to trust-- Afraid to LOVE!”

Newt and Azi looked to Ana and then each other.

“Where are you getting this from?!” Newt flipped out.

“Oh shush! Go get me a Root beer, babe.”

Newt groaned. He knew this was code for “I want to have a girl talk with Azi.”

After he left to chase down a waitress, Ana stared at Azi, waiting for him to respond.

Her commitment to a cause was exhausting. He helped himself to the fries but could feel her focus boring holes straight through to his skull. It was futile to ignore Ana once she decided there was something you needed to know.

“Yes…?” Azi enquired casually, not giving her the satisfaction of his eye contact.

“I read his aura,” she whispered, “Would you like to know the color?

“No.”

(Ana grinning)

“No…thank you?”

(still grinning)

“I assure you I don’t.”

(grinning wider because she knows she’s getting close)

“Not even a little.”

(almost there…)

Azi side-eyed her vibrating form. She was positively bursting out of her skin. He dropped his chin and sighed.

Why did he even try?

Azi side-scooted his stool closer to Anathema, folded his hands politely in his lap, and nodded.

“Ok, tell me.”

In full transparency, he simply adored all of Anathema’s little evaluations and insights into the vast inner workings of human beings. It was both fun and intriguing.

“He’s a BLACK!!” she gasped.

“Black you say?” Azi was interested but had no idea why he should be. But this information must be valuable considering Ana’s reaction.

“Yes! BLACK suggests turmoil--a PAINED and SUFFERING spirit!”

“Oh! Oh my!”

Azi’s eyes were wide, feeding off his friend’s enthusiasm.

“That sounds…” he frowned “Awful! Absolutely Horrible! Why are you so excited about this?!"

Not that Azi would EVER get involved with Anthony, but why in Heaven’s name would she think a poor, sad, suffering man that swore like a sailor, danced like a drunken peacock, and dressed like the Fonz in during his Emo stage would be a good match for him?!

“I know!” Ana was bouncing wildly on her stool now. “Maybe he has the tortured soul of a poet! Oh Azi!! You two would be so good for each other!!”

Long ago, Azi resolved to just smile and nod with his friends when they were beyond all reason. After all, they only do what they do because they care for him. It is unfathomable to humans that one can be both unattached and content.

“I’ve told you before-dozens of times in fact.”

He rested his hand on her shoulder.

"I am NOT interested in a romantically based relationship.”

Anathema, of course, was disappointed and stuffed a fry in her mouth for comfort.

“What about just sex?”

Aziraphale smirked.

“That would ALSO fall into the “Out of the Question” category.”

Chapter Text

Another month had passed, and the close-knit group found themselves again at their favorite hang-out.  It was a pick-me-up of sorts after losing one of their favorite patients earlier that morning.  They toasted her memory and laughed about the crazy things she’d say to brighten their day until their hearts were too tired to cry any more.

Anthony sat on the lounge-- long limbs loose and tired. It was more of a splay than a sit at this point. He had dismissed his entourage an hour ago and was contently disinterested in everything else. Anathema sat next to him, chattering on about one thing or another while Anthony passively absorbed the input. He returned an occasional nod and single word response as he patiently waited for the alcohol to run its course. Aziraphale checked his watch. 2 in the morning already--they had twittered the night away.

“Azi-Azi!!”

Ana popped into view, hooked her arm through his and enthusiastically yanked him to her side.

“You know all about books, right?”

Aziraphale gently pried her death grip loose from his jacket before it ripped.

“That’s a bit of an over statement,” Azi shrugged. “But old and rare books would be a hobby of mine, yes.”

“Oh, yes, fantastic!” Her words were zipping past nearly faster than Azi could follow. Ana's engine must be burning on fumes by now and it was a miracle how she managed to keep it running. She pointed to the lounge. Anthony had his arms folded over his chest and his head was resting against the back wall watching them.

“Anthony's in the market for a book to read during overnight icu runs. Think you have something for him?”

Azi used his palm to smooth out the front of his waistcoat and straightened his posture. Her request provoked a sense of pride that his interest could be of use to others. Catching up on reading during the long nights was one of his favorite perks about the job.

“I believe that would be possible. What are his topics of interest?”

“You should ask him yourself.”

His coworker was already starting to shove him impatiently in the direction of the lounge.

“I told Anthony you’ve invited him up to your place tonight for tea and talk.”

Of course she did.

“That was quite sneaky, Ana.” Aziraphale growled to his friend under his breath.

“I know. Shut up.”

Azi followed but not without letting his weight work for him in protest. Of course, Ana was not about to give in that easily. Although petite, she was quite strong for her size and used her back to force him to continue at a less suspicious pace.

As they approached, Anthony reluctantly tried to push himself up from his seat. The maneuver required multiple attempts and resembled one struggling to free themselves from a velcro tether. Ana and Azi slowed their gate with interest. If Antony couldn’t make it off his butt, he certainly couldn’t make it up Azi’s stairs.

But make it he did. Once on his feet and steadied, he pulled free the pinched areas of his form-fitting pants and joined his coworkers.

“Sh’u don’t mind?” He asked--chewing on his words like day old bubble gum. Aziraphale had a lingering suspicion that this book request had not been Anthony's idea either, but he did not wish to be rude by making such assumptions.

“No, of course not.”

Ana was bouncing in place behind Anthony, just out of his field of view, entirely elated with her progress so far. Azi shot her a stern look to knock off her foolery. After composing himself, he politely smiled and grabbed his coat off the rack.

“Always happy to help.”

Azi opened the door and gestured Anthony through before him.

"Shall we?"

Anthony shrugged and complied with the invitation.

Anathema appeared behind Azi again and she playfully smacked his ars on the way out.

"Go get um, tiger!" she whispered in his ear.

Azi sneered his annoyance and rolled his eyes. He was not impressed to be played as a pawn in her romantic storybook antics. Yet, it wouldn't be fair to let Anthony suffer if he was truly seeking a book from his collection. And Azi knew just the one to loan him.

Chapter Text

It was only a few steps to Aziraphale's apartment doorway. 

The nights were already growing chilly though Azi was thrilled the mosquitoes had returned to the hell from which they spawned. 

He plucked the keys from his pocket and studied them one by one. Azi frowned, feeling a tad bit embarrassed. He couldn't remember which one fit his door. Normally, he didn't bother with keys, but it would be irresponsible to miracle the lock when an acquaintance was standing so close and watching. 

Moments passed, and key after key he tried didn't work. Azi glanced over his shoulder and saw Anthony's attention was aimed toward the end of the block where a young couple were arguing over something. He snatched the opportunity and waved over the handle.

"Oh, imagine that. I must have left it unlocked."

The duo ascended the stairs toward the apartment. Anthony held tight to the banister for balance. The stairwell was dimly lit, reeked of stale coffee grounds, and the turn of the century treads creaked under their feet.

"Are you an avid reader?" Azi asked, reaching for his key ring again.

"Not even a little."

Azi stopped in place and redirected his attention to his guest.

"No? Then why the request?"

Anthony looked around his coworker to determine how much further there was to climb.

"Phone games get tiring after a while."

Since they were no longer moving, Anthony lulled his head to the wall for support.

 "I see you reading a lot and Anathema thought it might be a nice change. Bigger my brain and such."

Aziraphale supposed this was a good enough reason as any other.

When they arrived at the entry at last, it only required 2 keys to match the lock. Upon entering, Anthony propped himself against the door frame to drink in the new location. There was, indeed, A LOT to see, but far more that he couldn't.

Towering bookcases were everywhere. Anthony couldn't even be sure of the wall color due to there being so little of it visible. He removed his shades and hooked them over the neck of his dress shirt. There weren't just possessions--there was STUFF, and it was EVERYWHERE!

Alongside the books were antiques sampled from every era of human history. There was no clear theme to the items that Azi had collected. Anthony spied an early middle eastern child's pot, exquisite canopic jars from Ancient Egypt, and a small marble statue of a Roman Gladiator--body lean, muscular and beautifully posed. There were crude bottles, and an advertising sign left over from prohibition. Not to mention several curled scrolls stacked on a side table that could very well date back to before the birth of Jesus Christ. A gold medal draped randomly over the ivory bust of Julius Cesar beside his coffee table. Numerous inviting armchairs and a couch for sitting were stuffed into what little free space was left.

Aziraphale headed straight for the kitchen and began to gather supplies for a proper pot of tea.

"Gaw- you got a lot of books!" Anthony gasped, stumbling in a circle around himself. "You rob a library?"

"I wouldn’t tell you if I did," Aziraphale assured him as he filled the tea pot with water then placed it on the stovetop

"Saves myself the trouble of disposing of witnesses."

Anthony chuckled and helped himself to a self-guided tour. 

For one who worked hard to perfect his mysterious loner appearance, Aziraphale was surprised to learn how handsy his coworker was when it came to the items in his home, and it made Azi cringe. 

During his exploratory adventure of sorts, Anthony was drawn back toward the entryway and to a handsome top hat that hung on the rack near the door. It was tope in color, excellent quality, and of regal design. He thought it must be a reproduction at first but the old, worn felt proved otherwise. Memories of high neck collars, layered wool coats, and long silver button brandished waist coats pulled at the corner of Anthony's mouth. Such a fun era for style. He swiftly removed the hat from its hook to inspect it more closely. The item had been meticulously cared for and was in excellent shape for its age. He had one quite similar himself (in black of course) boxed away on his closet shelf. The hat, along with the rest of the furnishings of Azi's home could have come straight out of a Jane Austin novel. Perhaps Azi was into Victorian Cosplay. He could get behind that as it had been something he had considered a time or two. 

Maybe Anathema had been right about the two of them having more in common than they knew. 

Anthony slipped the hat over a hook.

He strode slowly in the room, performing small turns about the floor as he noticed more little treasures and trinkets tucked in odd corners. 

There was no doubt Azi could be classified as a packrat, but his hoard did have an underlying organization of sorts. Impressive for the mind-numbing volume that was involved. The environment was organic, engaging, and (he supposed) cozy.

On top one of the shelves, an antique rifle was carefully mounted within a solid glass and oak trophy case.

"And this?"

Anthony tapped on the glass window to draw Azi's attention.

"Disposing of witnesses?"

Aziraphale glanced to the object to which his guest had referred.

"Goodness no! I’d NEVER! Would be a dreadful mess!"

Azi picked through boxes of brand teas for a particular flavor to match his mood this evening.

"It's a prop-- A magic trick."

"Hmmm....sounds dangerous," Anthony mumbled in disbelief.

He couldn't imagine what kind of trick would require a gun like that.

Anthony didn’t much care much for guns. The idea of staring down the barrel to a target--their terrified face in your cross-hairs. The image turned his stomach, and he shuddered.

"Oh, it most certainly is. And one I do not intend to repeat."

Anthony decided that was probably a story for another time and moved futher through the apartment.

"Your bedroom back there?" Anthony enquired as he pointed his chin to the hallway.

Aziraphale lifted the lid to check how close the water was to a boil but responded to his guest with a nod.

"Can I see it?"

"No."

"But I'd like to..."

"Well, you won’t."

Anthony was still staring at him as if he were waiting for a different reaction.

"OBVIOUSLY." Aziraphale clarified firmly then checked the tea pot again.

Anthony sneered and turned away.

"Obviously," he mimicked with a disrespectfully mocking tone.

Anthony lazily spun Aziraphale’s globe that was more than 400 years out of date before continuing to pick up objects on his quest for entertainment: a set of magic rings, a jewelry box with a nightingale engraved lid, and even a lose vinyl record of "Everyday" by Buddy Holly. Of course, the majority of entertainment stemmed from his host’s reaction to Anthony rehoming them as his chaotic impulses fancied.

This action was massively effective-- given the new color spreading from Azi’s cheeks to the tips of his ears.

It was hilarious fun--like flushing a lit cherry bomb down a toilet. One of them was sure to trigger a massive explosion and it was just a matter of patience and persistence to locate the right one.

Aziraphale fumbled anxiously with a button on his dress coat. His guest was unraveling his ethereal resolve as effortlessly as if it were a snagged sweater.

Azi wasn’t dim and could see this behavior for what it was--an overt attempt to piss him off.

No.

Azi adamantly refused to give Anthony the satisfaction and masked the contorted expression of his undeniable discomfort. Certainly he, a principality, possessed the discipline to ignore a minor and harmless material intrusion such as this. At LEAST for the time being.

"You know what I don't get, Azi?" Anthony recommenced.

He playfully plucked at the delicate strings of a miniature brass harp resting atop a precarious stack of books.

“Mmm?" Aziraphale hummed, though he knew encouraging Anthony’s mouth to keep opening was a terrible idea.

"You’ve been doing this job a long time..."

He walked the rows of bookshelves, scanning the titles.

“Like a really, really… REALLY long time..."

Anthony’s saunter ran parallel to the bookcases, and he dragged his fingertips over the bindings as he passed.

Aziraphale retrieved a cup and saucer from the cabinet, certain a nice cup of tea could serve to pacify his state of unease.

“Not a spring chicken any more…”

Azi glared at his coworker but managed to disguise the depth of his annoyance.

“Fuckin dirt’s got nothin’ on you….”

Now Anthony was just being absurd.

The angel didn’t look a day over 3050. And as far as his body’s presentation, he couldn’t be visually much older than Anthony--depending on who you asked.

“Your point?”

"Shouldn’t you be--oh, I don't know..."

Anthony sniffed and cocked his head to the side thoughtfully.

"Running your own unit by now? Working the top tear?"

Anthony stole a book from the shelf and began to flip through the pages. Aziraphale hastily scuddled to his guest, yanked the book from his hand, and delicately returned it to its proper place.

"I happen to like where I am," Azi assured him.

Aziraphale could not be more insistent on this point. There was not much angelic good he could do trapped behind an office door.

"It allows me more time with my patients and there's far less politics to navigate."

"So," Anthony smiled wide and knowingly--his white teeth shining in the lamplight

"You enjoy being on the bottom?"

Aziraphale rolled his tongue against his cheek, unamused.

"I know what you’re insinuating, Anthony. That would be none of your business."

Aziraphale walked back to the tea pot because it had to be boiling by now.

Anthony shoved his hands to his pockets--still grinning with a cheeky wiggle in his neck.

How could he resist poking a stick into such a fussy little beehive?

“I prefer the top myself. Better view.”

Aziraphale captured Anthony’s attentive gaze and held it with the strength of iron shackles.

“Dear boy, I can assure you that it is, INDEED, a lovely view…”

The angel dropped his chin, and his eyes sharpened at the edges.

“But you’re top is still getting nowhere near my bottom.”

Anthony snickered humorously and pulled another book from the shelf.

“You’re no fun.”

Aziraphale squinted, checking if this new book was one that he felt comfortable with his coworker manhandling.

Yes, that one was fine.

“How does one ever relax with a pole as far up his ass as you?”

“I’m plenty of fun.” Azi asserted while removing the teapot from the stove. “But knowing one’s personality is an intimacy that takes time and patience. You only need apply the effort.”

“Oh--MY effort can be applied just fine,” Anthony nodded then tipped his head toward the other end of the apartment. “Just show me your bedroom…”

Aziraphale threw his head back and groaned without restraint.

“You’re unbelievable! What could you ever want in there?!”

For the most part, Aziraphale spent little time in his bedroom. He didn’t require sleep and had far better ways of occupying his time. His bed was large, yes, but not because he was in the habit of inviting partners to join him. Azi was certain Anthony would jump to that assumption because he clearly delighted in twisting the subject into one that met his need for juvenile amusement. Aziraphale’s bed was overflowing with plush pillows and luxurious velvet blankets. He had standards and enjoyed indulging in comforts that were the norm for the time and location--especially during the freezing Iowa winter nights. It was an incredible pleasure to wrap himself in nested layers of cozy fabric, upon his extra thick quilt-top mattress, while reading his newest literary find and sipping on a mug of hot coco. 

But, again, Anthony didn’t need to know that, and he certainly did not need to be anywhere near Aziraphale's mattress.

It wasn't that Azi was prudish by any measure and truth be told he'd come to appreciate the occasional romance novel (one must educate themselves). He had no desire to partake in firsthand experiences or hold the roll of anyone's' "bit on the side".

Good heavens!

He prayed this was NOT the impression Ana had given to Anthony of him.

Aziraphale frowned and his stomach squirmed in a most disagreeable manner.

Though that WOULD explain a lot given Anthony’s one-track mind.

On the other hand, perhaps he'd been overthinking this entire situation. Through the centuries, he's learned people have their own, unique way of breaking the ice in uncomfortable situations. Given their first awkward interaction, this strange game of “cat and mouse” may simply be Anthony’s way of, as they say, “Coming around?”

"I just want to know what a virgin would choose for decor.”

Never mind.

Aziraphale slipped on an oven mitt and carefully poured a cup of tea for himself.

"I'm thinking candles--"

"Tea?" Aziraphale cut him off and held up the pot as an invitation.

"Naw-m’good." Anthony replied, unbothered.

Aziraphale pursed his lips and stirred cream into his drink.

"Velvet and silk...”

stir...

"A couple of teddy bears…"

stir...stir...

"BIIIIGGG bottle of lotion..."

stir...stir...stir...

Anthony's eyes moved down Aziraphale's body and he pinched the corner of his lip between his teeth.

"I bet you give a mind-blowing personal tour..."

Aziraphale set down the spoon and gripped the edge of the counter tightly until his red knuckles blanched white.

"Really, top or bottom--I'm flexible…"

Aziraphale unleashed another groan, and he pressed his fingertips to his temple. The angel wondered if he was developing his first headache.

"I highly doubt, Anthony, that you're able to accurately decern my level of sexual experience-- simply by viewing the bedroom."

Aziraphale was clenching his teeth with enough force to cause his jaw to tremble and ache under the pressure.

“Maybe not,” Anthony tilted his head admittedly, “But I can get a damn good idea if anyone'd be willing to fuck you once they saw it.”

Aziraphale grabbed the teapot and slammed it on the stove harder than he intended, before whipping himself around to confront his guest.

“ENOUGH!” Aziraphale snapped--leaving no room for interpretation as to where the line was drawn, and that Anthony had already crossed it.

"What EXACTLY are you trying to accomplish with this game?!"

Anthony stared at him in silence, fully amused, before turning back to the book in his hand.

Explosion achieved.

"Do your shallow and suggestively ridiculous comments ACTUALLY WORK on people?!”

Anthony nodded unapologetically.

“Regularly, yes.”

He flipped another page, though he had no actual intention of reading its contents.

“And honestly, I am fucking astounded that it isn’t on you.”

“Well," Aziraphale huffed through flared nostrils. He slowly brought the cup to his lips and blew away steam from the surface. The angel's voice lowered to a menacing level.

"Maybe you aren’t as cute as you think you are.”

Anthony looked up at Azi and his mouth pulled itself into a genuinely disappointed pout. He closed the book in his possession and placed it on the shelf--in the wrong spot, of course.

“Guess not."

Anthony hooked his thumb over the edge of his waist band, shifted his weight to the opposite hip, and propped himself against the edge of the bookcase.

“Well, the devil’s in your court then, Azi. You’re free to change the subject.”

Chapter Text

An atmosphere that was thick with animosity moments ago, dissipated with little more than the puff of a ladybug's fart.

The switch was smooth and simple--like flipping a coin. Aziraphale could only speculate as to why.

It could be that Anthony's reaction-provoking appetite had been sated (at least temporarily).

Perhaps he resolved that his inappropriate pursuit would have a dead end.

Maybe he was simply bored with the game and ready for someone else to chase THEIR tail for a change.

Whatever the reason, Aziraphale was more than happy to seize that olive branch with both hands and move on.

That is, if he could resist the temptation to shove it straight up Anthony's arrogant ass instead.

“Ok then. I will.”

Aziraphale set down his cup and saucer and made his way to a mahogany lawyer’s cabinet in the corner. The top window slid open easily allowing him to remove a book from inside. He approached Anthony with unbridled enthusiasm.

“There you go!" delivering it with a cheerful grin.

"Hamlet."

 Aziraphale was positively beaming and petted the edges of the aged leather binding fondly.

"Oh, it’s quite a fascinating read! Exciting and tragic--I highly recommend. “

Anthony looked the cover up and down.

"Shakespear huh?"

Azi's jubilation took a punch to the chest when he realized his coworker was not as tickled as he was.

"You don’t care for him?"

“No-Yeah, He’s great. Fantastic chap. But…”

“But?”

Anthony rolled his shoulder reluctantly--flipping the book in his hand over and back again.

“I--nyaw--I just…I kinda prefer the funny ones.”

"Oh."

The angel touched his finger to his lip, looked back to the cabinet, and meticulously considered his other options. With Anthony's approval, he repossessed his cherished Hamlet and returned it to the case. After a couple minutes he replaced it with one in royal blue.

"Here we are!" Azi sang as he plopped it into Anthony's open hands.

"The Merry Wives of Windsor. I think you’ll like it. Quite funny," he assured, pointing at the whimsically designed cover.

Anthony bounced the book in his hand--gaging the weight of it.

"Gaw-that's still a monster, isn't it?"

Anthony had admitted that he was not a veracious reader, so it was understandable a manuscript of this size would be a daunting and burdensome undertaking.

"I'd like to believe," Azi mused, "that the greatest pleasures are well worth the commitment they demand."

Anthony again surveyed the massive shelves, still weighing the novel in his palm.

"Don’ suppose you have the audio book?"

Aziraphale’s cheeks sucked in bitterly and he placed a heavy hand atop the book to cease its movement.

“No.” he stated firmly without a trace of amusement in his voice.

"Y-Yeah, okay," Anthony smiled in a wry, lopsided way "This'll be great."

Anthony gave the book an approving shake before setting it on the coffee table and tossing his sunglasses beside it.

Azi took his teacup from the counter and settled into his favorite armchair. He picked up his most recent book and opened to the bookmark.

Anthony had resumed his exploration of the apartment which included touching a number more of Aziraphale’s personal items along the way. Perhaps he was in search of another book, but as long as he wasn’t breaking anything, Aziraphale was content to let him wander. It wasn't long before his roaming reached the large picture window in the center of the seating room. Whatever he saw pulled Anthony’s aimless stroll to a stop.

“Stunning view,” he murmured.

"Yes, yes, I suppose it is," Aziraphale hummed to himself, barely acknowledging what his coworker had said.

When there was no further commentary, Aziraphale turned again to his guest, finding his position unchanged and his view to the sky.

Marrying his cup to its saucer on the coffee table, Aziraphale joined Anthony at the window. It was a clear night, and in this end of town, the Milkyway glow lit up the darkness.

Aziraphale observed the lovely myriad of twinkling lights that pin-pricked the celestial canvas above. The angel found it beautiful and perfectly adequate in its purpose, but his coworker appeared utterly mesmerized by what he saw.

"Do you study the heavens?"

Anthony scrunched his shoulders and let them drop back into place.

"I guess you could say that."

Azi squinted upward into the vast unknown--trying to pinpoint the location to which his guest was focused.

"Do you have a favorite constellation?"

Anthony’s brows pulled downward, not uncomfortably, but deep in his thoughts.

"Not a constellation exactly, but I've always been partial to Alpha Centauri."

"Alpha Centauri you say?" Azi inquired with genuine curiosity.

"Enchanting little group of stars. Be nice to visit one day if I could."

His voice was distant but brimming with admiration and wonder. It was as though he were reliving the sentimental joy of a memory yet had entirely forgotten Aziraphale was along for the ride.

It was then that Anthony's inspiration took wings as he began directing Azi's attention over the sky with sweeping hands spread wide.

"There's the Andromeda Galaxy...and Seven Sisters...the 4 Galilean moons of Jupiter... and Hercules Globular Cluster. Oh-and T Coronae Borealis! Normally you can't see it like this--you'd need a telescope. But once every 80 years, it turns supernova. And when it does, it becomes visible to the human eye. See it? Just there...following the handle of the Big Dipper..."

Anthony's voice trailed off to almost a whisper.

"Every 80 years. Just once in a human’s lifetime. Can set your generations by that clock: children, grandfathers, and great-great-great-great grandfathers connected through time by one star in the whole universe..."

Aziraphale found himself gazing at the brilliant stars with the same sense of inspiring admiration as his guest.

"And there!"

Anthony switched direction to a new quadrant of the sky.

"Hand of God Nebula. Can’t see it of course, but it’s…it’s really quite..."

Aziraphale eyed his coworker with unexpected reverence. It was lovely to learn that Anthony had interests beyond mercilessly raining down an assault on Azi's last nerve.

Admittedly, this wasn’t the first time Azi had seen Anthony staring at the night sky. They both worked plenty of long nights together. More often than not, when he’d return his machine to the unit, his coworker would be there with his eyes to the stars. Aziraphale hadn’t given it much thought at the time. But as Anthony gazed upward--seeing and searching beyond what was visible--a sadness radiated through his expression.

Perhaps he was homesick?

Whatever it was, it was no doubt personal and no business of Aziraphale's. Enquiring further on the subject might jeopardize the fragility of their current friendship (if you could call it that.)

"Are you sure you wouldn’t care for some tea?" Azi asked softly, inviting Anthony’s feet back to the earth.

His guest lingered a few more moments outside the window before responding.

"Ugh, y-naw. I’m good. Can I…" he licked his lips, then casually did a once around of his surroundings as if he had forgotten where he was.

“Where’s your bathroom?”

Aziraphale pointed toward the hall.

"First on your right."

Anthony tracked the path indicated, but didn’t move.

"Is everything alright?" Azi asked gently.

Anthony did not appear overly impaired, but Azi had no idea how spirited his intake had been that evening. And, of course, he would not want to risk any projectile emesis saturating his antique Persian rug.

Even if he was able to miracle it clean again, he'd know the stain was still there-just underneath.

Anthony forcefully blinked his way back into the present.

"Me? Ye-yeah. I just--"

Anthony nodded and rubbed at the rising irritation in his eye.

"Contacts are being a bother. Been in damn near 18 hours."

"Oh dear," Aziraphale frowned sympathetically. "That sounds dreadful."

He was aware that contacts left in the eye for too long a period caused all kinds of mischief--infection and discomfort being at the top of the list.

"I guess you’d better get a wiggle on?”

Athony squished into an expression of confusion and disgust. Azi could be such a turn-off when he tried.

“Get a WIGG-GGLE on?!” Anthony sneered. “You have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?”

"Yes. Off you go."

Aziraphale fluttered his fingers as a hopeful prompt, but Anthony was still getting over the comically absurd “wiggle on” comment.

"You need me to go with you?"

Aziraphale coated his offer in an extra thick layer of ridiculing sweetness.

That did it.

"Na-No. I think I got it."

Anthony swooped his shades from the table and let the sway of his hips carry him toward the bathroom. He cleared the Persian rug without incident much to Azi's relief, so the angel settled himself back into his armchair.

“Remember to wash your hands!” Aziraphale called out.

Without turning, Anthony waved an affirmation and returned a sarcastic:

“Thanks Dad!”

Aziraphale snugly scooted his form further into the cushion before panic struck him like a brass bell to the back of his head.

Damn

"AND STAY OUT OF MY BEDROOM!" the angel hollered over his shoulder, just before he heard the bathroom door click shut and handle lock engage.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale welcomed another warm and indulgent sip of his tea while reaching for his book. A static shock flashed upward from the cover and playfully nipped his finger. But the mild flutter of amusement gradually hardened like a butterfly who'd slept through the frost. 

Aziraphale squinted, riffling through his memories.

“Violet…” he repeated ominously to himself when a bit of forgotten knowledge forcefully shoved to the forefront of his mind.

In a burst of curiosity, he leapt from his chair.

The angel steadily reviewed his book collection before approaching the case closest to his window. Moving row by row and shelf by shelf he scrutinized the titles until he found it.

“ Of Heaven and Its Wonders, The World of Spirits and Hell. ”

It was wedged in place but after some diligent and coaxful rocking, the book slipped free. He hastily skimmed the table of contents before whipping through the pages to the one he needed.

Aziraphale had read this centuries ago and thought it quite humorous for the most part at the time.

“Ah”

Page 333: Of the Profound Wickedness, and Direful Arts, of Infernal Spirits.

He pressed his finger to the page--reading aloud as it led him:

“Physical engagement between forces of the Occult and Ethereal embody the potential for explosive and devastating repercussions. Even on peaceful footing, the primal inner energy of celestial beings sees beyond false faces. If unprepared, blue and red will reach out in fury, forever ravenous for battle, and ignite in a Violet display of fire and flame..."

Aziraphale's breaths quickened sharply, and the sensation of glass shards pricked over his skin.

All supernatural beings had an energy that existed within them. It was a link to not only their immortality and consciousness, but also the root of their very existence.

For Aziraphale, of course, this energy was affectionately referred to as “Heaven’s Light.” It was present at all times, but after so many years of concealment, he rarely gave it any thought.

With nervous apprehension, Aziraphale lifted his arm into view and carefully relaxed the suppression enchantment. Immediately, Azi's muted ivory complexion began to glow (although only to the low intensity the angel allowed). Heaven's light could blind residents of the entire city block if he let it run unchecked. He analyzed the coloration that blazed through.

The angel had always regarded it as white light with little more ponderance on the idea. But now, under closer scrutiny, it was surely opalized in appearance--perhaps hinting at a translucent blue.

Azi warily cast a leering gaze to his hallway.

No, that’s positively absurd.

Aziraphale knew he was foolish for even entertaining the thought.

Heaven was anally studious about tracking these things and there had been no alert of one in the area. In fact, there was no record of one taking up residence within the state for centuries. That was one of the many good reasons Aziraphale chose this location.

Besides, surely HE would have known. Any reasonable angel would have had SOME inkling if a man was not what he seemed.

"Come on, Aziraphale--get ahold of yourself! This is Anthony for goodness' sake!" Azi reminded himself.

But his normally steady jaw began to quiver as an indignant mess of confusion, unease, and fear wrestled for control of his emotions.

They were friends (sort of). They'd worked side by side and had come to depend on one another for months now.

Anthony was fun and flippantly rude. He laughed, conversed, and bitched just as naturally as any other human. He was nothing like the grotesque, hateful, and cursed creatures Aziraphale had the displeasure of encountering in the past.

He couldn't be.

It was impossible... right?

But under the mountainous pile of levelheaded rational, logic, and sensible justifications, a nagging lingered and Aziraphale found himself floating toward the rear of his apartment.

Though small, the unsettling thought permeated like a splinter caught under the nail.

What if he was wrong?

It had been a long time since Aziraphale had felt so unsure and it shook him at his core. The hairs on his neck tingled. He didn’t know what to think. Perhaps it was better he tried not to.

Aziraphale's feet stilled. He was standing before the wall that served as the barrier between his bathroom and kitchen.

His mouth turned uncomfortably dry, and his investigative drive faltered like biking up a hill he couldn't quite push himself over.

This was Wrong-SO WRONG-What was he DOING!?

He was being silly--that's what he was doing.

That damn book was mostly filled with nonsense. He had said so himself 200 years ago when he first read it.

It would be easy to chuckle this all away to an overactive imagination and a peculiar series of unrelated events.

The angel swallowed a lump rising from his churning stomach and hovered his hand over the wall in front of him.

What if bad things happened because he ignored what he saw?

What if humans were injured due to his own incompetence?

Ridiculous or not, he had to know for certain.

With a trembling breath, Aziraphale touched the wall.

Upon contact, the miracle allowed his vision to split existence to another plane and see straight through the barrier to what lay beyond.

Anthony was standing over the sink, his body facing Aziraphale, although his chin was tucked to his chest. His torso was twisted into a position that looked quite unpleasant. His elbows were bent awkwardly, and his finagling hands blocked any view to the upper half of his face.

Anthony winced and aggressively hissed his discomfort through clenched teeth.

But this was not a sound Aziraphale had heard before.

The noise vibrated on several levels--low and grossly unhuman.

Anthony dropped his hand to the counter; a dark brown contact lens was pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He scraped the lens into a plastic case alongside its matched pair, then rubbed soothing circles over his eyelids with the back of his hand.

After thoroughly blinking away the irritation, Anthony looked at the mirror and straight into the angel’s line of site.

Aziraphale gasped.

His once aphotic, dark eyes were now the brightest yellow Azi had ever seen with a sliver of black slicing through the center. Their formidable reptilian appearance shot like an arrow to the angel's throat--closing it off. Beyond the yellow, an energy glowed like a cat’s eyes reflecting from the shadows.

As the angel watched--desperate in his attempt to comprehend what he was seeing, Anthony's attention peaked.

His posture straightened to one of alert and offence. Slitted pupils dilated and began to shift. He looked at the door, then to the side and behind-- searching for something he felt but couldn't see.

His instincts must have drawn Anthony back to the mirror, because his view had returned to meet Aziraphale’s.

The creature's stare intensified with small flickers of movement, still searching. The yellow of his iris spread like oil spilled over water--greedily consuming what remained of the white. Lines of gold and green streaked in a webbing matrix over the yellow base. The unearthly light behind them gained momentum and it pulled the angel in.

It was like descending into the depths of an underwater cavern. Deceivingly quiet, inviting, and peaceful at first and he was eager to see how far his strokes could carry him. The surroundings blurred and faded away.

Foot by foot... mile by mile...

He didn't realize how far he'd gone until it was too late.

The weight of the water was crushing inward, and he was sinking faster under the mounting pressure.

Deeper and deeper...

Terror took hold when Aziraphale discovered he could no longer swim against the unknown oblivion that was dragging him down into the darkness. An icy curtain drew over his head.

No way to escape and powerless to save himself.

The angel was falling, and the muscles of his body edged him forward--his consciousness captured like a rat in the hold of a serpent’s stare.

Anthony reached for the mirror.

Aziraphale yanked his hand from the wall and threw himself back--bumping into the cabinet and causing dishware to clink precariously inside. Azi was immediately on his feet and gasping for air.

He needed to get away.

The angel experienced several different directional false starts before he remembered where he was.

Wait-This was HIS apartment--he couldn’t just leave! Where would he go?!

Aziraphale dashed as quickly as his stumbling feet could carry him and hurled himself into the armchair.

What--what was he doing? Oh yes!

He snatched his book from the table and opened it to a random page.

Behind him, a lock disengaged, and the bathroom door squeaked open.

Aziraphale listened for footsteps that didn’t come. There was only silence.

He wanted to look. He knew any normal person would look. But he could feel those eyes burning into the back of his head. Surely any moment Azi's hair would catch fire from the heat alone.

Seconds passed like hours.

Footsteps did start eventually but lacked the relaxed swaggering rhythm they held before. These steps were careful and quite deliberate.

Though the silence moments ago was unbearable, Aziraphale discovered the haunting anticipation that accompanied approaching feet was much worse.

What was he supposed to do?

What was HE going to do?!

Did Anthony know he knew?

Did he see Aziraphale through the wall?

Did he have a weapon?

Did they carry weapons?

Anthony could probably materialize one if he so chose.

Aziraphale looked to the case that held his gun--yes! His gun! At the very least he could discorporate him, right?

But then Azi dropped his chin and groaned internally.

He had no bullets.

His fiery sword would have been useful about now...

Azi gripped his hands tighter around the book.

Ideas were being thwarted faster than he could conjure them.

Why didn’t he plan for this?! Of all the topics he’d studied over the past 4000 years, why was not one of them “HOW TO IDENTIFY AND DEFEAT A BLASTED DEMON”?!!

The footsteps stopped and the angel could feel Anthony standing next to him. Aziraphale’s back was unnaturally stiff--even for him. Every muscle was clenched, boldly preparing for whatever on slot would fall.

"You okay, Azi?"

Not what he expected.

The angel nodded his head in a way that led Anthony to believe it would knock loose from its neck and roll across the floor.

"I suppose I'm a bit tired, actually." Azi kept his reply robotically monotone. He kicked himself for not thinking of something more natural or clever.

But nothing else came.

The silence was tense and deafening. It was also awkward as hell. The forced shift in mood was not lost on Anthony, and he squirmed.

"I...uh… I guess it's about time I head out then, yeah?"

"Yes!" Azi screeched like a scratched record. It was a most unpleasant sound and Anthony’s left brow lifted high above his shades. Aziraphale buttoned his lip before silently cursing his nerves.

You're a Warrior Angel for Heaven’s sake!  You may not have to strike him down with the mighty wrath of God, but at least hold yourself together for FIVE BLOODY MINUTES!

Azi forced out a make-shift cough, before repeating himself in a restrained manner more consistent with his origins.

"Yes. I think that would be best. Goodnight Anthony."

Anthony nodded.

"I’ll just-uh,- nyaw --raincheck on your bedroom?"

Aziraphale did not answer or look up from his book.

Of COURSE he knew his behavior came across as monstrously suspicious, but he didn’t know what else to do.

Anthony grabbed the book from the table, held it in the air, and pointed to it with his free hand.

"Thanks for uh… book.”

Anthony backed away from Aziraphale, whose eyes were glued to a page--most obviously NOT reading it.

The angel didn’t dare look up again until after he heard the front door close. Like a triggered mouse trap, Aziraphale sprang off his seat the moment it did. He paced back and forth in circles then again with no conscious or discernable path. He balled his fist and held it tight to his mouth. The angel didn’t know what thoughts would come and at what volume they would spill if he didn’t plug that particular hole.

Could Anthony still hear him?

Was he listening?

Had he even left the stairwell?

Without further delay, Aziraphale sprinted to the door and slid the dead bolt into place. Pride for his quick thinking was short-lived. It occurred to the foolish angel that a $10 dead bolt was not going to stop Anthony if he were inclined to return. Aziraphale felt a security blessing was warranted and carried it out.

"HOLY WATER!!" Azi nearly screamed.

Aziraphale ran to the sink. He grabbed a jar from the cupboard, filled it to the brim, and gave it the fastest blessing of his existence. A heavenly flash shimmered over the surface. The sweet calm of relief rippled through the angel's belly before it flipped like a fish on a riverbank and was replaced with the chill of impending doom.

Aziraphale shook his head in horror.

Hands shaking, he poured the water down the drain.

Holy water would DESTROY him, and he couldn't just…

Wiping away the sweat that beaded his face, Aziraphale paced over his floors, trying to understand what exactly he just learned and what in God's Name he should do about it. He didn't know how long it had been before he finally collapsed in his armchair from sheer mental exhaustion.

"Lord help me," he whispered through his folded hands. 

"Anthony…IS A DEMON!"

Chapter Text

Aziraphale sat silently in his fabric-worn armchair, head bowed and reasonably troubled after Anthony’s departure. His apartment was silent, save for the rhythmic ticks of the mantle clock that did nothing to calm the atmosphere. His hands gripped tight to their opposite forearms, supporting himself while he rocked softly in soothing undulations.

It had been more than an hour and Aziraphale had spent the entirety of that time wrapping his head around the new facts at hand.

Anthony was not at all the person Aziraphale thought him to be. Not a “person” at all as he was now acutely aware. That thought itself was quite the jagged pill to choke down. But swallow he must before any forward action could be made--even if progress would only be made one slow, reluctant step at a time.

Of course, when one’s perceptual structure is shaken violently loose from its foundation, patience and careful effort are necessary to crack things back into proper alignment...

…and alcohol.

…extraordinary amounts of alcohol.

With assistance of a generously filled flute (or seven) of Chateauneuf-de-Pape he’d kept tucked away in the cellarette for special occasions, the angel ripped through the stages of grief like a child into their Halloween candy bag. Sometime later, his thoughts were finally landing on more solid, be it a bit unsteady, footing.

The realization of how he had reacted under the circumstances brought on a distasteful residue of shame and embarrassment.

Had this been a test, he could not in good conscious say that he had passed.

In the stillness of a drunken haze embrace, Aziraphale was able to admit that he had not actually felt threatened by Anthony at any point during their interaction.

But initial panic over the discovery of a demon in his very home had tricked the angel's nerves into believing he was, indeed, in very real danger.

In the frenzied, hysteric moments following, Aziraphale had been simultaneously prepared to take a rifle to Anthony’s head AND flood his apartment in holy water.

The angel’s stomach took a sickening turn, and he shuttered.

His careless impulses could have led to devastating, irremediable consequences and Aziraphale found himself utterly mortified over what could have been.

But he could not allow himself to dwell on what almost was, because a very real terror had stepped in as primary focus and was sticking in the angel’s side like a barbed thorn--working its way deeper with every breath.

Peculiarly enough, it seemed the most unsettling part of this entire situation was that Aziraphale had NO BLASTED IDEA Anthony was a demon!

For Heaven sake! --They had interacted so closely for months now. Worked side by side--laughed and chatted about nothing of real value.

Anthony would groan about ridiculous matters such as charting stations left unplugged and their batteries allowed to die. He'd rant over idiotic nurses dispensing antihypertensives just before treatment leading blood pressures to plummet. He'd even fly off the handle at ER doctors ordering an intravenous bolus on a renal failure history that was being admitted for “fucking fluid overload”. (Anthony’s words)

Really nothing outside the norm as the rest of the group.

Entirely ordinary.

Entirely…human.

There was nothing morbid, nothing suspicious or dark natured in his approach or manner. In reality, he was quite good with people. His patience was unlimited with the confused, his conversation bred lighthearted laughter (not easy given the often-dire circumstances they functioned under), and if some bitter personality “gave him shit” he’d spit it right back with twice the bite. Aziraphale found it surprisingly amusing how often this behavior resulted with the difficult patient requesting “that red-headed asshole” for future treatments.

Anthony was a downright foul-mouthed, lanky-limbed, peacock strutting fiend and Aziraphale would be dis-ingenuous to not admit he’d grown rather fond of him in a way. At the very least, he made the soul sucking job more interesting.

Most importantly, Aziraphale trusted Anthony with his patients. He trusted him to care for their safety, to protect them, to gift those in their charge with another precious day of God’s blessings.

And he never would have imagined…

Aziraphale rolled the empty glass in his hand, wincing, guilt pressing hard on his shoulders atop the vast, crushing weight he already bore.

Incredibly foolish of him to miss a detail of this magnitude.

The angel had spent an hour racking his memory, scrutinizing everything he knew and saw in search of red flags he must have ignored.

But other than the violet flame and Crowley’s affinity for sunglasses in situations that did not seem to require them, there was nothing else. The whole matter of Anthony being anything other than human was absurdly bizarre had he not known what he now knew.

Okay, well, the hair sniffing was also odd. But that particular detail lacked substance and Aziraphale was quick to shrug it off as some obscure demonic quirk--know the scent of thy enemy or some such nonsense. Demons did have a sharper sense of smell than angels.

Predators often do.

Aziraphale knew that much at least.

But the memory of Anthony standing behind him, so close, the soft sound of his breath tickling unruly curls sent a frightening chill clear up his spine.

Was Anthony aware of his angelic identity?

It was not something Aziraphale broadcasted, of course, and he certainly was not boisterous with his miracles, especially while in the company of others. The angel had lived harmoniously among humans for more than 6000 years and in that time, he had learned to blend well among the lot. Surely Anthony would have been on higher alert if he had known.

Besides, he’d only pegged Anthony as unhuman through the divine intervention of obscenely stupid luck!

Aziraphale sighed, a little more relieved than he had been a minute before.

Yes.

The angel was certain his anonymity was still safely intact.

With that settled, he had to focus on the point of the matter. Anthony was…

Aziraphale’s worry lines creased into a scowl.

Not Anthony.

Unlikely that was his real name, although Aziraphale was unsure of what name would be considered “normal” for a demon. Something ancient-- probably more difficult to pronounce. Mephistopheles or Asmodeus. Perhaps reptilian in nature he supposed--given the demon’s most prominent feature.

His string of thoughts trailed off when the image of the demon’s eyes came into focus.

Aziraphale swiped away the beads of sweat that suddenly materialized above his lip as he continued to imagine their reflecting golden hue, a live, feral entity on their own. Reliving the way the pulsing, yellow stare drew him in, enveloping his consciousness, dragging him away like the unforgiving tow of a riptide. The way his chest squeezed, afraid, helplessly sinking into the darkest oblivion.

“Those hypnotic eyes…” the angel hummed, pensive and intrigued.

Oh, how Aziraphale would have liked more time to absorb them in detail--for scholarly purposes of course. Create a record of their mesmerizing, alluring design that captured him. Even with more than 2 millennia of study tucked under his belt, Aziraphale was certain he lacked the words to lay their description on paper with any justifiable accuracy.

The angel wrenched himself out of an obviously pointless tangent that would serve him no purpose.

Anthony was not a harmless curiosity--no matter how enchanting he appeared.

He was a cursed minion of the underworld. He was of the fallen. Turned from God and cast into hellfire.

Unwillingly, a grotesque picture took form: the twisted, horrifying shape of Anthony’s body engulfed in flames…screaming…the offensive stench of burning skin...skin that burned but would not melt...unable to stop...unable to die...

Aziraphale felt sick and shook off the intrusive, repulsive image and the empathy that was tethered to it.

Time was not in his favor to dwell on such things he could do nothing about.

Aziraphale withdrew a beige handkerchief to wipe his cheeks and forehead that now glistened from the expanding heat under his skin.

Why is it so hot?

Aziraphale tugged the bowtie loose from his collar and popped the first two buttons free for ventilation.

Back to the facts.

“There is, presently, a demon of unknown identity with unknown intention, actively working at my hospital.” He told himself in the most unvarnished and matter-of-fact way he was capable.

Hearing his thoughts out loud begged the question: “What in heaven’s name should Aziraphale do about it?”

But he gave himself no response.

The angel had no freaking clue.

He hadn’t been in this predicament before and was in desperate need of information before he could formulate an answer.

Aziraphale pushed back, leaning into the chair frame with his hands folded thoughtfully over his belly.

Alright, he had to approach this logically.

Anthony had another 6 months remaining on his assignment. Reason would dictate that whatever evil scheme he had instore, would need to close by that deadline.

After all, when the finale comes crashing down in a torrent of rapturous flame, he couldn’t imagine the demon holding the gas can would be dumb enough to stick around to watch it burn. And for everything he DID know about this demon, he was most certainly NOT dumb.

Aziraphale scanned his room as a welcome reprieve from the brick walls he was frustratingly finding himself pinned against while maneuvering his way through the...umm...problem.

He stopped, heart warming peacefully as he admired his extensive rare book collection--beautiful rows of bound wisdom that framed his apartment and the angel smiled with refreshed optimism.

Of course!

Centuries of knowledge were awaiting his eager ferreting fingertips.

When a solution eludes your grasp, diligent research was the first logical step to finding it.

Clearly, this whole, blasted mess was thrust into light by one, miniscule detail in a 200-year-old book that Aziraphale had forgotten that he had.

This obscure paragraph cracked his world open with the force of a sledgehammer. There was no telling what other vital information he’d missed that was still hidden between the shelves--just waiting to be found.

With a puffed chest and single-minded purpose, Aziraphale confidently set about searching his personal library, pulling books upon books upon books--anything that presented with potential.

His humble quest was not without its minor bumps, but the determined angel refused to let it delay his progress. Following a series of determined grunts, a handful of billowing dust-initiated coughing spouts, and a few careless stumbles, Aziraphale had compiled quite a collection of promising starts. He stacked them in towering columns that filled his desk, two parlor tables, and even the neighboring couch when he discovered more space was required.

Clapping his hands excitedly, he wiggled into the elegant red upholstered library chair before scooting into place and took to work.

Countless hours passed, turning page after page, fueled by nervous energy, charting his notes and fetching more literature when fresh leads presented themselves. The sun lowered gradually, far past the windowsill, as stacks of leather-bound knowledge piled up in tall precarious pillars on the floor to either side of his writing desk.

It was late afternoon of the following day when Aziraphale exhaustedly snapped the last cover closed with a reluctant thud and tossed it on top of the heap that had long since toppled and now lay as an indignant spill of bindings and bent pages. The angel had been too preoccupied to deal with it then and his mind was far too frayed to do anything about it now.

Aziraphale removed his reading spectacles, utterly defeated.

The strained muscles of his neck and shoulders ached terribly and he rubbed into them with fingers that were still stiff and sore from his expenditure. It helped a little.

Aziraphale stared at the jumbled remains of his hard work and groaned.

Humans richly exaggerated their stories when it pertained to demons, just as they did with angels, and Aziraphale had been grossly unprepared for the energy that would be required to separate fact from fiction.

After all his tedious and unrelenting effort, there was little new information he had uncovered that could be applied to his current…umm… predicament.

Firstly, he’d learned that a demon’s name had to be known before the creature could be “cast out”. This rule applied to matters of physical residence as well as demonic possession. Although it was not yet clear if this would prove important, Aziraphale determined uncovering Anthony’s real name should take priority, just in case.

Secondly, although a demon’s physical strength is greater than a human, it was some form of relief that Angels still outrank them in comparison.

Many demons, however, were also naturally immune to fire, lightning, and poisons. But in Aziraphale’s opinion, this only placed him at a minor disadvantage. Highly unlikely any of those scenarios would come into play.

Thirdly, and quite surprisingly, demons were far more complicated than Aziraphale had been led to believe from gossiping chatter of other angels. They were more than imprisoned, unfeeling minions blindly carrying out Hell’s desires.

For instance, demons have free will--just as humans and angels do.

However, he considered, Satan was not well known for his understanding and supportive nature. Aziraphale suspected that undesirable expressions of free will would be swiftly accompanied by severe punishment.

By far, the most sobering information--information that forced him to drastically rethink his entire strategic design--came from a more than 500-year-old bound manuscript of “Ultimum Bellum Angelorum Et Daemonum” that Aziraphale was not aware he owned.

It had been buried beneath a dozen other nameless books he had purchased from an estate sale--goodness-- decades ago. At the time, he’d manage to catalog a few before unsuspecting distractions required attention. He'd placed the box in a closet with the intention of sorting through it at a better opportunity, but his memory of its existence lapsed with time as these sort of things often do.

Between the brittle leaf pages, he found documentation that, in rare cases, a demon could possess exceptional abilities, far beyond the normal stock. These have included powers of pyrokinesis, telepathy, soul reading, weather manipulation, regeneration, teleportation, and telekinesis.

“Pyrokinesis…” Aziraphale muttered, pushing hard into an unease the word triggered within his thoughts. A vague, fragmented image, obscured in shadow, flashed past his sight: Firey orbs suspended overhead, swept into motion by long, slender hands before crashing to the ground.

"Not the kids..." Aziraphale whispered though he did not grasp the meaning.

A twinge of familiarity sparked the far corner of his psyche.

It was a memory, Aziraphale was sure of it, but curiously, he could not pin down the exact time or circumstance to which it belonged. Suppose it was not of consequence.

The angel grazed through notes he'd roughly scribbled into the journal hours before--relocating the line where focus had abandoned him.

Now, depending on their class, angels themselves hold several of these skills, but only to a limited extent.

From his research, Aziraphale could infer that if a demon WAS bestowed with one (or several) of these gifts, the specialized nature of such would be more powerful than Aziraphale himself was capable.

This was a worrisome realization to absorb for an angel who’d been preparing to take on a demon alone.

Without knowing more, Aziraphale was flying blind as to what he was truly up against when it came to Anthony.

It was sad and dismally frustrating to feel already thwarted by an enemy he had not yet had the opportunity to engage.

There was no sense in masking the disappointment.

Had he more time, Aziraphale could visit the Biblioteca Malatestiana Library in Italy or the Bodleian Library of Oxford. Surely their stunning, limitless inventory would provide a more successful yield than his own collection, which had been rather disappointing on the subject of demons. But embarking on a holiday across the Atlantic was neither possible nor practical at the moment.

The demon, clever, so clever as he was, had already pulled the proverbial wool over Aziraphale’s eyes with his wiles and easy charm. He played the part of a human remarkably well. Too well.

Demons didn’t have an imagination.

It was obvious that Anthony has been an occupant of earth for a very long time, learned human behavior firsthand, and was now proven to be quite accomplished at the game.

The angel rubbed his head. Everything throbbed. Was it possible to think too much?

What in Heaven’s name would a demon be doing here?! It was an enormously conspicuous place for one to end up. One would think Hell’s groupies would aim their strike to inflict the most damage with the least effort. Sioux City was not the place he could achieve that.

The city wasn’t a hub of industry as it was in the 1800s when the Missouri River was still the primary mode of goods transport. Nor was it a power bed of chaos as it was in the 1920's--nicknamed “Little Chicago” when powerful gangsters ran underground gambling rings and catered to the thirsty during the days of prohibition.

But now? It’s a small city by comparison, with small people and their small lives. The winters are cold and laden with ice coated streets. The hot, dry summers turn front yards brown and crunchy beneath the feet. There are endless hills of cattle and rolling fields of corn and soybeans. The Jolly Time Popcorn factory is the only beacon left that pins the town on any “point of interest” map.

There are no radiating lines that connect the city to a greater influence. No large, dramatic reach that would justify Aziraphale’s little hospital as ground zero.

Any devious action a demon held hope of igniting, would hilariously fizzle in place and die long before it had the chance to spread its poison.

So, what WAS a demon doing here--working day and night at the angel’s side. What was his plan? Had it been carried out? Or were the dominoes already set in motion, and it was too late to stop it?

 There were too many questions and no answers for any of them.

Aziraphale was lacking enormous chunks of information. Lines of endless questions dangled like streamers overhead, but he possessed neither the experience or resources to answer them.

Perhaps, Aziraphale resolved (though it pained him to do so) this situation was entirely outside his skill set.

Aziraphale pressed his eyes shut and shook his head--weary and reluctant to move a chess piece he did not want to play.

He was going to need help.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale sighed and stared at a tattered but ornately designed rug that lay inconspicuously between the kitchen and living area. Vibrant reds, earthy greens and a pleasant variety of beige shades colored in the spaces of its composition.

He had not officially requested assistance in more than 50 years, and he really, REALLY did not wish to start now.

Life was pleasant and his job fulfilling. He had a delightful group of humans with whom he shared his time and was an esteemed and prominent patron of the town’s local theatre.

Sanctuary took the shape of a cozy, 2-bedroom, one bath walkup perched peacefully above a new age, eco-friendly café which seemed to be all the trend these days. It was modest and functionally adequate with its central heating, modern light switches, indoor plumbing, and all those other charming conveniences he'd grown accustomed to over the years.

Aziraphale’s vinyl records paid homage to a marvelous array of brilliant composers with Mozart, Tchaikovsky, and Shostakovich topping his favorites.

He’d grown quite fond of the human ritual of tea drinking.  Aziraphale was introduced to it centuries ago and took an immediate liking to the delightfully quaint practice of clinking cups and finger sandwiches.  He’d indulge in a cup at the end of the day to unwind his nerves—two if it had been particularly strenuous. He kept a small collection of fine wines and imported liquors on hand if unwinding required more…torque.

But few things could compare to settling into his favorite armchair whose generously upholstered cushions have been steadily molded by time to fit his own generously upholstered frame, and losing endless hours to brilliant, literary worlds of fun and fancy, poetic song, scandalous love, and fantastic adventure that nourished his soul and breathed joy and imagination into what could sometimes be a tiresome existence.

Yes, Aziraphale had music, good company, a home, and, of course, his books, and it was all so…so very lovely and good and simple.

That is, until that slinky, sharp-dressed, lose-hipped demon with more effortless charisma than one of his kind should be allowed, sauntered out of the shadows to flip his world on its head, threaten his charge, and piss all over the precious, peaceful, fragile existence he’d carved out for himself.

Aziraphale closed the journal currently overflowing with notes and sketches that he'd whittled away so much precious time to collect, only to finish meager steps from where he started.

He still had no hard answers and only one place left to turn.

The angel’s fingers drew inward, the tenons in his fist creaking and straining bitterly from disappointment…disappointment in himself.

Locked in the confines of his vintage waistcoat which felt to be sizing itself downward by the minute, Aziraphale’s chest rose and fell heavily with dismay, dejected frustration, and other strong emotions he didn’t care to apply the energy to name. 

He'd purchased the rug at one time or another from some hole-in-the-wall shop he didn't even remember. It was not a piece that sparked any sort of sentimentality or appreciation, but it aligned decently with his taste of decor and fit the shape for which it was required. For centuries now, the carpet fulfilled that duty amicably--patient and waiting.

But now, it mocked him silently as a reminder that his efforts were not enough.

It was a hard truth had slapped Aziraphale across the face many times before.

Oh, he was indeed good at his earthly career, successful he’d say, in this limited measure. He’d more than performed his due diligence in that regard. But his work was viewed more as a childish dalliance than an esteemed and valued service by his heavenly supervisors.

Aziraphale was different from other angels. A misfit of sorts.

He knew this.

He’d known this since the Earth began, since that first day he placed his flaming sword into Adam’s frightened, outstretched hands. He’d bid the man and his partner a hushed "Goodluck" before rushing them through the rough, rocky opening of Eden’s great barrier wall and into the unforgiving dangers that awaited them beyond.

Aziraphale hoped no one would notice.

Of course, everyone did.

The mortified gasps from his fellow angels were a devastating strike to his self-worth and had him floundering to justify such a grievous betrayal.

That faithful act had been the first blemish to his service record and would not be the last.

It didn't take long for Aziraphale to discover the pointlessness of pleading a case to minds that could not empathize nor understand what he did and why. So, he stopped trying.

Aziraphale’s kind, soft impulses always led him to make the wrong choices as far as his superiors were concerned. Choices he was told were not “consistent” with The Almighty’s Great Plan nor becoming of his celestial origins.

Gabriel in all his righteous judgement, referred to Aziraphale's “excuses” as a 'pathetic crutch" and just another way to avoid making the hard decisions that were required of a “real” angel.

He was made different-- blatantly, egregiously, laughably different--lacking in a way he couldn't fix, and God had not taken the time to explain to him why.

Perhaps, the angel's spirits lifted, this "demonic unpleasantness" could prove to be his redemption and a chance to pull himself above the category of “disappointment” (a label that had been relentless in its endeavor to beat down whatever little of his dignity remained.)

Aziraphale found himself imagining how wonderful it would be to report the threat he’d uncovered to his supervisors.

How he'd disarmed the demon single-handedly and spoiled their scheme of diabolical treachery.

That Aziraphale, a humble Principality and former Guardian of the Eastern Gate, had driven the invading presence out of his territory without incident.

Surely, he would be congratulated on his resourcefulness and courage.

Gabriel would personally apologize for his past, harsh criticism, and Aziraphale, always eager to forgive, would graciously accept it.

The euphoria of vindication tingled down to his toes as the scene played in vivid detail.

But that's all it was.  A scene in a play. 

Aziraphale stiffened.

Rubbish fantasy. 

Sliding his jaw off kilter, Aziraphale allowed humility to penetrate and overshadow the temptation of such prideful delusions.

He had a sacred duty to protect and Aziraphale would not risk challenging the demon if civilian casualties were a possibility.

Also, he rather liked his head attached where it was and strongly preferred to keep it that way.

Still, he loathed the idea of enduring another heavenly lecture that picked apart his imperfections like a Christmas turkey carcass thrown to the vultures.

Aziraphale twiddled his fingers absentmindedly- reimagining every possible angle he could approach his problem. He strategically analyzed his options to decipher the correct move--one that fashioned a sacrificial pawn as desirable while ensuring his Queen remained hidden and secure.

It was only knowledge he was seeking after all, not interference.

Perhaps, he hummed to himself, he didn’t have to SPICIFICALLY request help. “Help” shot up too many red flags and piqued too many questions.

“Maybe…” Aziraphale huffed. “Advice?”

With a roll of his eyes, Aziraphale tossed that notion to the trash heap of other worthless ideas.

Getting closer but still reeked of insecurity.

He needed a way to gather information without provoking an ethereal level colonoscopy of his personal life.

Perhaps “Clarification” as an acceptable alternative?

Certainly, there is nothing overly needy or dubious about approaching the higher-ups under the guise of seeking clarification on a random topic--one that may or may not be pertinent to his current situation.

Right?

Clarification on a cryptically specific subject matter that would provoke no suspicion whatsoever.

Aziraphale blew a pulse of heated air past his teeth and rubbed his increasingly sweaty palms against his trousers once…then twice because once was not enough before realizing what he’d done.

“Ugh”, the angel cringed glaring at the twin wet marks darkening the tan fabric.

Where were his standards?

Aziraphale plucked a thin cotton handkerchief from his breast pocket before using it to properly wipe the moisture from his hands. He dabbed it carefully over his damp forehead then nape and tucked it safely away.

With another deep breath, Aziraphale gave his mess of blond curls a decent fluff and provided his trembling knees with a couple firm pats of reassurance.

Fine.

This would be fine.

Seriously, how much trouble could he get into just for asking a few clarifying questions?

"There was no cause for worry," Aziraphale told himself while wiggling his bowtie placement to perfection.

He’s just an angel, casually seeking a collaborative consult with a higher authority in an effort to share information, clarify expectations of duty, and formulate a concrete plan of action on the ABSURDLY implausible chance of a demonic interference.

“Yes-Yes! Good!” Aziraphale clapped his hands together and pressed them to his lips excitedly.

And IF the situation were somehow to spiral out of his control and required further intervention--well then! Heaven would already be up to speed, wouldn’t they?

Aziraphale nodded enthusiastically, pleased with how simply the path was laying out before him.

Excellent plan!

Careful not to topple more books, Aziraphale pushed his now stiffened body from his armchair and began initiating the portal ritual.

On hands and knees, Aziraphale respectfully rolled away the antique wool rug--revealing the divine portal. The inculpating circle was intricately adorned with ancient ethereal symbols seared into the dark, heavy floorboards. Gathering the rug in his arms, he gently propped it against the wall several feet away.

Aziraphale would not want to risk tripping over it and nearly discorporating himself in the process…

Again.

Aziraphale swept a handful of rogue dust bunnies away from the sacred space, retrieved his box of candles from the closet, and lit them one by one before positioning them carefully and equal distance along the circle’s circumference. He knew the candles should have been uniform in color and style, but that wasn’t a necessary requirement, and the angel was more than sure his contact would be none the wiser.

When all was prepared and the last candle locked in, he extinguished the match with a gentle flick of his wrist.  Aziraphale stepped into place. His obnoxious, corporeal heart thumped wildly against his ribs and fluttering anxiety swooped down on him like territorial swallows that pricked his nerves raw. 

It was always this way before a session, but the complexity of today's interaction would require greater care than one of his regular progress reports.

The angel performed a hasty self-inspection of his attire.

He picked off a few bits of lint from his lapel, properly aligned the long-tarnished buttons of his waist coat and briskly swiped away most of the wrinkles from his trousers. Aziraphale touched his vibrating throat and cleared it nervously. One last wiggly reorientation of his bow tie and he was ready.

“Hello…?” he whispered into the candle lit circle.

(silence)

Aziraphale straightened his shoulders before addressing again--a bit louder.

“Hello, is anyone there?”

The candle flames wavered but there was no response from Heaven's side.

“This is the Principality, Aziraphale.” He announced with forged confidence. “I would like to speak to…umm” his tongue flicked a moistening line across his lips “…a Higher Authority.”

The silence thickened while time dragged forward without an answer.

Perhaps the lines were busy?

For a moment, Aziraphale considered trying another time, but before that decision could solidify, a movement snatched the angel midbreath.

Beads of pale blue light took form--like stars twinkling into view in the wake of a setting sun. Just a few at first, but their numbers quickly multiplied. They gravitated to each other, channeling their paths into swirls of glittering mist that rose like swarming fireflies from a wheat field. The points of light began to gather into illuminated whisps, thickening as they bonded to one another and soon engulfed the portal in a glorious display of lit, churning ribbons.

The low grinding vibration of ancient gears echoed in Aziraphale’s ears, and a blue flash exploded across the room.

Aziraphale ducked on instinct and was forced to shield his eyes.

When the brightness dissipated, a semi-transparent image occupied the sacred gateway. The figure stood tall--far larger than he was in person with a commanding, intimidating presence. He had dark hair slicked to the left and was finely dressed in a dark gray suit that was well tailored to his impressive form. He was classically handsome in every way, (of course he was) save for the vibrant, purple eyes that glowed under their own volition and could freeze the very scales off a snake. Aziraphale avoided looking into them, when at all possible, but he couldn’t risk disrespecting his superior. Not today.

Chapter Text

“Oh, Gabriel!” Aziraphale gasped. “What an unexpected pleasure!”

“Yes, well…” Gabriel grumbled out, already irritable.

The Archangel visually assessed the quality of his projected image before tapping the keys to what Aziraphale assumed to be some assistive informational device that lay beyond his view.

“I have to take my turn on call like everyone else.” He replied, squinting at his screen and pressing another two keys. "As if I didn't have better things to do..."

Aziraphale got the distinct impression that their meeting had already started off wrong footed and was now merrily sashaying its way toward impending disaster.

But when his contact finally made a conscious effort to address Aziraphale properly, his brows lifted, pleasantly surprised.

“Is that you Azrael?”

“Aziraphale," he corrected flatly while teetering on the edge of annoyance.

It wasn’t as if his appearance had changed drastically in the past few hundred years, but that never stopped Gabriel from needing a moment to remember who he was.

“Aziraphale!! My boy! Calling in your report?” The archangel flipped through his screens with the tip of a finger. “Has it been six months already? My how time flies when you’re planning the next Armageddon.”

“No sir.”

His best bet for success was to keep the exchange short and to the point.

“I’m calling for another purpose entirely.”

“You haven’t been overdoing it on those frivolous miracles, have you?” Gabriel chuckled, miming a playful but always too forceful punch to Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Though only a projection, Aziraphale reflexively clutched his arm in defense before deflecting his discomfort with an uncomfortable, broken giggle.

“Oh no, no” Aziraphale assured him politely. “I’ve been successfully maintaining under quota without issue.”

“Good…good…” Gabriel hummed, still scanning through his screens.

"Sir,” Aziraphale began, enhancing his voice with a delicate balance of professionalism and concern without compromising one precious droplet of implied competence. “I have reached out because--

“Are those candles mismatched?”

Aziraphale baulked. His focus gradually traced Gabriel's eyeline to the circle's rim.

“I…uh…didn’t really--"

Gabriel tutted his disapproval as if Aziraphale were a puppy who had yet to grow into his bladder function.

“Sloppy work Aziraphale. Make sure you put in a requisition, alright?”

“Of course, I’ll have that remedied in short order and I thank you for your astute diligence, as always.”

“Not a problem. Was that all you needed?"

"That’s…that’s not actually why I called you, Sir. I am in need of information regarding another matter.”

“What kind of matter?” Gabriel asked, though obvious he could not care less about the answer.

Aziraphale swallowed the tacky pool of saliva accumulating between his cheeks.

“I was reviewing policy you see, as part of my assignment to audit and revise as needed-“

“Get on with it, Aziraphale,” he interjected.

“Yes, well--” The angel lowered his eyes to the floor, humble and ingratiating. “During my review, I found the Emergency Disaster Plan was a tad…” He looked up again cautiously. “Lacking.”

“Hmmm…” Gabriel was now watching him with a sliver of curiosity “In what way?”

“For instance, while it does indeed cover Fire-Tornadoes, Rising Cults, Great Plagues, Life-Ending Asteroid Collision and other massive natural disasters intended to cleanse the evil of humanity…”

A contentious scowl was now chiseled on Gabriel’s face, inarguably unhappy with the angel's flow of needless detail and Aziraphale's train of thought derailed under the pressing judgement

Where was he going with this?

Aziraphale inhaled deeply and clasped his hands calmly above his beltline, providing the time he needed to recenter.

“However, the outline does NOT appear to cover problems involving entities that originate OUTSIDE the normal human experience.”

Gabriel tilted his head, scowl still enduring but softened.

“Like…the second coming?”

“Yes. And... other things…”

The Supreme Archangel's hand rotated at the wrist, an invitation to continue.

"For example?"

“We don’t seem, I mean, there does not appear to have a sub-section on…the occult.”

Cool, purple irises concentrated on the angel standing nervously below him. The Principality's large, innocent blue eyes flicked about like jumping crickets as he gaged his superior's response.

He looked bewildered, maybe a little dumbfounded, as if Aziraphale had not said what he most certainly just heard.

“The occult.” He repeated back.

“Yes!” Aziraphale buzzed with enthusiasm--thrilled the archangel had not immediately dismissed his concerns and terminated the connection the moment the words passed his lips.

Gabriel's frown merged into a strange expression that was both lopsided and confused.

“Occult? As in…werewolves and vampires?”

“Yes, sure, of course,” Aziraphale nodded supportively “And…others?”

“Such as?”

“Oh, goodness me!” Aziraphale gasped as if Gabriel’s question was as clever as they come.

Aziraphale swayed on his heals, hands swinging freely at his sides while he pretended to think.

“Well, there’d also be witches--evil ones of course, various monsters I suppose, and demons….”

Aziraphale glanced up tentatively.

Gabriel drew down his perfectly manicured brows and folded those thick, powerful forearms over his chest, thinking.

“Demons?”

Gabriel's left eyebrow cocked, still lagging as to what point the principality was trying to make.

“Aren’t you somewhere in Po-dunk, Ohio?”

“Iowa, Sir. Yes.”

Aziraphale could feel optimism deflating. He had tickling inclination that his brilliant plan was about to go down like a lead balloon.

“I don’t think you have to worry about encountering demons, Aziraphale-- probably not vampires or werewolves either.”

“Yes, well, you’re probably right, but I thought--"

“You think too much,” Gabriel growled, shooting him down with a verbal sweep that jostled the angel’s already wobbly legs.

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale swiftly agreed, intending to prevent their conversation from stalling “But hypothetically--”

“Hypothetically?!” Gabriel lashed out with a flash in his eye “You have interrupted my VERY busy and important schedule to inquire about hypotheticals!?”

The line of communication was shattering before his eyes. Aziraphale promptly picked up the pieces and re-angled his approach.

“You see, Sir, I feel... unprepared.”

“Hmmph." Gabriel puffed, rolling his eyes, "That doesn't surprise me."

His head tilted with a pout--a phony empathetic spectacle for an audience of one.

“Still, we wouldn't want you to be overwhelmed. The assignment would suffer, and we can't have that, now can we?"

Gabriel sighed dramatically.

“My fault really. I let myself believe in you more than I should have. Perhaps it's time we transfer you to an assignment that would be more forgiving of your..."

Gabriel's lips pursed as though the words didn't need to be said but he'd take pleasure in speaking them anyway.

"...shortcomings."

Aziraphale's breaths ran shallow and pinched.

He hated the way Gabriel looked at him.

There was a triggering aspect to his gaze that had Aziraphale believing he should apologize for something he'd done wrong.

"How do you feel about feather sweeping, Aziraphale? Hard to screw that up,” he winked.

Gabriel was often striking underhanded jabs at his integrity, but Aziraphale refused to be deterred.

"It would not be MY shortcomings at issue, Sir. It is Heaven's."

That remark shut the smug Archangel up right quick, which was keenly satisfying in itself.

However, Aziraphale did not have the luxury of basking in his achievement if he hoped to escape Gabriel's inevitable rebound once the stun had worn off.

The angel snapped his fingers, and an absurdly thick and quite official-looking manual materialized in his hand. On his command, paper pages flipped through themselves with a soothing, rhythmic rustle-- like beating wings of a butterfly.

Although Gabriel was appallingly deficient in compassion and patience, he was a stickler for protocol.

“According to section 4647, paragraph 316:

"For any and all possible world threat scenarios leading to, or possessing a significant probability to cause human injury, illness, dismemberment and/or death...""

Aziraphale looked at the Supreme Archangel to ensure he was listening. He was.

"All active-duty Terrestrial Guardians...”’

Aziraphale waved sweetly.

"Meaning me..."

Gabriel smirked, unamused.

"MUST be provided with an Ethereal Emergency Plan individualized to their unique assignment location and will contain a complete list of potential crises they may encounter.'

'Each emergency listed shall include a thorough outline to assist in early recognition, their risk level rating,  and what appropriate action is to be taken in order to avoid injury or mitigate damage in circumstances in which injury cannot be avoided.”

Aziraphale pointed to a bullet point section halfway down the page.

"As you can see, while MY provided Emergency Plan lists many common crises to the area such as Brush Fires, Alien Abduction, Prolonged Electrical Outages, Severe Blizzard Conditions, Tornadoes, Flooding, and Mass Histeria related to Food and Household Supply Shortages secondary to any of the above situations ..."

Aziraphale snapped the manual out of existence before his boss could request to read the entry for himself.

"It contains NOTHING regarding encounters with the Occult.”

(silence)

Gabriel’s stunned expression was enough to wrap Aziraphale’s core in a warm, delicious blanket of gratification—with more smugness shining through than he probably should have allowed. But any shred of empowerment was a rare delicacy to experience in present company.

“It would be a shame,” he pouted, “if a situation NOT covered in my manual were to take place. There would be an audit, of course. And since the record now proves my supervisor was made aware of the deficiency…”

Aziraphale shook his head, a fraudulent demonstration of his shared dismay over what could be.

“Well! We BOTH know where the blame will fall and I certainly wouldn’t want to be in YOUR position when, as the humans say, ‘The shit hits the fan’.”

Gabriel’s mouth hung wide and open, words caught somewhere in his throat, but his forehead creases deepened as he processed the angel’s statements.

Aziraphale could practically hear the rusty cogs turning in his head until the full picture landed like a pile of sopping-wet laundry. Gabriel rolled back his shoulders to reorganize his position and prepare for negotiation.

“So, what is it that you want, Aziraphale?”

“As I said, I want to know what the Emergency Plan entails in regard to Occult beings.”

“My time is valuable, Principality, and I do not appreciate it being wasted.” He gestured flippantly to the angel. “Yet, here you are, so you will need to be more specific if you want an answer.”

 Okay, this was progress, he had to be concise to get the information he needed.

“What can you tell me about Earth-assigned demons?”

Gabriel’s lungs fully emptied, and he appeared more exhausted than anything else.

“I don’t think you understand, Aziraphale.” Over annunciating his words as though he were speaking to a small child.

“Demons are attracted to areas of power, large populations and structures where they can do the most damage. No demon is going to maroon themselves in some nobody-knows-where town in the Midwest. It’s a career killer. There’s no benefit.”

“I see.” Aziraphale nodded along as if to imitate contemplation of Gabriel’s view.

“But, for purely argument’s sake, and on the teeny, tiniest…”

Aziraphale squinted his eyes tight and narrowed the space between his finger and thumb as close as able without touching.

“…little bitty chance that I DID encounter a demon, what am I expected to do?”

Gabriel’s eyes lifted like the dawn—bright and clear on their target and Aziraphale was only partly successful in resisting the instinct to cower.

The Supreme Archangel was notoriously unpredictable. His crosshair focus could precede anything from accommodation to unapologetic smiting for stupidity and there was no way of knowing which.

Although Aziraphale was quite certain he hadn’t stepped over that line, it didn’t spare him the sensation of dread that fingered its way up his spine.

“Oh! Is THAT all you needed?” He bellowed, smiling wide and dusted in hearty laughter.

Aziraphale’s muscles relaxed, incredibly relieved he hadn’t inadvertently pissed Gabriel off.

“I suppose in that extremely rare and IMPOSSIBLE case; you would be expected to dispatch the demonic threat and report your accomplishment to Heaven for recognition.”

Aziraphale paused, his knuckles rubbed hard and white into the meat of his palms.

“When you say…dispatch, do you mean…” Aziraphale closed his mouth before opening again like a gaping fish flopping pointlessly on the riverbank but unwilling to accept a fate already written.

“Return them to hell? H-How would I, I m-mean…” His uncooperative tongue licked anxiously over his lip. “Hypothetically, how does one persuade a demon to…”

But Gabriel’s narrating lavender eyes darkened, choking the life from Aziraphale’s words before he could finish.

The angel stared hard, considering Gabriel’s instructions and their full intent.

“I mean EXTINGUISH.”

The archangel’s normally arrogant smile turned frightfully cold and malicious with its implication.

“I mean SLAY… EXECUTE,” Gabriel continued to elaborate, although he knew it wasn’t required.

The callus enjoyment he took in forming every repulsive syllable shuddered in the very heart of Aziraphale’s foundation.

The angel hastily gulped down his discomfort before it could betray him.

Fiddling fingers found their way to brass waistcoat buttons, and he gripped the cold metal for grounding.

“Y-You want them destroyed?” He asked cautiously.

“Of course!” The Archangel laughed and shook his head as if the answer was obvious.

“What message would we be sending if we didn’t enforce consequences when a demon dared to step out of line?”

Aziraphale felt paralyzed. All background noise faded until the only sound was his supervisor’s voice, partly muffled by the whooshing blood coursing through his ears.

“Hypothetically, of course.” Gabriel added smugly.

Aziraphale’s eyes pinched uncomfortably, and his stomach flopped over itself in messy cartwheels.

Mounting dread wrapped tight like a snake around his chest and his pulse pounded against it.

The angel faithfully gripped a golden signet ring on his pinky and began twisting it—drawing celestial strength to regain his composure.

“How would I…” But Aziraphale’s voice cracked before he could finish yet Gabriel understood him just the same.

“Oh, it’s EASY, Aziraphale!” He smiled broadly again. “Just a few drops of holy water will work wonders. I also believe…”

Gabriel scrutinized the informative source that lay outside Aziraphale’s view.

“Yes, almost any weapon blessed by a priest or rabbi will do the job. I, myself, favor a holy fire dipped spear. Quick and clean—cauterizes as it cuts…”

Gabriel’s lids closed while he sucked in a breath of air as if savoring a memory, the way Aziraphale savored his first bite of Tarte Tatin.

“Yes…” the Supreme Archangel breathed “Quick and clean…”

More unnerving than Gabriel’s “suggestions”, was the intonation by which they were delivered.

It was incredibly nonchalant. Conversational even, as if cold-blooded murder required no more consideration than what shade of blue best complemented his tailored suit.

The blood drained from Aziraphale’s face faster than if he had been speared himself.

“And according to our records, you were issued a flaming sword when you were first assigned to Eden. That should make quick work of a demonic cleansing.”

Gabriel’s overly toothy grin dazzled in the candlelight with menacing delight.

“That is, IF you still had it.”

Aziraphale’s corporeal form weakened as piercing insecurity soared behind the fabricated crust.

“Again, hypothetically,” Gabriel sneered.

“B-but, w-w-would it,” the angel strained to clear the knot tightening around his vocal cords. He was now wrenching the ring painfully around his finger, but it gave him something to focus on.

“Don’t you think such approach might be a bit… rash?”

Gabriel straightened his back, lining his shoulders to appear impossibly broader, but Aziraphale spoke before the archangel had a chance to interject.

“Would it not be of GREATER priority to, perhaps, uncover the demon’s plan before, we—I—ummm…” Aziraphale kicked his head to the side to imply the obvious. “You know?”

The ring spun faster around his smallest digit—friction burning deeper into the delicate skin.

Gabriel looked down at Aziraphale with an expression that could only be described as immense disappointment. His thin smile twitched away like an earthworm trapped on a stretch of searing concrete.

“Don’t be soft, Aziraphale,” he growled, as if his hesitation was a weakness.

It was a reprimand he’d received dozens of times before. The angel could tell himself it didn’t carry the sting it used to, but that wouldn’t be truthful.

“But, Gabriel,” he attempted to appeal to his boss’s better nature…if he had one. “Does The Almighty not ask her servants to be merciful?”

The thunder in Gabriel stare was more than enough to erase that possibility from Aziraphale’s mind and he felt his limited control slipping like bare feet on a muddy embankment.

“Your Mercy would be wasted, Aziraphale. Demons are incapable of love, forgiveness or empathy. They are selfish, grasping, soulless abominations that serve only themselves and Hell’s evil interest. If you EVER have the misfortune of encountering one, Aziraphale, I warn you not to flinch. DO NOT show mercy because I assure you Principality…a demon WILL NOT return the courtesy.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, his disloyal thoughts unwillingly sprinted to Anthony.

The way Anthony liked to drop those infuriating, sarcastic comments at the worst times, the clever observations and endless questions that poured from his lips nonstop, the casual warmth when his slender arms mindlessly brushed his own, his ill-landing jokes at Aziraphale’s harmless expense… the sound of his laughter.

That laugh—that blasted, snarky, unbridled laugh that overflowed from every crevice and rang with greater joy and layered complexity than any he had known.

Was it not real?

The lovely, pleasant innocence of those images and the comfort they provoked was instantly outpaced by the overwhelming emptiness that would remain if Aziraphale were successful in the duty expected of him.

Terror reached out, creeping up his leg like a slimy tentacle.

Aziraphale was close to tears, trembling, and terribly unsure.

Gabriel must have noticed and his exterior softened—a rarity to be sure.

“Aziraphale, you must remember that this war started long ago, before the Earth was created. The struggle perseveres and Heaven must be victorious. God IS merciful, my friend, but she was TOO merciful, in my opinion, by sparing them.”

The Archangel’s expression lit up with enthusiasm, which only served to expand the nauseating discomfort churning in the angel like turbulent waves smashing against the shoreline,

“It’s our duty, as angels, to take up our swords and set things right,” said Gabriel with genuine reassurance.

“Demons are a contamination, and that contamination needs to be sterilized…permanently.”

The angel’s skin turned hot, slick sweat forming over the surface from the sickening monstrosity of what he was told. He’d taken his corporation’s stability for granted because the ground now shook beneath him and his legs were threatening to give out.

Aziraphale lowered his head, looking as defeated as he felt.

“I…I’ve never killed anything before…” he whispered in a plea of desperation.

Gabriel’s lids narrowed suspiciously.

“Is there something you aren’t telling me, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale was frozen again, unprepared to handle a direct accusation.

“Do you have reason to suspect a demon has infringed on your location?”

Aziraphale thought he could force a diffusing chuckle, but the awkward, fracturing, high-pitched noise that escaped was nowhere near what he’d intended. Catching himself, he wrestled his voice back into place.

“What? No, of course not. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Gabriel leaned closer to the glittering blue edge of the portal and scrutinized the twitchy, small angel staring up at him.

Aziraphale tapped into every ounce of strength to fight the impulse to cut the connection or miracle himself to another location. The crystal blue eyes quivered under the strain but held their mark—locked in a psychological standoff with the Supreme Archangel.

“These questions ARE hypothetical, are they not?”

Alarmingly pale skin was tightening—shrinking around him. It was impossible to breathe! Thank Heaven’s he didn’t have to!

Aziraphale nodded with the wild enthusiasm of a mad hatter at teatime.

Gabriel did not respond and continued to watch Aziraphale undeterred as the microcracks in his demeanor compounded. Aziraphale should have kept his big mouth shut but he was certain his skin would split at its seams if the silence were allowed to drag out any longer.

“Really, Sir. I’m just filling in the gaps on my Emergency Plan. One can never be too uh…” the angel glanced about the room to locate his point, “too prepared.”

Gabriel nodded, but not with acceptance or understanding and Aziraphale stiffened with no legible feedback to hold onto.

“As much as I appreciate your hypotheticals and dedication to the Disaster Plan, I have other things to attend to.”

 A series of polite and covertly relieved nods bobbled agreeably on their hinge.

“Ah, yes. Yes, of course. Thank you, sir—for your assistance.” Aziraphale lowered his chin, his skin finally relaxing to the stretch and his respirations flowing a bit easier.

Mentally, he prepared to initiate exit procedure.

However, Gabriel was not finished with him yet.

“And to show my support for your dedication, I will initiate an inquiry as it applies to your area.”

Aziraphale’s head popped like a blown light bulb.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Gabriel was no longer watching him but clicking away on his device—keying in his intentions while he spoke.

“It will be like an emergency drill.”

Aziraphale’s jaw could have been lying on the floor for all he knew.

“I’m sure we won’t find any DEMONS,” Gabriel teased, chuckling at the ridiculousness of it. “But maybe a witch or two?”

From the corner of his eye, Gabriel scrolled over Aziraphale’s rounded midriff, making no attempt to conceal his judgement.

“Looking a bit soggy around the middle there…”

Aziraphale’s palm mindlessly grazed the soft curving shape of his belly, and the Archangel returned to his screen, typing.

“You’ve had it too easy for too long, Principality. I think this will be a good experience—get your feet wet and help prepare you to face the real thing someday.”

Both of Aziraphale’s hands shot to the air defensively and suspiciously fast for such a gracious offer.

“Oh—OH, no! T-Th-That’s REALLY not necessary—”

Aziraphale was tripping over words before he could fully form them.

“I-I-I only asked, I mean—it was just—wonder? I-I-ummm…one must maintain their education—idol minds and all that. I-I-In ca--.”

A nervous squeak imposed itself into the tail end of his sentence and caused the words to vibrate uncomfortably. Fists held fast to his jacket hem. Straining ligament lines bulged, and his trembling muscles screamed for reprieve.

He knew words! LOTS of words! Why couldn’t he use ANY of them?!

“GABRIEL!” he shrieked “Th-there is REALLY no need to trouble y-yourself!”

The plan was imploding, and he didn’t know what to do. Alarm surged upward like a river of magma raging to break the surface. Aziraphale tried his hardest to punch it back and plaster over his crumbling exterior with an image of polite professionalism.

“I am TRULY appreciative of your offer, but it is not needed. I thank you for your time and generous advice…a-a-a-and —OH!”

Aziraphale snapped, pointing a thumb over his right shoulder.

“Is that a knock on my door? Well, yes, I suppose…”

Gabriel stiffened to the angel who appeared to be squirming like a freshly skinned cat.

“Aziraphale…”

Aziraphale’s grip on self-control slipped and restlessness busied itself by scrunching up full-handed chunks of his velvet waistcoat and jacket—anywhere they could reach. The angel’s bearings swayed out of balance.

Betrayed by his own erratic movements, Aziraphale was powerless to mask the violently spiraling panic shredding him from the inside out.

Shit!

An unfamiliar, visceral compulsion punched through the haze to claim jurisdiction and Aziraphale did not resist its command to back away from the portal.

“Really, no need to bother with anything else—just skip the inquiry. Must be off now!! Duty calls—TA-TA!”

Gabriel’s mouth opened, presumably to protest, but he didn’t have the chance before Aziraphale waved his hand swiftly over the circle. The candles extinguished in a whisp of sulfur-laced smoke and the portal connection terminated.

Without hesitation, he snapped the rug into place to cover the holy markings from view.

The angel fretted anxiously, wringing his hands while his supportive stitching continued to pop and snap themselves undone.

His large, fearful eyes darted over the rug before determining more security was required and iracle a full storage chest and two bookshelves on top of it.

This eased his tension, but only slightly.

Aziraphale worried his palms against cheeks which were now pink and tingling unpleasantly from the encounter.

The candles had toppled, and trails of melted wax were settling into the woodgrain where they’d started to solidify, but that was a worry for a later time.

His near platinum curls were now sticking undignified to the sweat of his brow. The room was hot. Too hot. Aziraphale yanked his bow tie loose until the rumpled straps draped either side of his neck.

Dispatch the demon?!

Aziraphale rolled his eyes to the tin-tile ceiling in utter disbelief.

Dear Lord!

Not since the Old Testament had Aziraphale witnessed the full-faced eagerness of Gabriel’s bloodlust.

And now, Gabriel expected The Guardian of the Eastern Gate to raise his own weapon to slaughter the masses.

Aziraphale was an obedient angel, but even blind obedience had its limits.

And the idea of “dispatching” Anthon-ah, um…the DEMON, was not only atrociously barbaric, but felt morally and sickeningly reprehensible.

Aziraphale had only turned to Heaven because he was already out of his depth. But instead of the tangible lifeline he was hoping for, Gabriel handed him a bloody cast-iron anchor!

And the angel was not ready to be dragged down to that level of depravity.

He needed time. Just a little more time to formulate a new plan.

Aziraphale knew Gabriel did not take him seriously. He never did. And the Supreme Archangel rarely passed up a chance to walk the easier road if it involved less paperwork.

Odds were heavily weighted in his favor that the Archangel would take Aziraphale’s reassurances at face value and drop the offer to launch an inquiry.

But that still left the matter of the heinous orders he'd received from his superior.

Aziraphale mused over their conversation--fuzzing the edges where he could.

Were they direct orders?

He had been clear that the questions were hypothetical. No one could argue that point and even Gabriel’s record would back him up.

True, TECHNICALLY he was told to kill a demon…but only IF he encountered one.

All evidence thus far suggests he had not yet encountered one, had he?

Heaven would first have to prove a real demon was in play before Aziraphale could be held liable for any consequences related to a lack of action.

Afterall, Anthony could very well be a case of possession.

It would be terribly irresponsible of Aziraphale to smite him without making an earnest effort to exercise him first.

Of course, Aziraphale knew better.

Any angel with a farthing of sense would know this wasn’t true.

But Aziraphale was horribly fed up with Gabriel's backhanded comments regarding his incompetence and therefore had no reservations about playing up the accusation if it suited his purpose.

The angel let a wonderful, shifty smile creep over his lips.

Also, any procedure amendment was not officially activated until the new policy was physically received in writing.

Until this was done, Angels are expected to follow pre-existing protocol just as it is.

Given that this specific information was entirely non-existent, Aziraphale would be within his rights to assume the next course of action would be up to his careful discretion.

He soundly bit into his lower lip.

The spike-like pinch of teeth was notably satisfying yet grounding, and Aziraphale rocked his jaw to further intensify the effect.

Thoughts gravitated effortlessly toward other beacons that could further promote his position.

Aziraphale would be incredibly careless--negligent even--not to investigate the demon’s intentions before disp--

A bitter taste of bile bubbled into his throat, and he grimaced when the flavor ghosted over his tastebuds.

Well...

Aziraphale winced at an inevitable future he'd desperately prefer to avoid.

Suppose he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

Propped up by stubborn wits and reckless determination, Aziraphale folded his hands and pressed them to his lips.

First things first.

In order to thwart Hell’s plan, the plan itself must be uncovered.

He'd start by tailing Anthony.

That should be easy enough--they work together, after all.

Hopefully, it wouldn't take too terribly long to gather the clues he needed to form a counter strategy and foil whatever fiendish project Anthony--uh...THE DEMON--was plotting.

And since Heaven was practically salivating to enforce their unsavory prerogative, the angel would have to navigate his methods solo and emphatically UNDER their radar.

Aziraphale lifted a sharp-edged fawn fedora from the rack. He traced its sleek lines adoringly before placing it strategically askew a top his head. Trained fingers made quick work of reassembling the bowtie, and righted his jacket with a single, efficient tug.

Aziraphale gulped down any quivering reservations and unceremoniously shoved his fearless warrior angel initiative to the forefront.

He made his way across the room to a gilded mirror that hung in the entry for just such purposes.

Slowly, Aziraphale absorbed the handsome, confident angel smiling boldly back at him from the glass.

He was just as clever and capable an angel as the rest of his lot--no flaming sword required.

A spark of long dormant passion crackled to life.

Fresh feelings stirred up an enticing emotional mix of adventure, dangerous excitement, and sweet, sweet rebellion--so crisp and vivid he could almost taste their forbidden flavor.

And it felt GOOD.

Chapter Text

The portal went dark, and Gabriel called Aziraphale’s name half a dozen times before concluding the connection had been permanently disrupted.

It wouldn’t have occurred to the Supreme Archangel that a Principality could be so brazen as to hang up on him without following official protocol.

Gabriel shrugged weakly and sighed. No feathers off his wing.

The angel would call back later if it were important enough. By then, his shift would be over and Aziraphale will be someone else’s problem.

He deleted the inquiry request he had started and fired off a few generic responses to fill the boxes required before closing out the interaction.

“Did I hear you conversing with the angel, Aziraphale?” Came a voice, soft and rhythmic, from behind.

Gabriel’s shoulders jumped. His head whipped to the source-- preparing to lay his wrath into whatever insulant perpetrator had the nerve to sneak up on the Supreme Archangel while working.

It was not in Gabriel's character to think before acting. If he had, he would have recognized the familiar voice and drastically altered his reaction.

A face which surpassed the Archangel in power and position, had materialized on a specially reserved, elevated panel.

The hair was snow white; skin finely wrinkled as sand dunes of the Sahara. His genteel, aristocratic manner yielded a wise, but pensive expression.

In dour contrast, unnaturally pale gray irises stared him down with frightful intensity.

He had spoken gently--eerily calm, yet his words wavered with an array of mysterious intention that lay just underneath.

Like the First Borns of Egypt, Gabriel's fury was snuffed out before his next breath.

“Metatron! I--I didn’t know.”

“Was that the Principality, Aziraphale, you were speaking to?” he inquired with more demand than request.

The Archangel glanced briefly at his notes then at the unreadable expression projected on the illuminated screen overhead.

“Azira--yes. Yes sir--your Grace. He was looking for policy clarification.”

“And may I inquire the nature of the policy that required your...clarification?”

“Oh, that? It was nothing, really.” Gabriel reviewed his notes, scrolling through the automated feedback lit before his eyes.

“Something about occult risks and establishing an emergency action plan.”

"I see..." The Metatron hummed as if the answer was both understood and expected.

“And that was the extent of your meeting, was it?"

Gabriel nodded in the affirmative.

 "Seems an odd request does it not? Given his location and timing?”

“Yes, Your Grace--a little strange, I agree. I offered to perform a threat assessment. However, Aziraphale assured me that the subject matter was hypothetical, so it wasn't needed.”

The benign, wrinkled edges of Metatron’s eyes noticeably sharpened, yet his reasons remained disguised behind a thin-lined mouth that pressed tight against his teeth.

Gabriel straightened to attention and dubitably awaited direction from his Higher Authority. After more than two minutes of suppressed and silent contemplation, Metatron addressed the Supreme Archangel.

“Gabriel? I would like you to move forward with that investigation. Narrow your search to Aziraphale's official location and apply it to past and current threat activity going back 3 years. If nothing of value is uncovered, expand the search area to a 50-mile radius from that point."

Gabriel shook his head, baffled as to why the sudden, priority interest in an insignificant Principality.

Aziraphale, assignment included, barely registered as a blip in The Great Ineffable Plan, but Gabriel wasn’t so dimwittedly foolish as to argue with the Voice of God.

“Right away Sir.”

Gabriel streamed rapidly through his notes, momentarily concerned that he had overlooked something obvious-- but of course, that would be impossible.

“I will get on that immediately and update you with the results."

The head nodded, seemingly unconcerned.

"See that you do."

“Is there…” Gabriel reached out tentatively, not wanting to give away his degree of apprehension

“Is there something specific I should be looking for?”

The Metatron's fridged gaze locked on the Archangel with the piercing grip of an Iron Maiden. His lips peeled into a hard, serious sneer that shriveled any follow-up questions Gabriel may have been considering.

“Demons.”

Chapter Text

Being the most tenured member of his team came with the reward of certain advantages.

For example, Aziraphale was able to make alterations to assignments without Jim questioning the reason behind it. And, by lucky coincidence, State Audit was approaching within the next couple months. It would be perfectly sensible for Azi to refocus his priorities to ensure all documentation was complete and their records were above scrutiny before then. Under this roll, Azi would be able to move about the facility untethered -a freedom he could easily exploit to keep watch on Anthony and his activities.

Aziraphale rocked the 3-ring binder from the shelf, splayed the pages wide open on the desk and reviewed the upcoming schedule.

Since he and Anthony were both relatively unbothered by working strenuously long overnights and frequent double backs, their schedules already ran in tandem for the most part.

The angel grimaced--the heat of shame running red in his cheeks.

He had blindly assumed Anthony to be one of those remarkable workaholic humans who was not only fluent in ridiculing sarcasm, but also functioned perfectly well on 2 to 4 hours of sleep and IV drip of straight expresso.

It was foolish of him-- stupidly foolish to not recognize the red flag for what it was at the time.

Determined to right his mistake, Aziraphale grabbed the nearest pen and scratched his name into any days that didn’t already overlap with Anthony’s and scribbled "Audit Prep" above said alterations just in case there were any inquiries.

As unofficial assisting manager, Aziraphale was also welcome to make use of Jim’s office PRN. However, that invitation did NOT extend to the secure employee files it contained.

Aziraphale wasn’t proud of it, but he had to consider the advantage of every weapon available in his arsenal.

He’d spent his early hours that day pouring over every detail of Anthony’s file from reviews, work history, and personal information. He’d even sniped a copy of the background check to aid in a more thorough online search later.

So far as he could follow, there was nothing untoward or even of value in the paperwork.

Except…

Grand Forks, North Dakota.

It was a similar sized town with no real attraction other than a State University and a low-level Air Force base. The whole city wafted with the horrendous stench of the Simplot Fertilizer and Food Processing plant that kept most visitors at arm’s length.

Aziraphale knew the area well because he’d been stationed there decades ago. It was long before he’d transferred to Sioux City for a reason he couldn’t recall--likely desiring a change from the negative 60-degree winter windchills.

The paperwork didn’t specify what years Anthony had been there, and who knew if he really had.

He was a demon, after all. Demons lie.

He could have picked the name at random because it sounded small town wholesome on a resume.

Just the same, the peculiar parallelism was soberingly unnerving and had the angel's skin crawling like live maggots feasting on his tissue.

When he concluded there was nothing more he could learn, Azi diligently scanned over the layout of Jim's office to ensure every paper, file, and paperclip had been returned to its original, untouched state before leaving and locking the door behind him.

Aziraphale sighed weakly and replaced the scheduling binder.

Between researching, consulting heaven, and now betraying his manager’s trust to invade Anthony’s privacy (for which he categorially felt no remorse), Aziraphale hadn’t taken a moment to rest in days and was thoroughly and wretchedly exhausted.

This whole unpleasantly sticky predicament was requiring far more effort than Aziraphale had initially rationed, and he ached knowing there were more mountains to be moved beyond the horizon.

Did it really have to be so complicated?

Wouldn’t it be nice if he could resolve this little problem with an open, polite, respectful conversation?

Aziraphale was, after all, an excellent communicator.

“Hello! Remember me? It's Azi, the trusted coworker who generously welcomed you into their apartment the other night for a cup of tea and loaned you my rare and cherished copy of Shakespear."

Aziraphale bounced his head merrily side to side as if his words were following a happy little tune.

"And YOU shamelessly preceded to molest every last one of my treasured books and keepsakes, attacked my taste in décor, and callously degraded my professional achievements."

Aziraphale's anger was still marinating over that one.

"Oh! And lest I forget your fruitless efforts to weasel your way into my bedroom with a GRACIOUS, vailed offer to cure my virginity!”

The angel slowly sucked in a cool, calming breath.

“Well, anyway, just so you know, I've uncovered your identity as a demonic member of Hell's legion. So, if it's not TOO much an inconvenience, I’d greatly appreciate a detailed outline of your current evil mission--preferably BEFORE it is carried out so I may safely and swiftly dispatch your tainting presence from this location without the need to separate those lovely, yet abnormally lanky limbs from their sockets.”

Good Lord--Dial it down, Aziraphale.

“Perhaps I can tempt you to a spot of tea and crepes while you kindly and amicably acquiesce to my enquiries?”

“Wot enquiries would those be?”

The startled yelp that ripped through the space was most undignified, like a sleeping dog whose tail had been carelessly stepped on.

Anthony was standing only feet behind him.

Until then, it hadn’t occurred to Aziraphale that his internal monolog had been unintentionally operating on speaker mode.

“I-I-If y-you…” The angel stuttered, hoping he'd stumble into some sort of recovery.

For millennia, the brilliant, educated engine that was his mind had been a smooth-running, reliable companion. But to his grand dismay, sticky strands of deceit tangled maliciously around well-oiled gears and whistling pistons. All movement seized and- God help him--he couldn't pull his foot off the blasted clutch!

So much for being an excellent communicator.

Anthony waited patiently. The weight of his stance shifted so his narrow, slinky hips cocked forward and to the side. A sharp, angled line of pelvic bone jutted provocatively through the thin, navy-blue cotton fabric.

This "Seduction on a Stick" pose must come effortless to a demon like him, Aziraphale thought to himself.

Easy.

Natural.

Like breathing...Like speaking...Like deceit--sliding into it as he would a velvet robe.

Probably didn't even know how to switch it off anymore.

With unfounded bitterness, Azi forbade himself to linger on the thought or the view. But that didn't impede a set of deep, brown eyes from absorbing Aziraphale’s stiff posture--rolling from his tan, leather shoes to the tips of his blushing ears.

“If, you wanted me…” Aziraphale managed to grind out before the words fell again to self-sabotage.

An inquisitive dark brow arched to strike Anthony’s copper hairline, playfully intrigued.

“Depends on what you’re offering…” the demon grinned suggestively.

It took a minute for the angel to process what had just transpired, and Anthony unapologetically relished every puzzling phase his coworker had to wade through until he did.

Oh!

“N-no, I didn’t mean--"

"No?" Anthony pouted, border of his eyes rounding to a sad puppy appearance. "Sounded like that from here."

But Aziraphale was frowning offensively, and Anthony's old, familiar smirk slithered in like a wily serpent.

"You sure it wasn't a Freudian Slip?"

“Quite sure!” Aziraphale puffed haughtily, the defensive rush of blood staining his skin impossibly darker.

Anthony’s smirk faded, as if the disappointment were genuine. But Aziraphale would not be baited into disarming his defenses this time. The demon's charismatic dance between flirtation and friendship was nothing more than a superficial performance he played out for his own perverse enjoyment.

“Go on then,” Anthony gestured. His slender arms folded neatly, like silk wings, over the widest point of his chest.

“I MEANT to ask...” Aziraphale floundered into a sentence he didn’t know how to finish until catching sight of the machinery behind Anthony. The dialysis machine and RO were lined up at the ready with their waterlines and cords securely clamped to the body.

“If you wanted my assistance with your run supplies--transporting.”

Whatever preexisting intentions that were stirring behind the demon's contacts split into cautious skepticism.

True, Aziraphale had not offered to help transport machinery before. It was an easy one-man task for a couple pros like themselves--pushing the machine while dragging the RO behind. So, unless they were already heading the same direction, the proposal was, indeed, peculiar.

Except when Anathema and Newt did it.

And they knew why.

Everyone knew why.

The storage closet across from the 7th floor elevator, with its low foot traffic and locking door, knew why.

Oh Dear Lord!

Anthony held his attention, studying every minute flicker of body language the angel could not control.

The redhead didn’t believe him.

Aziraphale’s chest knotted, suddenly terrified that this demon possessed the rare ability to read his thoughts.

“Naw, ’m good,” was his entire response.

After wrapping his slender fingers around the handle, Anthony leaned his weight into the side of the machine until the complacent casters gave way and started to roll. Gliding like a skater on ice, he maneuvered the machinery through the unit doors and toward the elevator.

Any fabricated reason to immediately pursue him would arouse further suspicion on top of the quagmire of awkwardness he'd already created.

So, against his fiercely protective impulses, Aziraphale kept his feet rooted at the nurse's station.

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

During the next few days, Aziraphale kept his profile low, but it was a rocky road non-the-less.

He’d purchased a pocket mirror to view around corners, but it was ungodly tricky, and the blurred image was useless at the distance he required it for. And by the look other staff were giving him, the angel’s attempts were not as covert as he thought.

Azi had tried strolling nonchalantly outside the patient’s door during their treatment, but by the 2nd pass, Anthony was honed in on him like a fox to a three-legged cat.

Ultimately, Aziraphale landed on reviewing charts in whichever area Anthony was occupying that day. Of course, the demon would know he was there, but at least this mundane activity would remain above reproach. It was the angel's best option until an improved alternative was kind enough to present itself.

GOOD GRACIOUS spy work was boring! -- Transcendentally boring and not at all like the James Bond novels had made it seem.

But on the 4th day, as if the universe had heard his cries, the angel's circulatory system got the workout it had been desiring, but for all the wrong reasons.

Aziraphale had waited 10 minutes before pursuing the demon to the 5th floor for his first run of the morning.

As the double doors of the ICU closed behind him, a high-pitched sound blared overhead alerting cardiac asystole.

Azi immediately tracked the shrill, ear-piercing alarm to a room at the end of the hall where a red light blinked in succession above the doorframe.

Anthony's treatment room.

Dear God, No!

The turbulent, underlying dread that'd been festering since he first discovered the demon's identity took flight and Aziraphale was first to reach the room.

An unconscious female patient occupied the hospital bed-ventilated, and head raised at a 40-degree angle. The vitals monitor mounted to the wall was black! No pulse, respiratory rate, or oxygen saturation detected! Anthony was standing next to the far siderail, one hand still on the dialysis machine he'd brought with him. He was watching the monitor screen but spun around with surprised confusion when Aziraphale burst through the door like an avenging angel.

Azi's terrified attention snapped rapidly from Anthony to the absent vitals on the monitor to the unconscious patient and back again. The demon stared at his coworker, remarkably unbothered.

Aziraphale was at the bedside faster than he could blink.

“What the HELL did you just DO?!” he screamed, the corners of his eyes already wetting from primal fear and disbelief.

The angel’s sprawled palms moved frantically over the patient’s chest while Anthony continued to stare blankly at the blond man mercilessly unraveling before him like a snagged sweater.

Aziraphale’s fingers fumbled their way to a side button to lower the patient’s head so he could initiate CPR.

Just as the bed started moving, Anthony’s form squatted out of view below the bedframe. He rose half a second later with a thick, gray cable pinched between his fingers.

While maintaining unflinching eye contact, Anthony firmly inserted the cable into an accommodating socket on the bedside monitor. With a satisfying click, the blaring emergency alarm fell silent, and to Aziraphale’s shocked relief, wonderful, rhythmic, spiking beats returned to the screen.

Aziraphale gawked, eyes darting to the screen and the patient several times before he allowed himself to accept everything was, indeed, fine.

“The cord got caught on the IV pole when I tried to move it.”

Aziraphale wanted to say something.

He should probably say something.

But the angel's jaw wagged without purpose, letting Anthony and the small crowd that had accumulated just outside the room digest the full depth of Aziraphale’s idiocy.

It was awkward.

Mind-numbingly awkward.

Anthony, himself, was profoundly confused. And the look of annoyance biting his already striking features was not entirely unreasonable either. The demon shook his head, softly, as if in a daze of distressed bewilderment.

“You've got some SERIOUS trust issues there, Azi.”

Anthony's statement may not have been intended as an insult, but his flat, definitive delivery embodied annoyingly impressive comedic timing. It plopped like a perfect red cherry on the whipped top of Aziraphale’s mounting embarrassment.

Aziraphale swallowed, throat bobbing uncomfortably when the full gravity of his mistake took shape.

There was no dignified way to back out of the massive pile of flaming shit he’d just willingly face-planted into. Onlookers were handing out snickering judgement like party favors and he didn't have enough integrity left to rise above the strike.

Aziraphale turned on his heals and retreated to the privacy of his dialysis unit. At least there, he'd find the comforting sanctuary he'd need to lick his wounded pride.

Of course, a running joke started among the ICU nurses.

Whenever a pump malfunctioned, a computer locked up, or the Pixis medication dispenser glitched, someone would loudly call out,

“Are you sure it’s plugged in?!”...

and an eruption of wild laughter would ensue.

Eventually, the irrefutable humor of what happened would grow on Aziraphale and he’d delightfully chuckle along with the rest of them.

But not yet.

Not today.

Chapter Text

It took days for Aziraphale to glue the crumbled pieces of his ego back together and show his face outside the office again.

The Principality screwed up. He'd came close to tipping his hand with an impulsive, misplaced accusation and was kicking himself for the undeniable damage it caused. Everything changed. They couldn't converse as they had before. Verbal exchanges were kept short and professional because the risk of inviting conversation was too dangerous when Aziraphale couldn’t trust his own damn mouth to have his back when he needed it to.

But while most discussions could be evaded with little effort, body language was an unfairly efficient weapon and specially designed for emotional bludgeoning. It didn't swing like a hammer, but rather as a pillow stuffed with rocks-an assault that kept their victim oblivious to how badly they'd be injured until blood was already leaking purple and blue beneath the skin. And the bruises were everywhere. It was in the way jaws and backs stiffened the moment the other entered the room. The way common daily routines were now carried out with foreign uncertainty and hesitation. Even empty space contained more stillness than normal silence should be capable of holding. It was worst at night. While hands moved in tandem to close the unit before parting ways, Aziraphale would catch his coworker glancing questioningly in his direction, as if there was something he was expecting to hear. But playful, carefree banter had mutated into a creature the angel didn't recognize, and it was weird and raw and ladened with compromised stability. For this very good, very practical-very respectable reason, Aziraphale stubbornly avoided any eye contact offered. If he lacked the ability to control how he felt, it'd be better to feel nothing at all.

As luck would have it, a few days of self-loathing solitude was precisely the catalyst Aziraphale needed to formulate his next magnificently brilliant venture in undercover reconnaissance. Phase one of his plan consisted of griping to his teammates about the frazzling amount of responsibility required to prepare for State arrival. So, as the team labored through their first shift, Aziraphale openly vented his displeasure. He touched on the 2-dozen compliance audits he'd performed during the last week alone, the irritation of enforcing ridiculous protocols written by people who never worked a day in dialysis, and how insufferable it was that time was no longer his own. The angel held nothing back until he was confident the foundation laid was both sufficient and credible.

"On that note, I must regrettably inform you all that I'll be preoccupied with a State-related meeting this afternoon."

Newt and Anathema gave automated nods and "Yup, okay"s because they'd stopped listening or caring 20 minutes ago when Aziraphale's rant launched into the disgrace of charting with blue ink.

But Anthony was listening.

"It's mandatory, of course, so I have no say in the matter. And you'll be unable to get ahold of me shall you need anything. I won't even be in the building, in fact, so there is no need to go searching. "

Aziraphale filed a stack of work orders he'd just completed into the manilla folder neatly labeled "State Meeting Stuff".

"NO ONE should expect to see me for the remainder of the day as I'll be terribly busy with the meeting."

The trio of coworkers shared a string of funny looks and sideways glances between them, but Aziraphale wasn't bothered in the slightest.

Every detail of the plan had transpired flawlessly--like a work of art. If successful, the fabricated alibi would ease Anthony's undoubtably hard-wired defenses and, maybe then, Aziraphale could finally see what secrets hid beyond.

At 1308, Aziraphale wandered out of the office and toward their unit-adjacent breakroom to join his team while they de-stressed and mentally prepared for the downhill swing of 2nd shift. It was a small, rectangular room furnished with a modest table, a dorm fridge, some chairs, and a set of stand-alone two teared lockers. Jim was stuffed into a corner, eyes locked on his screen while munching a cheese sandwich and scrolling through less than reputable dating apps. Anthony stood with his back propped at an angle against the lockers, hip thrust outward, and legs crossed at the ankle because the demon was INCAPABLE of standing with any vague resemblance to normalcy.

He'd already taken down his bun as part of his mid-day relaxion routine and it cascaded softly down to his shoulders. Long black-tipped fingers in a delicate spread sifted through golden copper highlights that reflected like strands of glitter under florescent lights that overpowered the tiny space.

On closer inspection, Aziraphale realized Anthony had one thumb hooked over his waistband and was revealing a pair of form-fitting underwear. To the angel's chagrin, he'd walked in on Anthony and Anathema casually discussing which brands they preferred for their superior moisture wicking capability and chafe-prevention.

Anathema bobbed her index finger and Anthony complied by dropping the waistband further to expose a larger area. The span of sleek, black fabric stretched to hug every pelvic curve and dip. Almost. Aziraphale's view was drawn to a sunken, triangular space that connected the demon's lower abdominals to his iliac crest where the low-riding elastic left a gap between itself and pale, freckled skin that--

Aziraphale tore his eyes away and swallowed uncomfortably. He wanted to chastise them for conversing on a topic that was borderline inappropriate at work but decided against it. Anathema and Newt didn't seem to mind (Ana already eagerly disclosing own purple poka-dotted pair) and Aziraphale was often accused pushing views that were too "old-fashioned". He did promise Anathema he'd make an honest effort to keep up with the times and stop being an old "fuddy-duddy" (whatever that meant).

Abandoning the doorway, Aziraphale timidly navigated the chairs and people to fetch his Tupperware of left over lamb and feta meatballs from the fridge. Their breakroom was a cozy fit, but the team happily maneuvered their positions to accommodate Azi's entry.

With a tired grunt, the lanky red-head hopped onto the counter--perching his sparse ass between the well-loved coffee maker and a 20-year-old microwave that was probably functional, but no one with any sense of self-preservation had the nerve to use due to the odd clicks and harsh, gritty vibration that resonated if anyone tried. Anthony grabbed the fresh pot of coffee, gave it a swirl, and filled a red ceramic mug reading "I CAN’T FIX STUPID BUT I CAN SEDATE IT” across its face. After blowing off the cloud of rising steam, Anthony started in on Newt by mocking his uncanny ability to crash any charting system with needless computer updates.

"I'd wager 100 bucks that within 5 years," Anthony gestured an accusing finger to the young man sporting a wide, goofy grin under a set of thick, black horn-rimmed glasses. "We'll be seeing Newt in handcuffs, gettin' shoved into the back of a cruiser because he took down the ENTIRE Medical Records database with a virus he had no idea he'd created..."

Newt and Anathema doubled over in a fit of boisterous wheezes and snorts until they were dangerously close to losing control of their bladders because, dammit, their coworker probably wasn't wrong.

The infectious joy of his friend's laughter had Aziraphale grinning from ear to ear himself.

Beaming, Anthony raised his mug in cheer, insisting he'd stand by the prediction come hell or high water then tipped the cup to his lips.

Anthony froze--eyes pulled wide with horror. He dove for the sink and immediately spat out the contents. He was coughing and gagging and spewing curses at Ana for having the audacity to spike his brew with pickle juice.

This had Newt and Anathema laughing even harder and Aziraphale took the opportunity to slip away during the chaos.

Utilizing the surgical transport elevators, the angel snuck his way to the 5th floor unnoticed and hunkered into an empty room kitty-corner from Anthony’s first run of the afternoon. By slanting the privacy blinds just so, he was virtually imperceptible to anyone outside as long as they didn’t look too closely. The area was being used as an unofficial catch all for misfit surplus like stock chairs with cushions marred with mystery stains, IV poles with bent wheels that couldn't roll, adjustable tables that refused to adjust, and even a portable vitals machine whose thermometer read every temperature as 110.6. They were all mildly broken items that the hospital was unwilling to fix but too stingy to replace, so they were tossed elsewhere until staff had no other option.

Aziraphale quietly dragged one of the lesser stained chairs closer to the window and settled in to wait.

Anthony arrived within the hour and Aziraphale ducked low behind the window when the familiar rumble of machinery passed by.

He didn’t dare look again until he heard the dialysis machine scream to life. Then, slowly, gray blue eyes peaked over the sill to watch Anthony busy himself reviewing lab results, organizing his supplies, securing line connections, and RO test preparation. The routine series of events ran smooth and polished as one would expect from a professional. Suddenly, unexpectedly, all motion in the room came to an abrupt halt.

Anthony's hard, brown eyes were glaring down at the patient’s bedside table. It was cluttered with miscellaneous medical and personal odds and ends that tended to accumulate on shared services when a patient had been admitted for as long as this one had.

It was an ATV-related accident, the angel recalls. He had been in the company of his two young teenage sons when he'd lost control and struck an embankment. The vehicle flipped and landed on top of his chest. They were exploring a secluded area of the local nature park that was without cell service so, sadly, it took rescuers an unfortunate amount of time to reach him. He had been pinned under the ATV for more than 20 minutes before losing consciousness.

The Physicians' answers were vague when it came to questions regarding the extent and permanence of his brain injury. There were kind, whole-hearted words of encouragement to "Not give up", and "Can't know for sure with this kind of thing". But it had been weeks. The family's prayers for recovery or even regained consciousness had dwindled, and with it, the time they devoted to visits.

Poised like a vulture between progress and decline, stagnation was a cold, cruel existence that made waiting too painful to bare. It was sad. Very sad.

However, with the man's suite absent of visitors, family, and other staff, there was no reason for Anthony to mask his bubbling agitation from fanning its wings.

Aziraphale could hear the demon's grumbling curses regarding the nerve of some people not respecting staff-use tables as he snatched a wash bin from the counter next to the sink.

Anthony’s limbs flew- reaching for saline syringes, mouth sponges, cards of well-wishes, empty food containers, and half-full pop cans left by inconsiderate visitors. All pieces were tossed recklessly and carelessly into the bin to be sorted at a later time by someone else who wasn't him.

When slim fingers closed on the rim of a pot that housed a cluster of gloomy-looking pink and purple tulips, the angel fully expected it to follow the same fate as the rest of the rubbish. But instead, time stopped. At least, that’s how it appeared to an observer and Aziraphale watched with confused bewilderment and cautious curiosity.

Slowly, the demon arched his wrist and long, stiff fingers pushed into the soil beneath the plant's drooping leaves. They lingered there for a stretch, long enough for Aziraphale to wonder what he could be planning. With another curse muttered under his breath, the demon ripped open a sugar packet from the bin and sprinkled a pinch over the soil. He retrieved a water pitcher and poured enough to quench the thirsty roots, followed shortly by another, and then another. Once satisfied, demonic hands encircled the pastel blue pot and relocated it carefully to the windowsill. A scant beam of sunlight peaking between the buildings warmed the flowers and lit up their translucent petals as if they were stained glass. Anthony brushed his pinky tenderly along the stem and lifted the saddest of the flower heads to attention. Instead of falling limp, the grateful bloom loyally obeyed his instruction and stood tall with delicate grace and beauty.

Anthony smiled...but it was unlike so many Azi had seen before.

It was a simple sort of smile-kind and fragile--carried on waves of contentment and vulnerability and quietly stripping away the intrusive sarcasm and posturing prickles Anthony wore like a second skin.  A smile born of intimate, personal reasons that was never meant to be witnessed.

Before the angel could think deeper of it, it flickered out like the light from a shooting star.

Aziraphale watched in silence while Anthony resumed his pre-treatment procedure as if nothing had happened.

A twinge of unease began milling somewhere in the back of the angel's brain, like the irritating rub of a pebble he couldn’t reach.

Surely Anthony was not aware he was being watched. The patient was not conscious and there were no other staff in the hallway. Who was he putting on a show for?

Anthony accessed the perm-cath and completed all required safety checks without issue. Once treatment was initiated, he plopped into a chair with a direct view of the patient and pressure readings--crossing his lithe but toned arms warily over his front. Focus wide and alert, the demon diligently monitored the patient's vitals and machine pressures. After 10 minutes with no need for intervention, Anthony visibly relaxed and took hold of a mid-sized backpack he'd stowed under his chair on arrival. Unzipping the opening, he shoved a hand inside to shuffle through the contents. His features lit up like a burning meteorite when he apparently located his prize and withdrew a large, blue bound book...Aziraphale’s book. The novel was flipped open in earnest to a folded scrap paper that doubled as a bookmark before resting it in the only unoccupied space left on the table.

He stared at the page. Just stared. The angel couldn't be sure if the demon was reading at all.

After a while, a rhythm of quirky little mannerisms came into play. Anthony would pick up the novel, hold it close then far. Then steadily move closer and back again as if adjusting a microscope. He squinted, tiredly rubbed into his eye lids and squinted again. Sometimes, thin lips danced sporadically-barely miming the words as he tackled them one by one. For a devoted lectiophile like himself, Anthony's deranged approach to literature was outright painful to observe.

Aziraphale drifted out of site below the window before turning his back to the room across the way and sliding down the wall--stopping only when his rump came to rest on the cold, tile floor. The angel pulled his knees to his chest and used thickly muscled arms to wrench them tighter and secure them in place. He could feel body heat abandoning his core as it leached into the floor beneath him. Goosebumps erupted from the tip of every nerve and the tiny blond hairs on his arms and next stood erect.

He should have thought to bring a jacket.

The angel didn't look back over that window again for the duration of the treatment. He didn't need to. He didn't want to.

For the first time, Aziraphale had no flippantly cynical explanation or doctrine-based preconception at the ready to sweep away the uncharacteristically demonic behavior he'd witnessed. And somewhere low and deep and damp in the angel's belly, in a place kept in shadow and held at bay by millennia of denial and willful ignorance, a voice he wasn't yet ready to hear whispered softly to his heart...

asking him to question what he thought he already knew.

------

The memory of what Aziraphale saw, was intensely troubling. The flashes wouldn't stop-- stain-glass tulips and gentle healing hands, and fragile, fleeting smiles and all the other strange, wonky mis-matched pieces of that day that couldn't possibly belong to the current puzzle he was working. 

He felt angry and didn't know why.

So, out of necessity, or perhaps as a desire for consolation (it didn't matter), the angel tucked the whole ugly lump of confoundingly bothersome images away to prevent them from replaying through his mind like a torturous video loop. The flashes didn't really go away, but at least they were muted enough for the angel to move forward with his mission. Aziraphale dug his heals into the mud--fueling his resolve with more tenacity and dedication than before.

That didn't last.

He'd spent two strenuous days in contemplation--riding the high of hopeful possibilities. But when he still came up dry as Death Valley in the fresh idea department, Aziraphale reluctantly defaulted to a few previously applied observation methods. He was tired. He knew his approach lacked the zeal it should have. Was it pathetic that he settled for a handful of sneaky peeks from afar, random internet searches, and a couple rapid dashes out of sight before a lowly demon could notice his presence? It certainly felt pathetic. He didn't feel like James Bond. He felt like a failed warrior angel who'd traded his flaming sword for 30 pieces of silver and was just waiting for the Roman soldiers to close in. 

By their mutual well-deserved day off the following Saturday, Aziraphale had learned…

Nothing.

Nada.

Utter Bullocks.

Well, perhaps not UTTER, utter Bullocks.

Aziraphale started tracking the demon's use of contacts and sunglasses. Anthony wore brown contacts most days, but often sported a pair of dark, three-sided designer shades by the end of the night. Sometimes he dawned them earlier if he was nursing a longer 4- or 5-day assignment.

While the angel had seen Anthony wear both simultaneously on several occasions, he assumed that, at least some of the time, the demon was trading them out. The sunglass lenses were too darkly tinted to know for sure. But given Anthony’s severe territorial behavior regarding the glasses when they were in place toward the end of those late shifts, it was a very real and active plausibility. But even if Aziraphale discovered that his theory was accurate, he hadn't yet figured out how this information could serve him.

Thank God he wasn’t reporting to Heaven, so he was at least spared that humiliation.

For now.

The weekend was a long wait of anxiety-provoked “what ifs” which Aziraphale nullified with couple La Juanita burritos and an extra dish of crème brulée from Table 32 because gosh darn it he deserved it!

The angel thought a lot. He thought of reaching out to heaven again. He thought of skimming through his books or taking the bus to Des Moines to sift through their Library selection for any invaluable scraps it could offer. But either of those options fizzled to ash when he considered the physical and emotional energy it would require--neither of which he possessed any sort of surplus to spare at the moment.

Monday rounded the bend as it always does and Aziraphale sucked in his stomach to squish into the elevator alongside the influx of sunken-eyed employees grumbling their grievances because 2 days off was never enough.

Reaching for the unit doors, Aziraphale was confused to find them already unlocked. He zeroed in on the unoccupied water station at the end of the row.

“Anthony must have gotten an early start," Aziraphale mumbled worriedly to himself.

A quick rifle through the order sheets uncovered 5132’s order had been removed.

At least he knew where he was heading. Aziraphale forwent his typical morning cup of coffee, grabbed the stack of completed treatment flowsheets that had to be delivered to ICU anyway and made his way to the stairwell.

The dialysis machine was next to the nursing station, tucked away just to the side of the printer.

He handed the stack to the ICU nurse charting at the 2nd computer, inquiring if she had seen Anthony. The nurse shook her head, too engrossed in the details of the progress note she was writing to give a verbal response.

Not wishing to disturb her further, Aziraphale kindly nodded his appreciation and walked back to the dialysis machine. The machine was at a crossroad of two halls and the angel scanned them both. He placed a hand on top of the machine, thoughtfully.

How odd.

Minutes passed.

Where could he have gone?

 In all the time Anthony had worked there, Aziraphale had never once seen him eat breakfast. Aziraphale trailed his view down one hall and then the other then back to the machines abandoned suspiciously in the hall.

Something wasn't right.

The angel's eyes blew wide as he circled himself--body twisting in an effort to pinpoint the slightest movement in any nearby rooms. Panic was rising in his chest, calling him to action.

Had he lost him?

Every protective instinct was screaming that the demon had purposely given him the slip and something terrible was about to go down.

The tap of his wingtips on the tile floor quickened to a frantic pursuit of checking rooms and chasing shadows.

He had to find Anthony

Aziraphale's worried jog accelerated to full sprint darting in and out of rooms--locked or otherwise, he didn't care. The countdown may be ticking.

Nonononono!!

There were too many turns, too many places to hide!

Suddenly, Aziraphale's fog of panic was pinged with an idea so insanely reckless, he wasn't sure if it had come from his own creative intellect, or a ranting delusion brought on by fear and sheer exhaustion. He didn't know if it would work or if it was possible to do in the first place. He didn't even possess the forethought to consider what could happen if he tried. 

But nervous impatience and crushing dread were beating on his door like the Big Bad Wolf, and it seemed the best, if not the ONLY option at the time.

The angel closed his eyes, pale lashes fluttering in concentration. Aziraphale allowed the most delicate warm stream of inner light to trickle through an invisible crack in its glass container and reach outside his body to detect any residual irregularities he could in the atmosphere.

Violet…violet…no--

--red…..red…

His lids squeezed tighter still, shaping the energy into a flat, spanning wave and releasing it in pulses like radar.

red...red...red....

Aziraphale held his position, aiming his light's trajectory to the left...the right...extending further...

Nothing

He shuffled down the hall, trying to feel his way.

Nothing.

Maybe this wasn't--WAIT!

Aziraphale padded carefully down one of the lesser used side halls heading toward the service elevator.

There!

He could feel it!

At least, he thought he could feel it?

A buzz? Or a crackle--like the tactile crunch of cellophane.

It guided him through the corridor--tickling his senses momentarily before its transient nature wafted out of reach again.

It wasn’t as if he had ever practiced this before and Aziraphale sincerely hoped it was a wayward demon he was tracking and not the lose wire on a Dinamap or of the like.

Too many sounds and electrical signals flashed through the angel's senses--clouding the signal and causing it to flick and spark and fail.

Just before the signal died completely, it drew him toward an empty, overflow section of the unit. The rooms were only dimly illuminated by the centralized, humming, fluorescent hall lights.

The angel tentatively dipped his nose over the first room threshold-letting his vision adjust to the low light. After 12 seconds or so, Aziraphale could confirm the room to be demon free.

He checked the next room... and the next... and the next... and the next... and the next...

He didn't hear anything.

He didn't feel anything.

There was no one.

No patients... no staff--

Aziraphale froze just outside the 7th room as an awful realization wrapped around his throat like a hangman's noose. He'd been so focused on "Rescue"...he hadn't even considered..."Ambush".

That is...until now.

Aziraphale held his breath and approached last room of the corridor. Unlike the others, it was pitch black.

Carefully, quietly, he eased into the space, shuffling his feet one painstakingly deliberate step at a time and lungs still locked in full arrest. Pupils dilated and shapes took form like manifesting visions. A bed...a dresser...a charting station...

Nothing.

His entire body slumped 3 inches. Aziraphale inspected his surroundings once more before leaving the room behind. The angel gazed apprehensively down the hallway from which he came and sighed. He was not entirely sure if what he was feeling was relief or disappointment.

It had to be the signal that led him there, right?

More frustrated than anything, Aziraphale set off back toward the main hall.

He truly thought he had tapped into something amazing. It was gut-wrenching to be sure. And if a person HAD been in danger--Ooof!! That would have been Awful!

And Aziraphale honestly believed his breakfast of eggs benedict would've made an encore appearance if it had all gone pear-shaped, but STILL...if it had WORKED?

That would have been INCREADABLE!

Aziraphale sighed weakly and frowned. His sweat slick palms were wrought with frustration, and he balled them into fists before shoving them into the pockets of his trousers.

But he must have been mistaken.

There was no sign of Anthony. Perhaps he had--

A set of powerful hands snatched the angel from around the corner. Aziraphale did not have time to react before his body is swung to the side and the ridge of his back slams into the wall of a dark, vacant room. Although his skull didn’t crack against the drywall, a beat passes before the stun clears and he's staring into a pair of menacing brown eyes.

“WHY ARE YOU FOLLOWING ME?!”

Aziraphale couldn’t reply immediately, locked in the mesmerizing strength of Anthony’s stare. He could almost make out the slitted pupils spearing vertically from the convincing spherical center.

“I-I just, I wasn’t--"

“DON’T LIE TO ME!” He growled, teeth bared and threatening.

[URL=https://imgbox.com/WjEYLXGp][IMG]https://thumbs2.imgbox.com/5c/75/WjEYLXGp_t.jpg[/IMG][/URL]

A restless opalized blue glow clawed under the surface and Aziraphale held it back with tight fists, no telling what would happen if it surged forward unchecked.

The demon’s chin dips out of his eye line and the angel almost gasped out loud when the pointed edge of a nose brushes slow and languid up his throat--tracing the line of Aziraphale's thrumming pulse. The move is careful and controlled and quite comparable to a predator appreciating the taste of his next meal before it strikes. The sweat glistening just under the curve of his jaw cools to a shiver when Anthony breaths him in--long and full and savoring.

Another low, animalistic rumble vibrated against him, wringing Azi’s insides like a cold wet towel ready to snap.

“You’re up to something, Azi, I can smell it...”

“It’s probably your breath.” The angel snapped back without thinking, meeting Anthony’s venom with fearless intensity. "Perhaps I could off you a travel swee-"

“You think I don't KNOW?!" Anthony snarled, massively insulted the soft, uptight bastard seemingly at his mercy was choosing to waste his fucking time rather than provide any answers. "You've been hiding around corners, digging up my work history, and poking that upturned nose of yours in every damn area I’m working like your fucking Nancy Drew!”

Anthony was VERY close. So very close now. The angel could feel the heat of hell fire churning like magma through the demon’s blood. He could almost hear the sizzle of the demon’s grip singe the fibers of shirt and the faint fumes of sulfur stung his nose. 

But, Lord save him, Aziraphale couldn't bloody stop himself...

“Perhaps I’m simply drawn to your splendidly kind personality--”

That lit a fire under his ass for whatever reason and Aziraphale earned another forceful shove that knocked the very air from his lungs.

“You’ve been stalking me for WEEKS and I want to know WHY!”

Aziraphale coughed and sputtered gulps of oxygen back into his chest cavity.

Shit! Shit!

Everything was spiraling into disarray. Was this not precisely the situation Aziraphale was trying to avoid?!

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Aziraphale scowled back, brows pulled strong and determined over blue-gray eyes ready to storm like thunder clouds.

Anthony was studying his face, sneering and nodding as though he already knew the answer.

The angel swallowed tightly, hoping to Christ he didn’t.

His coworker advanced, grinding the angel’s spine into the pill-textured wall coating. The demon flashed a smile that was not friendly under any interpretation.

“Tell me, Azi...are you familiar with the saying ‘You shouldn’t play with fire if you don’t want to get burned?’” he whispered, his lips practically dragging over his skin to track the plump, round design of the angel’s now very red cherub cheek.

Aziraphale’s hand had relocated to his chest, where he began prying at the slender hands wound tight in his scrub top and gauging how much strength he could apply without giving himself away. He really didn’t want to break any phalanges if he could avoid it. That would be a difficult development to explain away.

“I know that if you’re an asshole,” Aziraphale grunted, damp fingers slipping on the fists that held him “everyone already knows you’re full of shit!”

Brown eyes darkened to mirrored disks of obsidian, reflecting trace shards of ambient hall light. He chuckled with an unsettling blend of amusement and defiance, as if the demon were begging Aziraphale to fuck around and find out. The faint musky scent of sweat and bay rum spice, effervesce from drops of moisture beading on the redhead's neck while his breath puffed hot on the angel's skin…in his ear...over his parted, panting lips. 

Anthony loomed into a space they already shared, encompassing the angel's presence in his shadow...

... just as Aziraphale finagled the demon's pinky from his shirt and wrapped a set of angelically powerfully thick digits around it...

"Excuse me gentleman?"

The random voice broke through the silence and the celestial beings could have jumped free of their bodies had their skins been any thinner.

“I hate to break up an intimate moment, but is everything alright?”

Anthony, unaware they were being watched and not yet ready to release his captive, turned to glare at the source of the interruption. Aziraphale, fingers still flexing around his coworker's pinky, followed a moment later.

“You two need a room?” Maggie, an ICU nurse coyly inquired- wagging an accusingly suggestive finger between the two of them.

The anxious CNA and tech from radiology (Aziraphale assumed from their red scrubs), that flanked Maggie, appeared torn between the impulse to call security and the desire to see how things played out.

Only Maggie wore an easy smile of calm, scandalous impropriety as if it were a diamond necklace.

Anthony turned back to the angel to fully appreciate how the situation may appear.

The full length of the demons toned, slender body was pressed hard and solid against Aziraphale's curves-- clamping him in place like hot iron against a wall partially hidden in shadow. Their hips were slotted off alignment and Anthony’s left upper leg was thoroughly slithered into the narrow space between Aziraphale’s thighs. Impassioned hands twisted in fabric, shirts migrating upward during the struggle. By the way the demon was flushing from his neck to the exposed V-shaped area of his chest, he was entirely oblivious that he'd lifted his coworker clear from the floor with only his toes scraping at the ground. Their mouths hung lose and deprived, high-energy breaths invading the other’s open lips, nostrils flared, panting from the heat, and each chest heaving against the other, still trapped in a storm of adrenaline.

Anthony wasn't frowning, yet he wasn't smiling either. But if looks could slay, Aziraphale would be a dead angel dangling.

“I don’t know what you think you’re looking for, Azi.” He snarled, low and gravelly so the others couldn't eavesdrop. “But you need to BACK OFF!”

With one last fiery, forceful shove, Anthony released Azi’s jacket and paced angrily out of the room and down the hall toward his machines. He didn’t have to second guess if Azi would be chasing him this time.

The highly invested group of onlookers turned their attention to the disheveled blond still standing stiff against the wall, blushing with unfiltered embarrassment and wiping his mouth with the back of a hand because he could still taste Anthony's breath on his lips.

Aziraphale made quick work of combing out his tousled white-blond curls and adjusted himself in every way after the manhandling that ruffled his feathers just as extensively as his scrubs.

Once again, he was in the center ring spotlight of the newest hospital scandal that was sure to be filtering its way through the gossip highway by this afternoon.

“My apologies. Not to worry--everything's fine.” Aziraphale insisted, glancing toward the hall then back to the group who were drawing their own conclusions with smirks and whispers of immense entertainment.

“Tickety boo--” He forced a grin of reassuring positivity, “Just a friendly disagreement is all.”

Aziraphale skittered out of the room as quickly as he was capable under the circumstances.  He didn't bother heading to the dialysis unit or even stopping to clock out. In fact, his feet didn't stop until he'd climbed the stairs to his very own apartment and had the front door latched securely behind him. Aziraphale let himself tumble into the armchair at his desk and groaned with all the energy he had left in hopes that would help in some way.

It didn't.

 He didn't know why he thought it would.  

The angel crossed his arms over the desk and rested his head against them. He wished he slept. Maybe he could dream away the debilitating, devastating, soul crushing failure that had been his all too familiar companion for so long.

Aziraphale's investigative cover had been demolished and irrefutably unsalvageable.

The angel sighed weakly, but the sound broke into a mess of moist gasps and shaky whines. He didn't fight it. Aziraphale let himself breath and sniff and tremble and whimper softly into an arm that was now turning warm and wet under his face.

What in Heaven's name was he supposed to do now?

Chapter Text

Aziraphale called into work the next 2 days. It was the first time his higher duty ever conflicted with his earthly one and the culpability stung his chest like a swarm of disgruntled hornets.

Anthony was excessively defensive and seething with anger after their unpleasant altercation. Aziraphale felt it would be best to make his presence scarce and allow the dust to settle. The demon needed time to cool off. Perhaps they both did.

Only heaven knew if it would make a difference, but, at the very least, it shouldn’t make things worse. Right?

The angel had never required a cover story for missing work before, and he had a terrible time forming one. Of course, he wouldn't want to distress his coworkers by implying they'd been exposed to a contagion, but he also preferred to discourage any follow-up enquiries. It was quite the conundrum and Aziraphale spent half of the first night strategically shuffling through his options.

"Bacterial enteritis secondary to food poisoning with projectile emesis and spontaneous anal leakage," Aziraphale reported the morning of his return. Given Jim’s stunned silence and visible recoil to the diagnosis, he'd chosen wisely.

The reactions of Aziraphale's other coworkers were much what he’d expected. Ribs could have fractured under Anathema’s enthusiastically crushing hug. Newt held the angel's coffee cup hostage- insisting it was NOT a good idea to add caffeine to his system so soon.

Then there was Anthony.

The dust of their altercation had settled all right but left a grody residue of unease in the shared atmosphere. It lodged itself in Aziraphale’s pores like bacon grease--thick and suffocating and impossible to wash clean.

The demon had probably guessed that Azi’s absence had something in part to do with their heated spat, so it was understandable that Anthony would be wary upon his return. The longing, questioning looks buried in dark brown eyes were a thing of the past because Anthony was now ignoring him completely. Suppose it was for the best. And it was a guilty sort of relief for Aziraphale to not have to worry about tailoring his excuses to mislead demonic suspicions.

It was another long day, but at least it was uneventful as far as stresses went. Newt and Anathema had been sent home at 9 so they could still be functional for the morning shift, and now, at nearly 1 am, it would soon be their turn.

At 1:08, Aziraphale was nodding good day to Gary from overnight security and departing the hospital through the main entrance. It was early October, and they were well into the change of seasons, but the first freeze had slithered in earlier than usual. It breezed over the angel’s cheeks, caressing them in a rush of winter chill as he navigated the parking lot. Aziraphale grumbled miserably about the unwelcome cold front and bundled the flaps of his jacket a little tighter before heading down the hill toward Pierce Street.

The downtown neighborhood surrounding Mercy hospital was uninhabited by night clubs, bars or other afterhours entertainment and Aziraphale preferred it that way. He could always depend on his late-night treks through the network of desolate avenues and unfrequented boulevards would be a peaceful one.

The journey home wasn't long, and Azi delightfully filled the time by musing over the stack of unread novels and fresh cup of hot tea awaiting his arrival.

But not tonight.

Tonight, several weeks of memories invaded his consciousness and kept any hint of pleasantries at bay as efficiently as if held at gunpoint.

When he came up on 5th Street, the angel checked both ways and jogged across. He made a right turn and continued in the direction of the coffee shop.

Aziraphale tried to steer his mind toward the soothing scent of Earl Gray and the newest Rose Brik. But the angel's mind apparently did not give a shit what he wanted and succumbed to a fresh barrage of bitterly intrusive thoughts he’d never asked for in the first place.

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

Aziraphale completed the audits sooner than expected and took the initiative in closing the unit. After the wands and clamps had been disinfected and hydrameter sanitized, Aziraphale grabbed a final chloramine check. He locked the water room, safely disposed of the bins of bleach water, and turned off the RO feed to the unused machines. It felt good to busy himself with duties that weren't limited to a pen, paper or keyboard. Aziraphale washed his hands and changed out of his scrubs. When the angel exited the breakroom, Anthony was monitoring the final heating cycle and typing in details of the latest treatment.

Aziraphale hesitated. The demon hadn't spoken a word to him all day and he didn't know if it would be dangerously unwise to break the pattern.

But the angel decided to chance it anyway and coughed roughly to clear his throat. His coworker didn't respond.

"Goodnight?"

“Nng.” Anthony grunted, without the common courtesy of lifting his eyes from the computer screen.

Aziraphale waited for something more to happen--something to be said or asked or screamed or thrown. Nothing did. The angel might as well have been invisible for all the difference it made...so he left.

It was all very odd and benign and unexpectantly anticlimactic.

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

Another gust of wind evaded the collar of the angel’s jacket, and he shivered.

Aziraphale took a left on Jackson Street and plodded across the empty intersection.

The reality of how deep he'd dug his own hole was burrowing through the angel's heart like a screw--cracking and splitting as it twisted. And now that Anthony was avoiding him like the plague, the angel’s mission was deader than a failed magician’s disappearing dove.

Helplessness nagged at the angel's heartstrings, and he cast his view upward. The night sky was alive with an array of shining stars sprinkling a velvet backdrop. They were beautiful, of course, but there was something mocking about the way they twinkled down at him--unnecessarily joyous and satirical like sparrows that sang at a funeral.

The angel carefully transected another empty intersection.

Aziraphale had wanted to feel bold and adventurous and taste that sweet, fiery forbidden flavor of being a part of something more. He wanted to believe in the possibility that he too could glitter amongst a sea of stars.

His feet turned heavy as if they were dragging anchors through a bed of muck and silt. The compulsion to rest his weary frame for respite was a welcome one because Aziraphale didn’t have the energy to argue.

A sense of restless longing stung behind the angel's breast. It was raw and caustic and tormenting, and it drew his focus back toward the heavens.

Was She watching him? Was this a part of Her plan? Had all his efforts been destined to end in failure?

As much as Aziraphale wanted to ask, he was afraid.

Afraid She would not answer him.

Or worse, afraid She would.

But losing himself in the stars had him rushing back to that fate-altering night. When Aziraphale first learned of Alpha Centauri, of grand sparkling nebulas, and an endless list of heaven’s mesmerizing and fantastical creations. The night Aziraphale couldn’t peel his attention away from Anthony’s face while he described them in exquisite detail. The pure elation that radiated off the demon was almost tangible and lit up his face in waves of excited wonder and reverent adoration. Azi had never witnessed passion like that before and he’d be hard pressed to say he hadn’t been enchanted by it.

But in some, far away, secret corner of the angel's soul, he wished that night had not happened.

He wished he’d never peaked behind the curtain.

If he hadn't uncovered Anthony as a demon, the responsibility to thwart him would have never been his to bear.

“Ignorance is bliss” as the human’s say, but it was the first time Aziraphale could adequately embrace its meaning.

Besides, for all the angel knew, The Ineffable Plan intended events on this matter to unfold without his interference.

Aziraphale squirmed in his coat uncomfortably.

Blasphemous to contemplate such things and he should be ashamed.

He was a Principality, former Gardian of the Eastern Gate and for all his flaws, it was not in his nature to sit back and let the safety of humanity be someone else’s problem.

But the angel's pep-talk on job duty and resilience was depressingly short-lived.

Well…

Tomorrow, it would be.

Aziraphale was at the end of the rope with nowhere left to turn but back to heaven and place the demon’s fate into more capable hands than his own.

He'd admit his mistake, effectively confirming his incompetence to his superiors. Aziraphale winced and an aching pressure pounded in his temples. He could already see the smugness dripping off Gabriel’s “I told you so” smirk when Aziraphale reluctantly agree that he was not suited for this roll. It sickened him.

Suppose he’d be reassigned. They may even summon him to heaven for a less demanding assignment-one he’d be incapable of screwing up.

Slowly the full picture of what was about to happen seeped into frame like pooling oil into concrete.

He’d miss Newt and Anathema. The threat of breakthrough emotions bit and prickled behind Aziraphale’s eyes as they took on a glassy sheen. Even Jim’s injudicious but good-hearted ways had grown on him. Aziraphale blinked into the water droplets currently budding at his lashes, and they trickled free.

Tear spilling was just one of the more unfavorable side effects of occupying a physical body--boarding on mutinous in the angel's opinion. Aziraphale only allowed himself to cry because he'd once read it was healthier to liberate strong feelings rather than resist.

And sometimes, it felt good.

Still, Aziraphale thought to himself, wiping at the salty, wet streaks with his palm, he shouldn’t let himself get so attached.

Nothing lasts forever.

Suddenly, the environment exploded when Aziraphale found himself engulfed in a halo of blinding white light. Disorientated, the angel’s attention ricocheted from the sky to the sidewalk to the road in search of the source.

A blaring horn rattled against his ribcage again and again and it channeled the angel's focus like a funnel to a set of twin lights approaching from his right. Aziraphale froze with panic--unable to decipher what it was or what was happening.

The scene flowed in slow motion. High beams reflected wide, terrified eyes and bounced off reading spectacles dangling from a delicate chain around Aziraphale's neck. 2500 pounds of steel and fiberglass barreled down on the paralyzed angel with the indiscriminate force of a runaway train. The shrill squeal of desperate, slamming breaks were useless on the frost covered blacktop. It approached like wild thunder, shaking the ground and drowning out all remaining senses.

He couldn’t see. He couldn’t scream.

The angel exhaled and a single breathy thought spilled out without consideration.

“Oh… Fuck.”

Just as the vehicle was on him, a second flash split the light!

The angel's body lurched as though it were turned inside out and sucked backwards through the eye of a needle.

Aziraphale saw nothing else. The screech of spinning tires echoed painfully inside his skull. An angry horn still carried on but was steadily fading into the distance. The solid ground had vanished from under his feet.

It was dark. Cold.

The angel's lids slowly opened--pale lashes fluttering weakly. His head hurt and it felt like his pupils were drifting 6 different directions at once. It required prodigious effort on the part of the angel to convince his eyes to realign themselves and cooperate with each other.

Aziraphale was on his back, facing the sky again. His chest was tight, no, something was squeezing him. He blinked, everything was on a half spin and off kilter to where it should have been. Neurons in his head were spitting and sputtering to make sense of what had happened when Aziraphale caught sight of a shimmery silver mist suspended in the air above him. 

It was more of an after image really-- similar to the way movement triggers the peripheral but vanishes before the head can turn to see it properly. But even in his disorientated state, the dissipating magical remnants of a cast miracle were unmistakable.

Once the angel scavenged enough brain function to confirm he had, indeed, not discorporated, Aziraphale addressed the pressure on his chest. It was an arm. Covered in a sleeve of black attached to a gasping form lying on the sidewalk alongside him. Stray wisps of vibrant, fired auburn had tugged loose from the half bun and were now sticking to his brow in frazzled, messy strings. He was panting and furious and (if Aziraphale didn’t know better)…frighted.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” Anthony bellowed angrily.

The angel tried to move but discovered his body was effectively adhered to the other by a circle of taught, sinewy arms around his trunk.

Under normal circumstances, Aziraphale would ferociously voice his objection to being snuggly wrapped and ribboned in the embrace of an hereditary enemy. But, as it happened, the angel temporarily lacked any ability to construct a coherent thought--let alone a valid protest.

Aziraphale felt a shift in the horizon as Anthony hauled his coworker into a sitting position.

“Has wearing your organs on the inside lost its thrill?! Or you just never heard of a FUCKINING CROSSWALK?!”

Aziraphale’s mouth hung lax and open and he stared at the demon out of sheer astonishment.

“Y-You saved my...” Aziraphale was working to catch his breath as well, heart pounding with adrenaline. He could still hear the defining effects of the car horn ringing in his ears. "You saved me." he corrected, eyes widening in contrast to the shrinking sensation dominating the environment.

“Yeah, well...” Anthony shrugged looking in the direction the car had fled the scene. “Complete accident. Didn’t know it was you or I wouldn’t have bothered.”

Anthony casually slid his arms away from the angel’s body and shifted his seat a few scootches distance from Aziraphale’s side.

By now, Aziraphale's corporation had taken to auto pilot and was falling to the mercy of his overfiring sympathetic nervous system. Panting breaths morphed to feathery whimpers.

“Just promise me you won’t go making a habit of this...”

Anthony's jacket was a fair bit thinner than Aziraphale's. The demon brought his knees to the narrow breath of his chest and folded his long arms around them to secure their placement. Probably to conserve heat the angel imagined.

“Can't run around rescuing you all the time whenever you do something stupid.”

The angel couldn’t slow his breathing, he was blowing off C02 at an alarming rate and his lips and fingers began to tingle. Colored dots sparkled in his vision. His heart raced-- panic washing over his senses. The world was going fuzzy and Aziraphale dropped his head into his hands that were now cold and clammy. Blunt fingernails squeezed like nails into his scalp.

“Hey, Azi, ya okay?”

 The demon sounded worried. But, again, Aziraphale could be mistaken.

“I- I don't know w-why I…” The angel's voice was closing off in his throat. “I-I…c-can’t…”

He fluttered his fingers at his eyes which were starting to glaze over in tears. Too fast, the scenery, the lights, they were all spinning too fast, lights and colors fading to muddy gray.

Anthony was in front of him, strong hands heavy on his shoulders.

“Hold on, just breath. Slow it down.” With calm, steady breaths, he demonstrated.

“In through the nose...”

Aziraphale knew all this of course, but his brain was not cooperating with his corporeal form and it helped to hear the direction spoken out loud.

A set of warm fingers wove around his cuffed wrist like a vine, dislodging his nails from his scalp to relocate somewhere else. Somewhere lower.

“There's concrete under your right hand. You feel it?” Anthony's voice rumbled low and gentle, coaxing Aziraphale to follow his every direction.

Aziraphale concentrated-forcing his unwilling fingers to flex against the fridged, unyielding surface and he nodded.

“Touch it. Feel the scratch of it? The cold?”

Aziraphale nodded again.

The rotating carousel in his head tired to a crawl as his actions worked to stabilize his state of respiratory acidosis. Confusion dissolved like cotton candy on the tongue and rolling fixtures of scenery started to settle back into proper placement.

“Easy, even breaths in and out..”.

Streetlamps were upright again. The spinning slowed to a mildly nauseating studder.

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed deeply, grateful to find his center again. Grateful for other things he wasn’t ready to admit out loud.

“You alright now? Can u stand?”

Aziraphale focused on the man crouched before him. His sunglasses were in place. It was a miracle in itself they hadn't been knocked off by the impact. Or maybe they had, and the demon replaced them before Aziraphale could notice.

Anthony's face was close. So close and drastically different from the last time they’d faced each other down. Aziraphale could practically taste the same mix of salty, sweet sweat and sultry cedar-spice cologne radiating from the demon’s skin still damp from the rush of adrenaline. But the genuine tenderness edging Anthony's voice achieved a far more jarring whiplash than the vehicular near miss. Aziraphale gulped nervously and looked away.

“Yes, I think so.”

With a roll of the shoulders, the angel casually shrugged from the demon’s touch, maintaining some degree of casual decorum to counterbalance any perceived vulnerability he was displaying.

Slowly, cautiously he rolled to his hip.

Still woozy, Aziraphale maneuvered carefully to his knees and was able to raise one leg without issue, but the valiant attempt was cut short the moment his right leg bore full weight. A sharp, shooting pain pulsed through his thigh and Aziraphale gasped. Unprepared for the onslaught, his muscle quivered and seized, causing the leg to give out.

Instantly, Anthony’s arms were around him, sinching like a belt just under the swell of his belly. The angel instinctively stiffened out of some primal response to being captured.

Seems the car had managed to clip him after all.

Aziraphale dropped a hand to run his palm down the right lateral quadricep. It was relatively swollen and ached sharply at his touch. It wasn’t broken. Aziraphale was certain of that much. However, there was likely a sizable bruise blooming beneath the beige material that was now soiled and filthy from lying on the sidewalk. He brushed over the streaks of dirt and heaven knows what else. It was unclear if the stains could be removed to the angel's satisfaction, but that would have to wait until he reached the safety of his apartment.

He had other problems to deal with.

The demon was holding him strong and tight to his side. Visible, steamy clouds of warm, humid air skimmed the shell of the angel's ear with each breath before dissipating. Aziraphale struggled to control his own racing breaths while gradually shifting his weight and easing into the intermittent spikes of discomfort it triggered. It was a process he couldn't rush, even if he wanted to. And for all things Holy- he WANTED to! Anthony's attentive grip kept the angel suspended like a vice for several minutes until the pain was tolerable and his balance restored.

Once released, Aziraphale remained quiet and still with his eyes focused on the ground.

He should thank Anthony. That would be the polite thing to do. And Aziraphale wasn't the type of angel to withhold deserved appreciation out of petty arrogance and spite.

But the silent discord had been allowed to fester too long and neither of them dared to make a move to shatter it.

Aziraphale was locked in a perpetual loop of unease that grew more restless and illogical by the minute.

From behind black, reflective lenses, the angel could feel Anthony watching him, studying him, analyzing every microscopic abnormality that didn’t ring entirely human. Never had Aziraphale wanted to disappear so badly.

Good Lord--say SOMETHING!

“You need me to walk y--"

“No!” Aziraphale all but shrieked.

Anthony was just as taken aback as Aziraphale. His mouth formed a surprised “O” and dark, arching brows scrunched with a startled confusion.

Aziraphale gave himself a once over, hastily straightening his jacket and other clothing in a mess of unorganized tugs and palm slides.

“No.” he repeated firmly. The angel pointed his nose high as he could muster and nodded in gratitude.

“Thank you for your assistance.”

The angel rotated on his heal to continue home. But after only 2 paces, his foot landed wrong, setting off a cascade of misalignments and pain that had the angel stumbling.

And those damn arms were on him again like lightening to prevent his blushing cheeks from taking a celestial face-plant straight into the concrete.

“Gotcha!”

Aziraphale imagined a smug crooked grin was practically branded on Anthony's lips by this point.

Occult energy buzzed within the demon's appendages and the angel could pinpoint its movement through every insignificant layer. The swishing slide of polyester, the slight give of warm skin, the ridged tension of straining ligaments, and the rope-like stretch of sinuous muscle--all working in tandem to firmly pin Aziraphale to a set of lean, muscular pectorals and the planes of an absurdly flat abdominal wall. All because his own cooperation had forgotten it's primary function and it was getting REDICULOUS. 

Aziraphale growled with heated embarrassment and irritation.

A pointed chin rested on his shoulder, lightly digging into the soft sunken notch above his clavicle and something changed. Aziraphale could not identify specifically what. An image of butter melting over toast formed and the rich, golden liquid dripped and flowed-softening the pain and frustration that had been forming knots from his entrails. It was soothing... supportive... hugging. Aziraphale remembered faintly that he liked hugs. Big fan of hugs him--

Wait-what was he thinking?!

“I’m fine!” Aziraphale snapped, shaking away Anthony’s grip before his nerves disintegrated completely. Anthony withdrew his hands slower than seemed natural, and the angel put several feet of distance between them.

"I...." but Aziraphale, fumbling from the strange, unexplainable experience, lost sight of whatever he wanted to say and settled for, "I need to go."

But Anthony didn’t let him go-- at least not out of his sites. Aziraphale could sense him, hear the determined beat of his shoes on the concrete.

"Honestly, I'm alright!" Aziraphale called over his shoulder. “Hardly hurts any more…” Aziraphale was feeling more confident and by the time he reached the end of the block, the discomfort had almost disappeared completely.

But the demon must have been in possession of another motive, because he was undeterred in his pursuit.

“Can’t have you walking into traffic again! Who would pick up your shift?"

Although he didn't know what critical angle the demon was trying to exploit by following him, Aziraphale wasn't about to stop to find out. Darkened windows of long closed shops passed his peripheral in a blur.

“I do not require a chaperon!” The angel insisted.

"Not a chaperon, Azi- U need a babysitter!" Anthony called back. "Someone to remind you not to play chicken with a fuckin' HONDA!"

Aziraphale cut him a look that that would persuade any normal human to shut their flapping trap.

"I'll take my chances!"

But not the demon.

“Fine by me!" he replied, "But I'm still keeping the tactical advantage!"

"What does that mean?" Aziraphale searched the nooks and crannies between buildings incase an opening for escape presented itself.

"It means you can’t stalk me if I stay behind you.” A few rapid toe-taps informed Aziraphale his coworker was gaining on him, and he tensed.

“I think you need to get over yourself!” Chastising the demon into submission was a shot in the dark, but even Aziraphale knew it was unconvincing. “I wasn’t stalking you!”

“Of course you weren’t!" the demon chuckled, but he didn't sound amused. "You went digging into my personal file without consent, used it to perform an unnecessary and highly illegal background check, and for 3 weeks, you blew off your job duties to keep my ass under constant surveillance from a creep tested/perv approved distance! Forgive me-I'll get word to HR about the grave misunderstanding! Tell me again how that isn’t stalking?”

"Seems to me," Aziraphale growled “YOU’RE the one doing the stalking right now, Anthony!”

The winding, winter winds picked up, but the angel's tweed jacket had no more give to pull tighter. He glanced at his surroundings, trying to find a way to throw the demon off his tail.

“Oh, I'm not following you!” the demon remarked with a snide, deceitful grin that could swindle a snake-oil salesman of his wears.

“I’m going for a WALK. I take my cardiac health VERY seriously and there's nothing like a near death experience to get the blood pumping! Know what I mean?”

“I most certainly do not! And I’d feel a good deal safer if you let me be!”

Anthony threw his head back and laughed, this time it was infused with genuine humor.

“What?! Give up the sweet gig of being your unofficial guardian angel?”

Well, that set off Aziraphale like a stick of dynamite with half a fuse.

"I HIGHLY doubt, MY DEAR, that you have what it takes to hold the position! Frankly, I'd rather put my trust in Jack the Ripper!”

“Excellent endorsement to Wanna-Be serial killers everywhere!” Anthony laughed again. “At least I won't be first on the list of suspects if you happen to find a knife lodged in your spine!”

Anthony snickered through his teeth shaking his head at the stupidity of the tangent their bickering had taken.

But Azi didn’t laugh. In actuality, his head was still swiveling nervously every few steps--keeping a wary eye on his coworker. Anthony’s humor shriveled and died like an orchid in Death Valley and his shrewd, mischievous expression contorted to one of confused shock.

It only took a few wide-skipping steps to catch up to his coworker and the rhythmic slap of snake-skin boots on the pavement fell in line with Aziraphale’s gate.

The demon intrusively maneuvered his head into the angel’s view to better gauge Aziraphale’s expression.

“Really?” He frowned, posing his reaction as an observation rather than a question. “You believe that?”

Aziraphale stiffened, throwing a leery glance at his counterpart. Even with those ridiculous sunglasses, the demon looked…annoyed? Hurt? So blasted difficult to tell.

“I-…I don’t know what to think.”

“Don’t you think that if I wanted to off you, I would’a left you well enough alone in the street and let your own stupidity take you out?”

Aziraphale lowered his eyes to his own footsteps, choosing to ignore how much sense the demon was making.

Anthony scoffed, shaking his head, looking to the lamps and empty buildings while they walked as if they could tell him what the fuck was going on.

“Ya know--I don’t get you,” he ground out, tossing his hands to the air, probably out of frustration if the angel had to guess.

“The feeling is mutual.” Aziraphale responded firmly and his pace hastened. Perhaps he could outrun the conversation.

“Everything seemed fine. B’tween you and me I mean. Now?” The demon tilted his face to the nearest skyline, wanting to pluck out just the right words he needed from his vocabulary. “Ur bloody shady as hell! Lurking around corners and workin' your shift like Mark David Chapman!”

Aziraphale didn’t know who that was, so he didn't know if he should vain offence.

“Shit, Azi! You’re acting like I’ve betrayed you on some unforgivable level! Like I ran over your pet poodle, or we’re on the verge of nuclear war and I just sold the launch codes to a ring of Nazi spies!"

Aziraphale had stopped walking since Anthony seemed adamant about not leaving until he received whatever answers he was looking for.

Answers Aziraphale had NO intention of providing.

The angel fixed his eyes straight ahead. He wasn’t far from his apartment, so it was probably best to shake the demon off his back before then. The last thing he wanted was for Anthony to corner him in his own home.

“This about your book? Think I’m gonna scribble swear words in the margins like some rotten delinquent?!”

Anthony was being sarcastic of course. But that idea was sounding deliciously tempting as it rolled off his tongue. Azi had been acting weird as hell and Anthony's petty, antagonistic impulses would like nothing better right now than to piss him off!

But the demon threw back his head with a frustrated, guttural groan. “If you want it back, just say so--Not that damn hard! You don’t have to be all cryptic about it! I'll even have it dry cleaned, and gift wrapped!”

Aziraphale scoffed upper lip twisting in a tight, angry curl. Delicate laugh lines pinched as the angel's attitude shifted.

"I hardly think that would be necessary," he sneered.

"Neither is kicking your ass!" the demon snapped back "But it'd be my GOD DAMN pleasure if I weren't worried I'd get my size 12's stuck in that bountiful altruistic a--”

“It’s not about the book!” Aziraphale huffed before swallowing his words.

“So?” Anthony growled, frustration swelling like storming waves by the minute now that they were getting somewhere. Tossing his hands flippantly to his sides “This is about us?! Personal? This about our argument? You holding a grudge and fishing an apology, Azi--that it?! Is this some twisted territorial thing? Your way of showing me up?"

“You threw me against a wall, Anthony,” Aziraphale fired back--his own heated defense getting the better of him, taking the wheel of reason and steering it down the wrong way on a one-way street.

“Oh for FUCK SAKE!” he growled rolling his head in a circle on its pivot. "I didn’t even hurt you so you can sod off with the whole "Holier Than Thou" victim bullshit! You were WAY outta line, Azi and you know it!"

Aziraphale’s inner light was fuming, and for a split moment, he thought of resuming his retreat. But the theory of outrunning this demon had already proved useless.

“And don’t PRETEND you were scared.” He continued to rant “I can SENSE f-” but the sentence trailed off unfinished and Aziraphale’s ears strained to absorb whatever statement would follow.

“I KNOW you weren't scared!” He finished, as if that justified putting his hands on Aziraphale.

Aziraphale stopped dead in his tracks--latching onto Anthony’s face with an unblinking veracity that could level mountains and cause the Archangel Gabriel to take a step back.

“You don’t scare me...”

The challenging declaration required no more that the whisper that delivered it and for the first time, a sliver of ambivalence cracked through the demon's armor. 

Still, Aziraphale shouldn’t have said it

Lord help him, he shouldn’t be responding at all. Anything that escapes his lips will only throw fuel on this wildly inappropriate dumpster fire.

Anthony took position in front of the angel to block his path and the threat level churning in Aziraphale's chest rose two full notches.

“Then what the bloody hell is your problem?!” He snarled, looking as though he wanted to throw Aziraphale up against another wall.

Aziraphale's nerves were beginning to strain. The internal light crackled erratically in his veins- begging to push through and lash out. He could only pray Anthony couldn’t feel the raging battle inside, or worse, allow his own fire to strike first. It was a crisp, early Iowa Autumn morning and NOT the time or place to be triggering a celestial war.

The angel could feel the demon’s hot, balmy breath against his skin. In and out, narrowing the reach of empty space between them. Aziraphale locked his lids down, not wanting to give anything away. Desperate to maintain control.

They didn’t know how long the other could last and time would stand still until one of them caved.

“So this is how you want to leave it.” Anthony finally concluded, holding a note of finality.

Aziraphale allowed his vision to crack open, but his lips stayed sealed.

Anthony was fixed on his coworker, the edge of his mouth twitching downward. The temperature had dipped well below freezing, but that didn't prevent Aziraphale’s cheeks from burning under his companion’s intense, unwavering scrutiny. Though he couldn’t make out the demon’s eyes, he could sense their movement, the way they flickered over him, likely searching for any tell, any weakness he could exploit. Must be perplexing for a demon when intimidation failed.

Aziraphale's chaotic impulses were pulling him in 20 drastically different directions. He wanted to fight. He wanted to run. He wanted to tell Anthony he knew everything so he should kindly, passively leave the city limits before something terrible happened that they’d both regret.

But Aziraphale did none of those things.

The angel was keeping his secrets to himself and any attempt on Anthony’s part to persuade him otherwise, would prove fruitless.

Anthony’s nostrils flared and the demon balled up his fists and shoved them violently into the shallow pockets of his jeans--perhaps to thwart his own long list of potentially rash impulses. He exhaled heavily and turned to face the valley of near empty streets and speckle-lit buildings of downtown. Secure behind full-sided frames, Anthony gave nothing away to what he was thinking.

It felt like ages of nail grinding silence before the demon's lips pressed thin and his strong, angled chin dropped into a series of definitive nods.

“Right” Anthony sneered-- resolute that he had no more shits to give on the matter.

Aziraphale was still biting his lip-- a bead of blood leaked it’s bitter, iron flavor over his tongue, but he couldn’t allow himself to give in.

“I’ll drop the book off in your locker,” Anthony mumbled, pushing his glasses a little higher up the bridge of his nose. "Hope you choke on it.”

Anthony, slick as ever, side-stepped around the angel, hunched his shoulders and stormed off back in the direction of the hospital.

Aziraphale breathed in sharply, now aware he must have been holding it the entire time. He slid a finger over his injured lip, wiping away the blood and wincing from the sting as he did so.

Should he have said something? Did Anthony deserve a warning of what was about to come? Part of Aziraphale hoped their argument would drive the demon to cut ties and leave the city that night.

But it was too late now. Either the demon would be gone tomorrow without his sinister plans uncovered, or Gabriel would end him before he had the chance. It was over. There was nothing more.

…no more.

Aziraphale's damaged lip began to tremble, and the vibration migrated to his jaw and shoulders and down to his hands and numb fingertips.

The wind picked up, channelized through the streets by the tall sleeping buildings flanking their edges. It ruffled the angel's pale curls and nipped the tip of his up-turned nose. As much as Aziraphale despised the lower temperatures, it was refreshing in a way, like a cold shower after a sweaty day in isolation.

But just then Aziraphale noticed a faint taste tainting the air. He sniffed again and caught a scent that was pungent and stinging and unpleasantly sweet. With every breath he took, it concentrated.

The sound of retreating steps behind had stopped.

“Do you smell something?” He heard Anthony call out.

Aziraphale whipped around to see the red-haired demon at the end of the block, brows raised to his hairline and sharp-edged nose pointed high--sniffing the thick, familiar odor drifting in like a dense fog and overpowering their senses.  

Recognition struck with the force of an avalanche and the two locked sights in terror.

Smoke.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale hardly logged the sound of shoes franticly slapping against the pavement as the two ran top speed towards a black cloud now visibly billowing above the nearby rooftops. A sick sense of dread was telling the angel he already knew the smoke’s origin, but didn’t want to believe it.

With Anthony on his heels, they rounded the corner to see the coffee shop, Nina’s coffee shop, engulfed in flames. Aziraphale's palm flew to his mouth in horror. Anthony immediately pulled the phone from his pocket to dial 911.

Aziraphale couldn’t tear himself from the devastating destruction playing out before him! The Bible's description of Hell as an "unquenchable fire" was justified. Even for angels, fire was a formidable opponent due to its indiscriminate nature, and ability to burn for as long as there was fuel. And a city block was a LOT of fuel!

Wait! His Apartment!!

An ominous red glow radiated through the second story windows of his apartment. The angel clapped a desperate hand to his sternum and scrunched a fistful of fabric and buttons.

“Oh Lord! My books!” Aziraphale cried out.

On impulse, he moved toward the wreckage, but a burst of superheated air overwhelmed him and kept the angel at bay.

Aziraphale shook his head in disbelief. This was a dream-a nightmare! It HAD to be!

But denial could not fool a truth his heart already knew. Aziraphale's eyes turned wet and glassy beyond his control.

It was too late.

The loss of the angel's most precious possessions felt as though a hook were shoved down his throat to snare his soul and viciously rip it from his body. Miscellaneous sounds of wind and crackling flames blended as white noise in Aziraphale's ears, and he barely registered the pleading, insistent voice rising above the mist of chaos.

“Yes!” Anthony yelled into the speaker. “Give me Coffee or Give me Death, whole thing’s gone up- HURRY!.. “

 (silence)

“I-I can’t quite...”

(silence)

 “…Is anyone still…what?”

It was then the angel felt it. A faint buzz of urgency like a beacon crying out amongst the stormy sea. She was there. Trapped and frightened.

“Nina!!” Aziraphale screamed, stepping toward the building instinctively.

“Azi! No-Wait!” Anthony made a frantic grab for his wrist and held tight. “You can’t go in there! You’ll be KILLED!”

“It’s Nina!” He cried “She’s still in there!”

A piercing squeal resonated through the air, immediately followed by the flittering sound of cracking glass. Their attention was drawn back to the coffee shop where spindly cracks were spreading over the storefront window like webbing. The panel creaked and bowed--building to a tooth-fracturing screech when- POW--it exploded out toward them.

The shockwave blew the duo off their feet and sent them tumbling over the concrete. Without Anthony to stop him, Azi jumped into action and ran toward the coffee shop.

“She needs help!”

Aziraphale could hear Anthony cursing and screaming for him to stop. But the angel, coasting on adrenaline and reckless altruism, leapt through the remnants of shattered glass and window frame before the demon's voice was drowned out completely.

Once inside, he could hardly see a thing through the pungent, black cloud. The angel crouched down below the smoke, peppering small miracles to tip accumulating debris from his path as he followed the fading beacon that called to him for help. Navigating blind was grimly disorienting. He couldn't tell which direction he was heading or if his feet were moving in circles. Aziraphale didn’t know how long had passed, but it felt like hours until he found himself in a cramped office suite situated just beyond the main counter. She was close. Short blasts of wind from his fingers shifted the airborne soot and smoke as he searched. The angel felt her body before he saw her. Nina was lying on the ground behind a desk, motionless.

Aziraphale dropped to his knees and pressed an ear against Nina's chest. Wheezy breaths caused his head to rise and fall and Aziraphale nearly sobbed with joy when he heard the strong lub-dub of a heartbeat. He couldn’t miracle oxygen. Not here. The air had already been starved of it for too long, and a sudden oxygen influx could set off a colossal explosion. The building would be leveled, and they would be annihilated in the process. Aziraphale reluctantly settled on conjuring a damp, cotton cloth and placed it loosely over Nina's nose and mouth.

“AZI!! He heard Anthony calling out, “WHERE ARE YOU--YOU IDIOT?!!”

“I’m HERE!! We’re BACK HERE!!”

Anthony was at his side within moments, coughing through the shirt he'd pulled over the lower half of his face. The smoke cloud was so thick by now that it burned at their eyes causing them to water and blur their vision.

“Of all the fool-hardy, STUPID-" Anthony screamed "Didn't I JUST TELL YOU not to make a habit of this shit?!!"

Heat was rising like a furnace and the ceiling and walls feebly cracked and popped their displeasure. The environment's fragility was reaching dangerous levels-a fact that didn't go unnoticed. Anthony and Azi shared a look of mounting apprehension.

“WE NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE!! NOW! THE BUILDING’S GONNA COME DOWN!” Anthony hollered to his coworker. Although a good portion of the message was lost to the thundering roar of burning rage surrounding them, Aziraphale didn’t have to hear Anthony to understand his intention. Without delay, the angel gathered Nina into his arms. Once he had her cradled securely, he pushed up from the ground.

“You have her, then?!” Anthony yelled out, still trying to be heard over the crashing and crackling around them. Aziraphale nodded and Anthony led the way. They were able to escape the office quick enough, but beyond the door, it appeared their luck had run out. Anthony looked about the main room, squinting through the smoke. Already it looked so different. Openings that were there a minute ago, no longer were. Toppled chairs and fallen heaps of combusting refuse sealed off their options. Illuminated bits of napkin bobbed and swirled in the air above them like floating lanterns--anxious to light up their clothing with an igniting kiss. Anthony hooked his arm firmly around Azi’s elbow and tugged him forward.

“This way!!”

High pitch whistles and creeks sounded as residual moisture within the decorative wooden beams vaporized. Walls were being devoured in great sheets of fire. Licking orange flames greedily fed on the inherit stability of posts and columns. The planks under their feet sagged with every step and steal building supports moaned in pain as their functional capacity dwindled.

Anthony jumped when a large picture frame crashed to the ground and sent pointed shards skittering across the floor behind them. But Aziraphale squeezed the crook of his elbow around Anthony’s, and they kept moving.

It was far slower work to get out than it was to get in. The fire was everywhere. Aziraphale flicked his hand, trying to discreetly move fallen ceiling tiles and furniture that blocked the way.

If the demon noticed, he made no indication of it.

Walls buckled and cracked, and pressure in the air built to crushing levels. Bits of polluting ash and sediment clogged their airways, and noxious smoke mauled the moist linings of their eyes and nasal passages. The angel's core temperature was skyrocketing, overpowering his senses and draining his strength. But Aziraphale wouldn't give up. He couldn't give up. Surely the exit wasn't far.

A new sound broke through the rapture, and they turned their eyes upward.

 An old decorative timber creaked 15 feet above them. Flames teased it's hold--plucking at its grasp one nail at a time.  Braces to either side were crumbling--snapping and popping while they struggled to maintain the load.  Aziraphale looked at Anthony and even through the shades and smoke--there was a mutual acknowledgment of what was about to happen. 

With a final snap, the timber lost its grip.

Eight hundred pounds were plunging toward them in a fiery free-fall and there wasn’t time for Aziraphale to weigh his options. Anthony dove backward out of harm's way, but Aziraphale pulled from the demon's hold. The angel threw himself to his knees on the ash covered floor and tore the jacket from his shoulders. With a clap of his hands, a flash of divine light erupted and blinding white wings spread full and high into the air.

The angel arched his back and stretched the glorious wingspan forward as far as he was capable. Tucking Nina’s head securely under his chin, Aziraphale brought his glowing feather tips together. Barbules engaged into a weaving matrix that covered himself and Nina in an ivory canopy of heavenly protection just as the timber crashed down in front of them.

It exploded on contact, smashing through the floorboards and sending scattering hot red embers flying in every direction. A blistering hunk of charred timber breached a space between Aziraphale's feathers and burned a hole through his shirt. The angel cried out but held tight to his friend.

Peeking through his primaries, it was obvious their most viable option for escape had just been cut off.

Aziraphale's blood was thrumming like thunder through his chest, his head, his wings. His energy was drying up as quickly as their chances for survival. Aziraphale squeezed the unconscious woman’s body to his own and traced the shape of her face. He couldn’t miracle his way out of the fire while keeping Nina safe under his wings. If they were both to make it out alive, he was going to need help.

The fire raged, but Aziraphale partially receded a wing and peered through the spiking flames to see Anthony only meters behind him. He was kneeling on the floor, mouth agape and horrified.

“You!” He screamed; teeth bared like a cornered jackal “You’re a FUCKING ANGEL?!”

Chunks of plaster fell harder from the ceiling--striking the angel’s back and singeing his feathers. Aziraphale hissed in pain.

“Don’t just stand there!!” The angel screamed. “HELP ME!”

Anthony had repositioned his shirt collar over his airway again. He drew back a knee, then the other on the searing floorboards--receding from the angel and the human he was safeguarding behind a failing celestial shield of angelic plumage and stubborn determination.

The angel's eyes were burning and dripping from the sting of smoke. A poisonous black cloud invaded his throat like wild vines of kudzu-barring any air that tried to pass.

"ANTHONY!" Aziraphale cried out, “PLEASE!”

Anthony slowed his retreat in response to the angel's plea, but didn't stop. The shirt dropped from his face as if he were going to speak, but he inevitably changed his mind and shook his head nervously.

“I…I..I ca--”

“You’re a DEMON!!! Aziraphale screamed, voice trembling out of fear and desperation, “DO SOMETHING!!”

Anthony froze; his entire corporation arrested in shock. His head swiveled frantically over his shoulder and for a few, excruciating moments, Aziraphale was certain he was going to run and leave them to parish.

But in an instant, the demon’s fright ground into a fearsome snarl and his lithe body swept up like a sail that’d been captured by an ocean wind.

The demon snatched the shades from his face, tossed them in the floor, and wiped the sting from his eyes. An unholy, golden energy blead through the empty slits between his lids--bright and hypnotic. He spun around the room on his axis--absorbing the threat like a warrior in search the best tactical advantage. With another, flickering panicked look toward Aziraphale and Nina, the demon closed his eyes. Bracing himself, he thrust his arms into the air. A demonic growl thundered through the building. Giant metallic black wings unfolded into a magnificent and powerful display. His elongating fingers stretched upward, nails tapering to intimidating points. Slowly and with great deliberation, arching claws reached out and grabbed at invisible forces by the fistful. Graceful arms whipped in circles and the blanket of smoke clouding the room billowed and churned to his beckoning. It pulled into thick, swelling spindles that flicked and kicked in defiance. The undulating motion of the demons’ hands forced the unruly black waves into rotation. Layer upon layer-the demon built the cloud into a circulating cornucopia of ash and sulfur. The shadowy ribbons bridged their gaps as they swirled faster and faster--spinning around the demon with the swelling strength of a hurricane. Aziraphale pulled Nina tight to him while pieces of burning debris pounded hard and unrelenting against his back and wings.

Anthony’s arms trembled from a massive force that fought back against him. He growled, ordering the turbulent tangle of ribbons to unravel into long, finger-like appendages that wavered and danced outside the rotating mass. With a turn of the demon's wrist, dark ribbons elongated into great serpents that twisted and slithered to reach every corner of the room. They grazed over walls and floorboards and tables--lapping up flames with their inky, forked tongues and pulling them away from the surfaces they burned.

The air quaked with unrestrained energy and Anthony's once yellow eyes were consumed by a light so brilliant they could pierce through hellfire itself.

Steadily, the nest of ghastly black serpents siphoned every last flicker from the coffee shop into a massive, unstable, spinning globe of flame and fury that was more than 3 meters in diameter. He maneuvered the sphere carefully into position. It bucked and spat in protest, but Anthony couldn’t stop now. If it broke free, the rebound inferno would destroy them all.

Slender, diligent fingers worked to mold and shape the suspended ball-- folding it in on itself again and again. Tendrils of flame lashed out and whipped at his hands in a volatile order. The demon pressed tighter- crushing the fire ball between his hands and smothering the blaze one tier at a time. Pulses of red flame shot forth in valiant attempts to escape its capture and still the demon persisted.

But compressing the power made the orb more difficult to handle, like a spring tightened far past its ability. It strobed and screamed and sparked in furious opposition and Anthony struggled to contain it.  Feathery flames condensed into a whirling ball of light. It snapped and howled while rogue flares exploded free through the narrow slots between his fingers.

Tighter and tighter, faster and faster.

But the fire's indomitable retaliation was taking its toll on the demon's strength. His hold began to faulter, and the ball excitedly reclaimed the advantage. It jumped to life again and greedily expanded in an attempt to engulf the demon’s hands with its girth.

Adamant he would not lose the battle, Anthony gritted his teeth, screwed his lids shut, and pulled the orb down to chest level.

Giant onyx wings flared and thrashed as he grasped to retain control.

Impending exhaustion had the demon's body shaking so violently that his outline fazed in and out of clarity and muscle fibers threatened to rip themselves apart.

The first of his bones started to splinter and the demon screamed in agony.

Aziraphale watched on in breathless disbelief, helpless to offer any aid or assistance.

With a final cry, the demon’s palms clamped together with a thud, and the flames extinguished.

Anthony's corporation gave out and he crumpled to the floor-- gasping and choking for clean air.

The shop would have been lost in pitch darkness had it not been for a splattering of fading embers glowing in the hallows of unidentifiable masses of char and rubble.

Aziraphale lifted Nina's chin and brushed her braids to the side. Tentatively, he removed the damp cloth from her face and felt for a pulse.

To the angel’s tremendous relief, a pittering rhythm registered strong and regular under his touch. Although still unconscious, Nina’s head lulled to the side, away from the angel’s chest and coughed weakly.

Aziraphale looked back at the demon who was staring wide eyed at him with equal fear and bewilderment. His eyes had returned to their base reptilian appearance and his wings had vanished.

The only sounds were the distant wails and whoops of emergency vehicles that would be arriving soon.

The angel and demon stared hard, trying to read what the other was thinking--knowing their fate rested on their enemy's next move.

Should they run?

Should they fight?

The demon was the first to break the silence with a voice firm and resolute.

"We need to talk...”

Chapter Text

A demon and an angel sat in the far corner booth of Maverick's Bar--smudges of soot and ash still streaking their faces.  Their clothes were torn and singed along their edges and black patches of sulfur dust peppered the fabric like buck shot. The rubber of their souls had been burned clean off and a pungent, smokey stench clung to their skin like sheets of wet tissue.

They were an odd-looking duo to be sure, and it was a miracle how they’d managed to slink into the establishment unnoticed ... well ...almost.

One scruffy looking fella had said something to Aziraphale along the lines of a fine southern pansy such as himself deserving better. Anthony didn’t mask his amusement but assured the citizen he had no intention of taking the blond as his side piece--not even at gun point. Aziraphale glared daggers at the demon when he taunted him with a smile that needled under his nailbeds like, well, needles. 

Anthony, appreciative of the entertainment, pulled a few dollars from his wallet and handed them to the man. The inebriated scoundrel mustn’t have been too concerned for Aziraphale’s honor because he snatched the bills excitedly and stumbled toward the barkeep.

They’d been at a table for less than 10 minutes and Anthony was already pounding his third drink as if he wanted a hangover that'd outlive them both.

After reviewing the wine list, Aziraphale was certain the local gas station kept a more impressive selection and opted for whatever black tea they had in stock. His expectations sank further still when their waitress had to clarify what black tea was and if it was “like, green tea but darker?” She must have figured out the gist of it since she returned soon after with his beverage and a couple of menus.

Aziraphale steadily tapped the side of his mug, waiting for it to cool and eyeing his associate warily. Anthony had a pleasant buzz started and was currently melting into the seat across from him. His long, taught legs sprawled wide at the hip. One hand on his cheek kept the demon propped upright while he mindlessly nursed a tall scotch with the other.

Anthony smacked his lips as the harsh, oaky flavor slid down his throat like battery acid. Good thing he was immortal because that shit would kill him. As a precaution, the demon double checked his drink to ensure there wasn't anything winged or dead floating in it before downing another swig.

Sure, he'd prefer a Macallan or Glenfiddich, but the cheap stuff would do the job of fuzzing his nerves well enough. Anthony fully expected to lose all sense of taste after the 6th or 7th round anyway. Besides, indulging in quality wouldn’t be the purpose of drinking tonight.

Not only had he just been outted by an actual Heaven-Appointed, Lord's-Will-Serving Angel, but he’d walked away relatively unscathed with his spinal cord still attached.

So, even if Anthony had no fucken clue where the night would lead… getting completely and utterly shitfaced sounded like a fantastic place to start.

“You’re certifiable, you know that?” Anthony grumbled to man-shaped being sitting less than 2 feet from himself.

“There’s something seriously wrong with you.”

The angel nodded, relieved he didn't have to be the first to break the ice.

“I’ve been told as much, yes.” Aziraphale replied calmly.

Anthony motioned to the bar for another scotch. Although his glass was still nearly a third full, waiting 2 minutes between drink replacements required patience he didn't have. The bartender looked annoyed but nudged his chin in their direction to relay that the message was received. Anthony slouched back into the bench padding and the span of dry, crackling vinyl squeaked and groaned against his weight.

“You either have the self-preservation foresight of a lemming, or that halo of yours is cutting off circulation to your brain because what you tried to pull was STUPID! Bloody STUPID, Azi-- and RECKLESS!"

The angel's muscles clenched. He didn't appreciate being chastised like a student caught sleeping during class.

“Yes, you said that...” Aziraphale hummed dryly. "I'll take your observations under advisement and pass any grievances along to my superiors."

Of course it was satire, but the demon grunted with a sort of content finality--satisfied he’d made his point.

For a low-end dive bar, the room still rang with the sound of clinking cups and the type of happy, chortling laughter that grows in ease and enthusiasm as long as the taps stay flowing. Aziraphale scanned the jumbled clumps of inebriated yet merry socializers for a familiar face.

Their waitress assured Aziraphale she’d return promptly with the honey and milk he’d requested yet there was still no sign of her. Reluctantly, the angel tore open packets of dried creamer and sugar and dumped the contents into his cup.

He grimaced at the way powdered creamer adhered to itself in unappetizing, undissolvable clumps. The metal spoon tinked rapidly against ceramic as Aziraphale worked to break them apart. The demon watched on, indifferent to the angel's plight because he hadn't finished laying into him yet.

“Still can’t believe you just left her there...” Anthony grumbled. "....unconscious."

He made sure the angel heard every pang of accusation in his tone.

Not that Anthony had any moral standing on the argument.

He was a demon. The cost of insubordination was steep and no occult being with any sense would pay such a hefty ransom to spare one human life. That's why he steers clear of the high-stake situations. That's why he doesn't get involved. Anthony knows better than most what happens to a demon when they accidentally do the right thing.

But that's not what happened, was it.

True, the angel had taken the initiative and done most of the saving, but he'd been sucked in as a willing accomplice. An active participant. Fuck his existence--he used his demonic powers in the process! In all, he was neck deep in a scandal worthy of 3rd rung punishment. He’d have to be out of his damn mind to risk compounding the sanctions he’d already earned by sticking around like a wide-eyed guardian angel until help could arrive for the human.

But that didn’t diminish the guilt of it, or the expectation that the real angel sitting across the table should have done better.

Aziraphale swallowed his nerves along with his own guilt revolving the situation.

“No, no. It’s quite all right. She will be fine.” Aziraphale reassured himself. “I’ve been through this before. You don’t want to be around when the authorities arrive. They ask too many silly questions: ‘Wasn’t that man dead five minutes ago? Are these Job’s NEW children? How is it you managed to survive the Blitz without a scratch on you?’,” Aziraphale brought the mug to his lips. “Believe me, it's better this way.”

Anthony exhaled and the corner of his lip twitched almost imperceptibly.

“You can’t be serious. You make a dick move like that and then try to justify it by whining about the petty problems of angel privilege?!”

Aziraphale tensed when his coworker practically hollered his epithet mid-sentence. Especially since he'd said it just the bar runner was dropping off another drink. The girl gave the two an uncomfortable look but didn't comment and left as quickly as she'd arrived.

The demon was hyper-focused on him now and Aziraphale didn't have to see that steely, golden stare to be captured by it. Anthony's thin lips purse as he waited impatiently for the explanation he clearly felt entitled to.

But Aziraphale knew that wasn’t really the question he was asking. It was time to address the elephant in the room, or the “angel in the room” as it were.

Aziraphale choked down the glob of secretions thickening at the back of his throat before gathering his wits about him.

“I didn’t intend for you to find out this way.” Aziraphale glanced at the demon watching him soundly through darkly tinted shades. 

“Or...at all.”  The angel mumbled under his breath.

Anthony’s weak laugh held more ridicule than amusement.

“Guess that makes two of us.”

Aziraphale sighed.  It had been a long few weeks and he was tired of inventing explanations and ducking into shadow and formulating alibies—deceitful practices that didn’t come naturally to a Principality such as himself. It drained him… and he was more than ready to cast down that burden.

“I didn’t have a choice, you understand. But then everything was happening and, well, once you KNEW…”

My goodness--trying to say this all out loud was far more difficult than he thought it would be.

“I’d got myself in quite a pickle, hadn’t I,” Aziraphale chuckled weakly, grinning at the irony. “Suppose I was lucky you had been there.  That all this worked out the way it did.”

Azi's muscles wrapped like tight serpents around his vocal cords. 

“But for a moment there… I thought you were going to run and leave us to perish.”

Anthony stared blankly at the near empty tumbler in his hands and the discomfort between them clung heavy in the shared space.

“Can’t say it didn’t cross my mind,” he said quietly.

Aziraphale nodded. He sensed as much but didn’t think Anthony would admit it. Not to him.

“It..it isn’t that I’m not grateful, Anthony...” he started, treading delicately on a top he knew would be sensitive. “But why didn’t you?”

Anthony took in a large gulp of his scotch and licked the line of alcohol that clung to his upper lip. The burn felt good, satisfying and he couldn’t care less if it loosened his tongue. The situation couldn’t get any worse, right?

“And have an angel’s death--or er--discooperation on my record?”

Whatever answer Aziraphale was expecting, it wasn’t that and his brow reflected his skepticism.

“Would your fellow minions not celebrate such an achievement?” he asked casually, taking a careful sip of his tea.

Gaw, that tea really was terrible!

The demon shrugged and took a small sip himself.

“Not the sort of achievement I want to celebrate.” He sniffed “Besides, you’d return to heaven, but the human--umm…Nina.”

He shook his head

“I was already involved--tied to her fate, and innocent blood splatter don’t wash off the hands so easy. Extra sticky.”

“But you’re a demon…” Aziraphale mused over the idea “Isn’t that exactly what your kind do?”

Aziraphale had no intention of insinuating that Anthony should regret the choice he made, but his curiosity couldn’t leave well enough alone and the recrimination unexpectantly rubbed Anthony all the wrong ways.

“Do I LOOK like the Fuckin Angel of Death?!”

“I only meant-”

“My kind, as you so righteously put it, perform temptations to secure souls for hell after they die!” He growled through his teeth. “We don’t deliver them filleted and flambed on a silver platter!”

Aziraphale sat in stunned silence, his normally stalwart form shrinking in on itself.  Humbly, he picked up the shattered pieces of his misled assumptions.

“My apologies, Anthony” he offered quietly. "I was unaware."

Anthony scoffed into his drink, shaking off the remark as though it could scald him. 

When it came to arrogant beings, Angels were on a whole other level. They’d bless the poor and hungry while simultaneously damming the starving man who stole an apple. They would stand by and watch a woman lose her only child to a river’s wrath and have the barbarity to tell her, with a smile, it was all part of the Lord’s Plan. 

Yup, as far as Anthony was concerned, Angels were counterfeit divinity to the highest degree.  Even humility was no more than a heavily ingrained practiced performance and Anthony had no need or desire to hear out any of the angel's automated, empty admissions. In fact, he'd really like to tell the pretentious prick exactly where he could stick his apology. 

But with those glassy, downcast eyes--sinched at their edges…with his tartan bow tie, firenado tousled curls, and peculiar pedantic ways--Azi was certainly no base model angel. 

So, instead, Anthony engulfed another mouthful of scotch and let the caustic burn pacify intrusive impulses.

“Whatever.” he quipped, more to himself than to the company.

The demon dropped his view and gave his coat sleeve a good, firm tug to straighten it. The action was probably meant to distract them both from the topic at hand, but what he saw punched a ragged growl of frustration from his chest.

“GUAHW--just look at my jacket! Was brand new, now look at it! Ruined!"

Aziraphale took in the demon's custom-tailored blazer that more closely resembled a war remnant than the stylish jacket it once was.

"God damn travesty it is,”the demon simpered in the most pathetic whine Aziraphale’d ever heard come out of him. “Had it custom made and everythin’-what a waste!"

Aziraphale followed the lines of it. It was filthy, yes, but the rips weren't so extreme they couldn't be made right with a decent tailor…or miraculous assistance.

"I don’t think the damage is quite so bad as all that. You should know that I have a good deal of experience with clothing restoration, and it’d be quite simple to-"

But a narrow, boney-knuckled finger snapping to attention was all the caution he got.

"Keep your damn blessed miracles away from my wardrobe, Angel," he warned, though there wasn’t much ferocity behind it. 

"You'd turn it all beige and glittery and I'd end up having to burn it anyway."

Aziraphale pulled to his full height and dropped any further thought on the matter. 

“As you like. No reason to get tetchy...”

Anthony scoffed and ran a few gentle, sad swipes over the dirt-stained cloth as though it was an injured creature he could comfort.

"Dear Looord...." the demon hummed low and sing-songy, but just loud enough for the angel to hear. "Heal this jackeeeet...."

Aziraphale should be offended. He was only trying to help. But he felt his face curving into a soft grin instead.

"Well...expectation and assumptions aside, it was very kind of you to-"

Anthony shot a firm kick into the table’s pedestal with the heal of his boot--jostling the entire booth and causing the angel’s tea to slosh over the rim. Strangely enough, the demon's drinks were not affected and Aziraphale had no misconceptions that it was by coincidence.

“NOT kind!” Anthony growled, nostrils flaring. “I told you--momentarily distracted by a ramped case of ethereal idiocy. Won’t happen again.”

Aziraphale frowned as he watched the spilled puddle spread over the wood grain and he grabbed a handful of napkins to soak up the mess.

“No that really necessary, dear?” he frowned, blotting away at the wasted tea.

“No.” he hmphed. “But do I look like I care?”

 “I gather you had no idea then?” Aziraphale rolled the used napkins into a ball and set it to the side. “Who I was?”

The demon went quiet and focused on the residual swirling motion of his drink. His shoulders lifted weakly before dropping into place.

“Had my suspicions.”

Aziraphale considered the past few weeks. Although his short stent as a spy would have James Bond rolling in his grave, he thought he'd been quite successful on hiding his angelic identity.

“The handshake?” was the only thing Azi could think of.

 The demon hummed in response and drained the last drops of liquor from his glass before wrapping his fingers greedily around the next one.

“Na-yeah, that was weird. But you could have ingested holy water--like, in the last 24 hours.”

Anthony crinkled his nose awkwardly as he replayed the words he'd just spoken.

“Course...that sounds far less likely after saying it out loud...”

Aziraphale was equally befuddled with the suggestion.

“Who in heaven’s name would--"

“People are weird, Angel.” The demon mumbled, waving off the idea before they could dwell on it much longer. “They’d eat and drink nearly anything--who knows why.”

“So, you haven’t experienced that particular phenomenon before?" Aziraphale prodded curiously, though he only realized the question’s redundancy after he'd asked it.

And if “No duh” were a facial expression, Anthony had nailed it.

“Not as suuuch...” he drawled slowly, serpent eyes narrowing behind the sunglasses “Snot like I go around feeling up angels for kicks.”

“Suppose not.” Aziraphale admitted. “Was there something else then?”

Anthony didn’t reply immediately, but he did seem to be thinking on it.

“You said suspicion-S..." the angel clarified "Plural, as in more than one.”

“I know that,” the demon gnashed back.

Aziraphale wiggled his tie into alignment and folded his hands politely in his lap.

“Go on then. I’m waiting.”

Flustered, Anthony averted his gaze...somewhere. Anywhere really-it didn't matter. A soft pink hue spread over his sharply defined features, filling the hollow of his cheeks with new life and creating a striking contrast to the rogue, wavy strips of neon red framing them.

This shouldn’t be embarrassing. It's not like Anthony cared what some ignorant, holy marshmallow in a waistcoat thought anyway.

He didn’t.

He categorically didn’t.

“You…it’s your smell.” Anthony mumbled softly--so softly, Aziraphale almost requested he repeat himself.

“My smell?”

Aziraphale touched the normally downy white curls of his hair, recalling that first day. He'd forgotten his head was currently coated in spent ashes and the unexpected texture had him frowning and reaching for a napkin to clean his fingers.

“My barber recommended a new cologne--”

“Your scent, I mean…” Anthony corrected himself, but with greater insistence behind the declaration. The layered muscles in his temple tensed and rippled and Aziraphale watched him with a muddled mix of concern and failed understanding.

Anthony groaned and tilted his head to rest against the back bench. He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to explain himself further. But after a minute, he pulled himself forward, filled his lungs with a deep breath, and poured half of the remaining scotch down his gullet. 

It helped.

A little.

Ignoring the imploring deep blue pools tracking him, Anthony osculated his head side to side as if he could build up enough static charge to launch him to the end of the conversation.

“You…” His voice shifted and trailed off. “You smell like the stars.”

Aziraphale thought he saw the demon’s hands tremble before tightening their hold on the glass.

“Been a while… but it’s not something you forget.”

There was something so delicate, almost lonely about the way the demon spoke. It was a confession. A confession so pure and fragile it risked crumbling like eggshells on his tongue.

In 6000 years, Aziraphale hadn’t given his Divine Essence a second thought. It was one of the more trivial details of his existence, ranking just behind the robes he never wore, the harp he never played, and the halo he never used. But now, in the glimmering flint of brokenness he saw haunting the demon's expression, he could see how precious this scent would be to one who’d lost it.

The idea turned Aziraphale's insides cold like a bad omen whispered on the winds of prophecy.

He hoped he'd never have to find out.

The demon’s mouth quirked gently, almost out of fondness, as he formed his next line of reasoning.

“And it’s not like you act like an angel, Azi.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale replied, still pondering over the last topic. “How so?”

Anthony straightened his posture and let two fingers drum rhythmically against the side of the tumbler as if he needed time to think of examples and how to carefully word them.

“For starters, you may be a finicky conformist, but you’re not entirely insufferable to be around." The demon grinned with a flash of mischief. "Even with that 2-foot pole rammed up your ass.”

The angel’s curiosity deflated like a punctured tire and his lips pulled to a hard, firm line.

“I’ll respectfully bow to your expertise on that matter.” Aziraphale primly countered, straightening his previously cream waistcoat which was now a far cry from presentable in its current state, “After all, rumor has it that is precisely how you like to spend your Saturdays off.”

Anthony wry smile sparkled in the dim, overhead florescent lighting.  The demon could charm the claws off a tiger if he were so inclined.

“And you can be surprisingly funny,” he chuckled, then shrugged it off. “Not intentionally of course…”

“I’m honored.” Aziraphale replied dryly. 

In need of a diversion, he sipped his tea without thinking. The angel suddenly gagged when an undissolved chunk of creamer breached the gap between his teeth and slid like a warm slug over his tongue.

UGH.

Aziraphale tipped his mug and grimaced his disapproval at the contents. The tea was horribly poor quality. He had tried to be polite and make do, but it tasted as though it were brewed from discarded stock and stems swept from the storeroom floor.

The angel side-eyed his surroundings and quickly waved a hand over his mug--instantly transforming it into a perfectly prepared cup of Earl Grey--well sweetened to his preference.

Anthony's heavy brows popped high over his glasses, but the angel rolled his eyes.

"I usually prefer the real thing to conjured, but that sludge was positively revolting. One does what one must."

Aziraphale took a slow, luxurious sip as if it were the first time he'd ever tasted it. Ocean blue eyes closed and laugh lines crinkled softly as he basked in the warm, simple virtue of a good cup of tea. A shiver ran through the angel's body that caused his throat to hum and hips to wiggle with delight.

"Now where were we?" he smiled.

Anthony was gaping wordlessly at the angel from across the table with an expression Aziraphale couldn't seem to read. It took several beats before the demon got his ball rolling again.

“I’ve seen you eat SUSHI!" he snapped back out of nowhere "Can’t begin to imagine how you fell into that fuckin train wreck trend! Hell-I’d bet money that it was Lucifer himself who planted the delusional fever dream to convince humans consuming raw fish would be a good idea. Fires below--has no one ever smelled a dead fish?! And for the record…rapping disgusting shit in seaweed does NOT make it a delicacy! It just makes it seaweed flavored shit!”

Aziraphale paused with his mug in midair, watching the demon lose his bloody mind over one of his favorite indulgences. Anthony inhaled the rest of his liquor before slamming the glass on the table so hard Aziraphale was frankly surprised it didn’t shatter. He threw two fingers toward the bartender to request another.

“For Hell’s sake--just deepthroat a tuna and chase it with a shot of soy sauce! Same thing and the rest of us don’t have to listen to ya’all pretentious bastards drone on about your imaginary gout superieur!”

Aziraphale’s jaw was dangling slack like a wet sock, and he stared in bewilderment at his coworker. Anthony was nearly sparkling with satisfied accomplishment. He'd waited decades to go on that rant.

Aziraphale returned his mug carefully to its mismatched saucer, before folding his hands and resting them primly in his lap.

“Feel better?”

Anthony sniffed.

“Any other personal food vendettas you’d care to share with me?”

Anthony shook his head but wouldn't look at him. That was fine. Aziraphale didn't need him to.

"So, if I'm to understand, you had doubts I was an angel because I… consume sushi?"

The demon didn’t speak for a time, focused on his empty glass, and rubbing his hand roughly over the nape of his neck. Aziraphale figured Anthony had no more to say on the matter and assumed that would be the end of it.

“You’re compassionate.” speaking gingerly, as though he were testing the waters of their conversation. By the way Anthony’s mouth scrunched, he regretted letting the words slip out in the first place. He followed up instantly with an “about humans and stuff, I mean,” to mediate his discomfort.

Aziraphale blinked. What an odd thing to say.

“All angels have compassion for-”

“They DON’T!”

The demon delivered his response like the crack of a whip and the harsh implication struck Aziraphale with a resonating sting. Anthony continued without looking up from his glass.

“You angels are absurdly obedient. You all follow orders no matter what it is or who it hurts."

His face seemed to glaze over as though scrolling through memories he wasn't ready to share.

"Angels don’t feel or question or reconsider and they sure as HELL don’t hesitate.”

Passing staff dropped off a fresh scotch at their table with a half-worried look.  Anthony drained half the glass before motioning to the bartender to keep them coming.

“Any other angel would sooner smite me on discovery than blink. So, since I’m still here,” the demon gestured flippantly to himself. “It’s clear that YOU, Angel…”

Anthony’s finger wobbled a little midair while deciding which angel in his double vision to point at.

“YOU hesitated.”

As much as Aziraphale deluded himself into believing otherwise, smiting Anthony had never been a viable option. But surely any other celestial being his place who had spent time with Anthony, interact with him as he did, wouldn’t… just couldn’t..."

Aziraphale's breath seized into arrest when the chilly fingers of reality crawled up his spine--climbing vertebral protrusions like rungs of a ladder.

Yes. Yes, they would.

“I’d prefer to not smite anyone. Not my bag as they say.” Aziraphale replied once his lungs became functional again. “Obviously.”

Even with the seedy bar a bustle of laughter, drunken flirting, and harmless petty arguments, nothing could overpower the deafening silence between the two immortal beings.

Anthony carded a hand through his hair, but the ash coating snagged on rough fingertips. Most of the strands had already pulled themselves loose from the half bun anyway so he tugged the tie-band free and let the rest float down in fiery waves to his shoulders. The demon casually picked through the tangled locks, flicking bits of debris he found toward his counterpart with the sole purpose of irritating him. But Anthony’s adolescent behavior didn’t make the top hundred most irritating things Aziraphale’d delt with in the past 24 hours. Unfazed, Aziraphale used the edge of his hand to considerately sweep the burnt pieces into a neat little pile for disposal. Afterall, staff shouldn’t be burdened with extra cleaning just because a demon (with the mentality of an angsty teenager) got bored.

“So…” Anthony spoke softly and Aziraphale looked to him with budding curiosity. “When did you know?”

Ah.

The angel brushed the soot from his hand. Suppose he expected the conversation would come around to this.

“Weeks ago. At my apartment.”

The demon’s head tilted, his face already lighting up with a dozen churning questions.

“You asked to use my bathroom…”

Anthony frowned thoughtfully as he rolled back time inside his head. When the answer came to him, it was as though a cloudy veil had lifted and his demeanor changed entirely.

The demon swung a pointed elbow over the back bench and smirked like a cat with a cornered mouse.

“Ahhh…” Anthony smiled wickedly. “Toilet Peeper are we, Angel?”

Aziraphale coughed into his cup, then coughed again forcefully to clear the liquid he’d just inhaled.

“Wait-what? No--it’s not like that!”

Anthony’s teeth glimmered, appreciating the blush rising in the angel’s cheeks and spreading to the tips of his ears.

“Certainly looks like that, from here.” The demon chuckled.

“Well, it wasn’t.” Aziraphale assured firmly, wanting to leave no room for interpretation.

Anthony's boney shoulders squished into a lofty and unconcerned shrug, but it felt as though he were accusing Aziraphale of being overly dramatic. Which Aziraphale absolutely was NOT!

“Hey, you'll get no judgement from me, Angel. We've all got an itch to scratch.”

Aziraphale gave the demon a sharp look that threatened to slice him in two.

“Oh don’t be ridiculous!” he snapped back, but Anthony was undeterred, having way too much fun to back down now.

“I may have suspected there was a dirty side to you the first day, but I didn’t clock you as a closet perve…”

Aziraphale failed to contain the fluster that mercilessly shook his vocal cords like a pair of maracas.

“I would never!”

“Oh, hell, it’s not colophilia is it?!” the demon threw back his head and groaned in disgust. “Damn angel! You think you know someone…”

“You’re a demon!” Aziraphale hushed, not wishing to be carried away by the enraged disdain he held for Anthony at that moment. “You don’t--WE don’t even have--”

Aziraphale's mouth snapped shut in a conscious decision to not finish that sentence. Instead, he performed a pointing/whirling gesture toward the floor while glaring angrily at the arrogant ass smirking at him from across the table.

“Wot?” Anthony inquired sweetly, veining innocence, or maybe not because the angel really was being incredibly cryptic.

Aziraphale rolled his hand at the wrist, repeated the enthusiastic gesture, and aimed it toward the narrow space between Anthony's legs. The intensity in the angel's eyes flicked earnestly to the same location.

 “You know? THAT!”

Anthony’s attention ping-ponged from the angel to his lap then back again before snorting through his amusement and raising the glass to his lip.

"First off, Angel, not that it's any of YOUR business, but you got NO CLUE what I have in my pants." He chuckled into his drink and took an unnecessarily slurpy sip before continuing. "Besides, you just told me you DIDN'T KNOW I was a demon when you decided to pursue your little adventure in voyeurism."

Aziraphale sputtered.

“How dare you!" he seethed "You’re twisting my words--making me sound like a deviant preying on unsuspecting victims."

“Hey, I don’t have to twist a thing, Azi. But if you don’t want to be branded a deviant, you should probably stop doing devious things.”

Aziraphale was still boiling with torrid indignation when Anthony tempted his luck by leaning over the table. The demon's shades slid down the bridge of his nose until tiny slices of gold could be seen glowing just above the rim.

“As one being with needs to another, if you're ever that desperate for a peek, ya just need to use your big boy voice and ask me nicely.” Anthony accompanied the sultry suggestion by running a languid, forked tongue over his wet, scotch sodden lips. "I'm nothing if not accommodating."

Aziraphale should have bit back any further reaction, but, as it seemed, that was another one of the angel's shortcomings.

“I HAVE NEVER…and WILL NEVER be DESPERATE FOR A PEEK AT YOUR…”

The demon was smiling and rubbing the tip of his finger across his lightly stubbled chin-- soaking in every detail of the grand fireworks display he'd triggered.

Aziraphale glanced around nervously when he realized how loud he had become. There were a few confused faces and a hand-full of teasing giggles but no serious damage. He drew in a slow, even breath and counted to 10 at a calm, paced rate. Leaning forward, Aziraphale tried speaking with a controlled tone more reflective of his ethereal origins.

“You had removed your contacts…” Azi nodded toward the demon’s eyes.

At close range, Aziraphale could easily make out Anthony's slitted orbs gazing back at him. They were truly captivating, and the angel looked away quickly so as not to stare.

Crowley's already thin lips pressed together--blanching white under the pressure. With his palm, he shoved the glasses a little tighter against his face.

“Yeah, that would do it I suppose.” He replied, sounding a bit disappointed with himself. “How careless of me not to realize my coworker was really an angelic pervert with a kink for excrement surveillance.”

“I DON’T HAVE-” Aziraphale slapped his jaw shut when he caught the demon giving him the all-knowing grin of a cheshire cat. Anthony was working him like a puppet on a string--except the puppet was an angel, and the strings were on fire and the puppet was on fire and everything was on fire.

Aziraphale should probably stop handing him chunks of kindling.

They sat quietly, looking anywhere but at each other. Aziraphale stared into his tea. Crowley's glass was empty by now and he raised 2 fingers to the bartender. The waitress brought him a drink straight away, mumbling some apology about only allowing one beverage at a time. Once in hand, Anthony downed it in a single gulp then brazenly demanded another before the waitress had an opportunity to walk away. She paused a moment, flicking a distressed look of apprehension to Aziraphale then back to the demon. The angel almost reached out to reassure her, but she skittered back to the bar before he could decide on what to say.

Anthony tilted back against the bench and sniffed loudly, tapping the side of his glass deliberately as he formed his next line of enquiry.

“What’s your name?”

This caught the angel off guard, and he looked to the demon with a raised brow.

“Cause I know it’s not AAAzzzEEEE” he over annunciated between clenched teeth. “Makes you sound like an over-age wanna-be surfer with a fake tan and frosted tips who calls everybody “dude” decades past the curve.”

The angel didn’t think long on it because there was really no downside in sharing. It wasn’t a secret. If anyone had requested his real name, he would have provided it without hesitation. Most were perfectly content with “Just Azi” without further inquest.

“Aziraphale.’ He replied matter-of-factly, brushing off the harmless skip of his heart.

“Mmmm…” Anthony puckered pensively before relaxing to a disarming half smile. “S’not terrible.”

Aziraphale lifted his gaze, suspicious if what the demon said was sediment or a backhanded jab, although the comment seemed harmless enough.

“That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“It wasn’t” the demon quipped looking to the bar to determine if they were preparing his next drink yet.

“Oh.”

“I’m just saying it’s not as ridiculously grandiose as some I’ve heard. Why don’t you go by it?”

Aziraphale sipped his tea, taking patience to organize his answer.

“Humans have difficulty pronouncing it for some reason--especially Americans. They'll say “Azaraffaaa” or “Azu-fu-ful” he explained, returning his mug to its saucer with a clink.

Honestly, he did love his name. It was beautiful and ethereal, and uniquely representative of all Aziraphale was and ever had been. He’d had it since before there was a “before’. Before there was a “was”. It wouldn’t be truthful to say he didn’t miss hearing it spoken aloud. But the angel had resolved that this was the way of things.

“Azi” is simpler.”

A tall whiskey appeared at the table and their waitress rushed out of view in the blink of an eye.  Anthony chuckled and rapidly disposed of that one as well. Anthony burped and noodled a tongue over his lip to catch a few astringent drops lingering there, not that he could taste them anymore by this point.

“Aziraphallllll…” the demon hung on the last syllable with a curl of his tongue. “Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”

More than a little shocked, the angel’s eyes flew wide open with every nerve at attention. It wasn't as if he were well known by any measure.

“You’ve heard of me?” Aziraphale asked dumbly.

Anthony dropped his head to his pathetic, empty glass.

“Nope.” The demon replied coldly and Aziraphale’s shock slipped into a mild disappointment. Not that he cared.

“I mean, not really.” Anthony shrugged. “Demon’s Guide to Angelic Beings" is required reading. You made it into the Bible though--gold star for you. Garden of Eden, right?”

Aziraphale nodded, feeling a little unnerved that not only did such a manuscript exist, but that it was currently circulating through the cursed hands of his enemies.

“Yeah, me too.” Anthony's long, nimble fingers danced on the wooden table like playing out notes on a piano, contemplating how soon was too soon for another drink.

“Shit situation though, am I right? Went down like a lead ballon.”

Anthony was still holding a reasonably coherent conversation so he really could have used another drink. However, he decided to hold for now due to a strong suspicion the staff were preparing to cut him off. Anthony pulled a willowy leg onto the seat and tucked the other beneath it to make himself comfortable.

It didn’t appear comfortable. 

Aziraphale’s femurs would pop from their sockets if he attempted the same position.

“Don’t recall you being there, though.” Anthony’s expression softened with a casual contemplation.

“Think I’d remember a butt naked angel skipping through the lilies.”

Aziraphale hummed in agreement. It wasn’t an unlikely scenario. Eden covered an extensive area, although he’d of have thought heaven would have done the courtesy of informing Aziraphale of any other angels or demons in the vicinity.

“Perhaps we just missed each other--like passing ships in the night.” Aziraphale lazily traced a finger along one of the many initials carved anonymously into the table face--stained dark and filed smooth with age. “My assignment was quite strict you know. I wasn’t at liberty to go gallivanting about like some.”

Anthony’s reactive pout almost felt genuine.

“Hmmm. Shame.”

“Quite.” Aziraphale’s lips contorted with the solemn reverence of a memory so vivid he could almost taste the scent of fig and lily carried on the breeze through the lush valley. Perfectly created in every divine detail down to each glistening dewdrop and finely crafted butterfly wing.

“It was a lovely place. I would have enjoyed exploring the area.”

Anthony smirked at him again, but with a spark of something more evocative, and the angel suddenly felt quite exposed by whatever conjured images were dancing through the demon’s head.

“But even if I had been free to do so,” Aziraphale continued adamantly ‘I assure you I wouldn’t be doing it butt-naked.”

Anthony chuckled and ferreted away the image to be used at another time.

Aziraphale indulged in another warm sip of tea.

“And you?”

“Me wot?” The demon asked, not really paying attention. Crowley turned tumbler in his fingers, wishing he had another and sulking over why the whole bar was conspiring to thwart his aspiring intoxication.  As a different waitress passed near them, the demon bit the bullet and requested a scotch--slipping a bill onto her tray stacked with used glassware. Aziraphale hadn’t caught the denomination, but it was enough to set her face a light and drop Anthony a flirtatious wink which the demon was more than happy to return.

“Anthony can’t be a common demonic name.” said Aziraphale pointedly.

The demon’s head snapped back to the angel across from him, a pout pushing at his lower lip.

“You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that. I just assumed--"

“Crowley.” He blurted before Aziraphale could finish his thought, rendering the angel stunned over how easily he’d given it up, although, the answer was not at all what he expected.

“Crowley?”

“Mm,” the demon nodded, pretending that picking away the dark gray buildup under his nails was the most fascinating use of his time.

“But...” Aziraphale studied his coworker in a way one does when they’re suspicious they're getting punked. “Your name is Anthony Crawley.”

“Crowley.”

“Your paperwork says Crawley.”

“I know. It’s an alias.”

Aziraphale continued to stare at the demon but couldn’t tell if his coworker was staring back.

“…And out of the literally limitless linguistic possibilities, you elected to go with…Crawley?”

Crowley’s shoulders pinched upward against his ears then slump back into position. A copper tendril spills free from the others to obstruct the demon’s view, and he brushes it back into place behind an ear.

“Anthony J Crawley, y-yeah. Couldn’t go wrong with a little an…an..ana..ano-nym-.”

“Anonymity?”

The demon snapped a finger at his coworker like he’d been trapped in a closet and Aziraphale had just located the misplaced light switch.

“Yeah! That!” But Crowley turned suddenly puzzled and tucked his chin to his chest. "Lot'a fuckin' good that did me..." he growled to himself.

Lines of confused bewilderment creased deeply into the angel’s features, but he snapped back to himself when he saw his coworker was entirely serious.

"Umm...yes. Yes, very good. Veeeerry...clever..."

The demon dropped a knee and spread the full length of his legs wide and inviting. His limbs reached and stretched to invade Aziraphale's private space and parked one boot on either side of the angel's legs. Crowley melted into his seat with an easy, sluggish comfort he'd been chasing since the two of them arrived. The only thing stiff on his progressively drunken corporation where the sleek stack of layered abdominals still miraculously holding him upright.

"That s-supposed to be sarcasm, Aziraphale? Cause you bloody SUCK at it."

"No. Well, yes. Maybe." I just don't see...." Aziraphale started but wisely changed his mind. "Never mind."

The demon folded his arms over his chest expectedly.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale whispered to himself. It was unintentional that he spoke it out loud at all, and certainly not with the breathy fondness that delivered it. A timid vigilance spiked in the way the demon held himself and Aziraphale couldn’t help wondering if Crowley missed the sound his own name as well.

Again, they sat silent, not sure what more there was to say.

Without warning, Crowley thew himself forward-- arms open and shaking and thoughts tumbling out like a watery mudslide.

“What in the hell are you even doing here?!” He hissed “There aren’t SUPPOSED to be any angels here. The last record of a stationed angel in this area was, like, almost a decade ago!”

Aziraphale blinked owlishly and Crowley’s mouth twisted as if someone had spiked his last drink with vinegar.

“That’s you? You been here all this time? Shouldn’t an angel have better things to do?--like uh, Ngk--” He rubbed his palms hard into his temples “Like inspiring philanthropy in billionaires or setting off global disasters to test the human’s devotion to God?” Crowley took a deep breath, “Miracling Jesus’ image onto toast?”

Aziraphale frowned. He liked it here. He liked his job, he liked what he did. Extremely rude for a demon to be passing judgement on the matter. Besides, it was by no means an extended period of time. He spent nearly 200 years in ancient Rome--other locations even longer.

The waitress returned with a scotch and set it in front of Crowley on a napkin with purple writing on the corner. Crowley tugged the napkin free, read over the message, and slipped it into his pocket with a devilish simper. Even looking like he'd been dragged by a horse through the streets of Pompey; the demon's appeal was irresistible.

“So,” Crowley sipped his scotch, relishing the lovely, cottony haze swimming the backstroke through his consciousness. “Who’d you piss off then?”

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed defensively.

“What makes you think I pissed someone off?”

Crowley smirked.

"You’ve been here for years. Can a-magine any angel willing to hang their halo in this shithole for more than one winter--no matter how hard the locals pray.”

The off the cuff comment slandered not only the choices Aziraphale made but insulted to all he had accomplished in those years, and outrage swelled like a tidal wave.

“I happen to be quite fond of this “shithole",” the angel glowered.

“So, you’re here because you want to be? A Guardian Principality prancing around the Midwest countryside like a divine jackalope--sprinkling blessings and doing good for the meek and humble?”

 “Doing goo--yes! Of course! That’s what I do! I’m on the side of the angels--quite LITERALLY.”

 Aziraphale knotted his arms angrily. As nauseatingly charming as he was, Crowley had an uncanny way of slithering under his skin and pushing his buttons like it was a game of whack-a-mole.

“And what about YOU?!” Aziraphale struck back with purpose.

The question flipped a switch in the demon's snide disposition-- killing the feed of electrical current. He blinked eyes behind his sunglasses, but not at the same time.

“Wot about me?” he asked, staring blankly at the angel.

Aziraphale sneered at his opposition. Playing dumb wasn’t going to work.

“Demons are ALWAYS up to no good?”

The corner of Crowley's mouth twitched downward.

“I suppose that’s what I do,” He admitted, watching the liquor dance and swirl at the turn of his wrist and fighting the urge to chug it dry.

 “They just hand me the GPS coordinates and said go make some trouble.”

“In a hospital?” Aziraphale seethed, the response provoking his fiercely protective nature, “Where the sick and injured come to seek sanctuary from their suffering?!”

Aziraphale shook his head wearily as though it were himself that Crowley had betrayed.

“That is disgustingly low, even for a demon.” berated the angel, hoping his words of disappointment could convey the injury he felt.

It was Crowley’s turn to frown and his brow furrowed deep and fervid. Admittedly, he did have SOME choice in his assignments, but he wasn’t going to share that with Aziraphale if the angel was going to be a rank uppity bastard about it.

He could have been in Paris…Madrid…London…or that Welsh town with the unnecessarily long name that’s impossible to pronounce. Grand, flashy locations where an agent of chaos could spread mischief and ferment on a monumental scale. But toiling relentlessly to please Hell’s agenda came with few perks. And after several millennia of triggering wars that didn't end and receiving accommodations he didn't earn, a low-pressure assignment felt like a welcomed change.

Still, there were other cities just as low-key and spotlight free he could have gone--places with exceptional weather, beaches, and stimulating nightlife with better booze. Yet, there must have been a reason he chose this one in particular… right? But all Crowley could remember is feeling --

“And what specifically is the ‘trouble’ you are here making!?” Aziraphale demanded-- dwelled on every syllable and driving in the accusation.

Suddenly, fear hit the angel like a brick to the face.

“Is it another plague?” he whispered apprehensively. “Did Covid not have the cleansing affect you were hoping for? Are you bringing about another –"

Crowley sneered from the implication and poked a finger repeatedly to his own chest.

“WE weren’t responsible for that!” he snarled “Viruses mutate on their own and outbreaks happen every few dozen years.”

Crowley rubbed a palm anxiously against his cheek.

“Just happened that this was a pretty bad one z’all,” he mumbled sheepishly.

Aziraphale frowned, anger cresting in waves and not believing a word the demon was saying.

“Well, you'll have to forgive me if I don't take your word for it.”

Crowley rolled his tongue against his cheek and inhaled another swig of liquor.

Demons were notorious for many reasons, and unwavering honesty and reliability wasn't one of them. But surely their unblemished time together would count for something?

“You think I'd lie to you?”

Aziraphale threw himself forward with an irritated shriek that turned the attention of more than a few neighboring customers and startled his companion.

“YES! You lied about your OCCULT IDENTITY! Your INTENTIONS! Your VERY NAME!”

“And you’re measuring THAT against whether or not I'd cripple nations with another plague?!”

“Well...” the angel’s lips peeled upward with a confidence he hadn’t earned, blue flames scratching for release just out of site.

“If the horns fit…”

Crowley blinked. His sinewy arms folded in postured defiance, and he allowed himself to drift forward until his mouth was close enough to battle the angel for his next breath.

“Wot the fuck did you just say to me?”

Aziraphale sipped his tea, then snapped open his napkin and used it to daintily dab the corners of his lips.

He mirrored the arms crossed, lean forward action of his counterpart, boring into the eyes he knew were twitching with enmity behind the obscuring plastic.

“IFFFF…” Aziraphale repeated, digging his teeth firmly into his lip to exaggerate the F, “the hooornnsssssss…FIT.”

Crowley, his mind murky with alcohol and exhaustion, squinted at the angel with disbelief. He leaned back into the worn bench cushion and scoffed.

“What are you?! 12?”

Aziraphale held his position, imagining millions of tiny cracks spreading through the demon’s offense like splintering glass.

Crowley groaned.

This was stupid. This WHOLE THING was STUPID. Stupid for being there and stupid for drawing lines in the sand over shit they weren't even on opposite sides about.

Crowly dialed down his blood-alcohol saturation just enough to form a few coherent sentences and held up his hands as a sign of amnesty.

“Look- I don’t deny that some asshole may have hurried it along a bit, but all that shit would have done what it did without anyone lifting a finger. And it certainly wasn’t me that did the “helping”. As for the virus,” Crowley raised his glass in recognition, “That’s on your lot, you holy shitbag, cause wiping out masses of the human race be God’s handywork.”

They sat quietly again, giving their fumes time to starve themselves into a more compliant state. Watching each other, wondering who would make the next move, or if anything that happened thus far could be considered progress. Another drink appeared at the table next to Crowley and he grabbed it eagerly.

Minutes passed before Aziraphale finally spoke.

“So, what are we going to do?”

“Do Angel?”

“About…us?”

Crowley's restlessness transformed like water into wine. With a sly smile, he hooked both his elbows over the back booth and sprawled outward like a lizard in the sun.

“Is there an “us” now?”

Obviously, it was said in jest-grasping at straws to lighten the mood. But there was a tethered ambivalence in the way he asked, the way he held his breath--waiting to see which way Aziraphale's answer would sway.

“Oh you know what I mean,” Aziraphale snapped back half-heartedly.

“What are we going to do about this?” asked the angel softly, motioning a finger between the two of them.

And that was the question, wasn't it?

The question feeding their nervousness-- a tug of war between what they knew they should do and what they hoped to avoid. And the answer lay somewhere in the void between the two.

“What IS there to do about it?” Crowley lifted his brow above his tinted glasses “You really want to fight? Are we to battle it out for the greater good? Or evil? War to end all wars--demons and angels alike, toe to toe on the battlefield while Earth is ripped to shreds in the process?"

Aziraphale cocked his head, pondering the options. Certainly, an epic battle wasn’t necessary. But something must be done…mustn’t it?

Crowley took a large gulp of his drink and swallowed smacking his lips with a grateful “Aaahh!”

“Way I see it, Azzziraphale.” Tapping his chin as he considered his next words, “you have your assignment, and I have mine. I’d—I’D s-say we just do what we have to do and try to…to s-s-stay out of each other’s way. A few months more, my contract will be ful…full…ful-filled, and I’ll be outta here.  Neither of our s-sides the wiser.”

It sounded simple but Aziraphale couldn’t help being skeptical.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, Crowley.”

“Why’not?”

“We’re on opposite sides.” Aziraphale felt a bit ridiculous pleading a case that should be so obvious to both parties. “I can’t just stand by and let you...you know."

Crowley shook his head, not grasping whatever logic pebbles Aziraphale was trying to hand him.

“Let me wot?”

“Let you harm innocent people,” he spit back in hushed tones as not to incite a panic.

“Whatever evil plans you've put in motion, I have a responsibility to thwart your--."

Crowley smirked, followed by short bits of laughter bursting loud and messy beyond his control.

“I--ah.” He shook his head, snorting and sputtering in a way that Aziraphale assumed to be repressed laughter.

“No need ta’ rally the troops ta’ thwart my misdeeds there, Angel."

Was Crowley not taking him seriously? Aziraphale puffed out his chest, breaths surging, and hair prickling on the back of his neck.

“YOU are a DEMON.” The distasteful word lingered on his tongue like spoiled milk.

“Y-yeah.” Crowley nodded with more than a hint of sarcasm “I noticed…”

“Your very nature is committing acts of unforgivable proportions.”

Crowley lowered his glasses to meet Aziraphale’s accusing face.

“Well, aren’t you clever.” The demon jeered mockingly--rubbing the last of Aziraphale's nerves raw.

“And what unspeakable acts of horror per se, my dear angel, are you under the impression I’ve committed?”

“That is what I’m ASKING!” Aziraphale shouted.

"YOU DIDN'T ASK NICELY!" Crowley shouted back.

The demon snorted into his drink, bubbles popping through the liquid tickled in his nostrils and he giggled.

"Fkn rude angels are—no manners..” he grumbled. “No manners at all. Bloody inconsiderate twats.” 

Crowley mumbled a few more things Aziraphale couldn’t make out before he went quiet. After a minute, the demon sat down his glass and squinted hard at Aziraphale who looked back with eerie uncertainty.

"Wad you ask me, Angel?"

Aziraphale wanted to scream. Crowley had pushed far past the boundaries of frustration--snapping their walls like toothpicks. He’d anticipated the demon to be less than forthcoming with the details of his treacherous plans. But now Crowley was on a one-way mission to an alcoholic blackout--a goal Aziraphale had no doubt he'd reach within the hour, and if the demon kept talking in circles, they wouldn't be getting anywhere.

Crowley was grinning at him, relaxed, his shades balancing low on the nose and watching the angel’s lips move with alluring fascination.

Pretty lips for an angel. Like a little cupids bow pillows. Such silly shapes they make when he’s mad. Wonder if they're soft like they look. Wonder how soft they’d feel wrapped around.. oh shit.

Crowley pushed his glasses back into place.

“Are you seriously so drunk that you don’t remember?” Aziraphale sighed hopelessly.

“Naw! Yeah, course!” The demon nodded with so much unchained enthusiasm that Aziraphale suspected he would topple right out of his chair if he weren’t already secured in a booth.

“I remember you wanting to know what I've got in my pants…” the demon teased.

Turns out that was the wrong thing to say.

“ENOUGH!” Aziraphale slammed his fist on the tabletop. A burst of light ignited under his force--sending out a golden shock wave that made the demon’s glass clink and waver before falling over and spilling the remainder of his drink.

Crowley’s cheeky grin fell. The pair took in their surroundings and squirmed from the many, many critical eyes focused on them. Crowley twirled his finger as an invitation for them to turn around and mind their own fucking business. Which most of them did.

Aziraphale had lost his patience, and Crowley took a moment to consider his situation. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes and bore down with intent. Somewhere in the kitchen, a bus boy watched in horror as several tumblers refill themselves with low grade scotch.

Crowley opened his eyes and grimaced from the tacky, unpleasant after taste coating his tongue like Elmers glue. He wasn’t completely sober, but sober enough he wouldn’t say or do something irreparably damaging.

“Ok Angel.” He started slowly. “I’m not saying I haven’t been…that I haven’t done...” He repositioned himself in the booth, lifting one knee, and resting his arm over it while his hand brushed up and down his shin.

“It’s not like I’m proud of it. It’s a JOB, you know? Can’t tell me that you’ve never had second thoughts about carrying out your slice of the 'Great Plan'.”

Crowley couldn’t help but apply air quotes to the last part of that statement.

“Didn’t you ever wish, just once, you could rebel against something you knew was unfair to be asked of you.”

The knot in Aziraphale's throat bobbed uncomfortably but he quickly reasserted himself.

“It’s not my place to question the Almighty.”

“Aziraphale... our sides have spent, what--more than 6000 years trying to tip the scales. And for WHAT?! Nothing's changed! We're still in the same fucking spot, doing the same fucking thing, and fighting the same fucking fight we're all gonna lose.”

Crowley grabbed a handful of napkins to splotch up the spill on the table but reconsidered. With a snap, the spill was undone and his glass half-filled again. He took ahold and raised the drink to the angel.

“So, I’m taking a nice long, well-deserved and EXTREMELY alcoholic vacation.”

Aziraphale watched the demons throat ripple as he swallowed 2..3...4 swills of cheap scotch.

“You’re on vacation? Here?”

“Mostly symbolic.”

Crowley started playing with the charred sleave of his jacket and frowning when bits flaked off from his touch.

“But as far as grinding myself into the ground with heinous activity, yes.”

"Crowley," the angel eyed him with blatant disbelief. “You can't be insinuating that eternal damnation comes with a vacation package.”

Crowley shrugged reluctantly and scratched at some random nuisance tickling the corner of his left eye.

“They uhh..they don’t actually know,” He admitted quietly.

"And how do you accomplish that?"

"It's not that difficult actually," he replied with an impish grin. "The average demonic entity hasn’t roamed Earth in ages. They have no damn clue how things work up here."

Crowley threw back another swig and Aziraphale watched it ripple down the elegant line of the demon's neck and vanish before reaching his unbuttoned collar.

"It’s pretty much the same story anywhere I go. I put in the leg work, brainstorm with the higher-ups, and collaborate a masterpiece of chaos and mayhem--only to be laughably outdone by the humans when they come up with something 10 times worse than I could have imagined!! After a while, it’s like, what’s the point?

Aziraphale frowned, crest fallen to the explanation. Though he hated to admit it, the demon wasn't entirely inaccurate on his observations.

“So, anything mildly devastating that goes down in the hospital or even the city.... I just…” Crowley scrunched his shoulders before dropping them back into place. “Take credit for.”

“What do mean by 'take credit'?” Azi’s eyes narrowed. This story was growing more bizarre by the minute, and it was difficult to discern how truthful his coworker was being on the matter.

“If there's a building collapse, measles outbreak, epic traffic jam, I tell them I caused it and (clapped his hands) VAVOOM! Quota met and everyone’s satisfied.”

The demon was beaming like he'd just pulled off the notorious Clerkenwell Diamond Robbery with Jane Austin herself.

“And…” Aziraphale’s mouth was turning dry, and he took a sip of tea. “And that works?”

“Well, I don’t know about heaven, but hell is far too busy and understaffed to check up properly on these things.”

“So…” Aziraphale licks his lips and takes another long, steady sip of his tea to formulate his words. “So, then, what DO you do?”

Crowley sighs and rests his chin on one hand, propping himself up by the elbow.

“Just…other things. You know?”

The angel didn’t reply. He had no clue. But he knew he’d be dangerously tempted to slap this demon silly if he started talking in circles again. Aziraphale held that thought in with a silent prayer. Hopefully Crowley would explain himself further without the need for that particular intervention.

“I um…” Crowley scratched awkwardly at the rough amber stubble dusting his jawline. “I switch room numbers.”

(silence)

“…on meal trays”

Aziraphale’s face was a like a goldfish in St Basils Cathedral--no glimmer of comprehension as to what he was a witness to.

“…So they…uh--” Crowley takes another drink. “So they go to the wrong rooms.”

The angel’s brain glitched. Did he just hear correctly?

“Pardon?”

“Humans. They take their food frightfully serious,” Crowley continued “Their bloody hair could be on fire, but they’d waste their last breath cursing God if they received wheat toast instead of white.”

“You switch room numbers…” Aziraphale draws out, clearly expecting more to the story. “On lunch trays?”

“N-NAW ya-No--Yeah!" Crowley gaped fumbling and stuttering his way through the explanation “I mean--That’s PART of it."

He tapped the tabletop while searching for other examples

“I, uh…I mis-spell names on charts so staff constantly mispronounce them. I curse curtains rendering them incapable of closing all the way when you need them to.”

Crowley starts chuckling between points on his itemized list of anarchy--finding each example even funnier than the last.

“So, he-he, regardless of how they struggle, that single, blinding beam of sunlight always gets through. And, what else…” he humms “Oh, I loosen the elastic in socks. Just one, so it falls into their shoe all shift long. You ever seen a doctor lose their shit over a sock, Angel? Oh--OH!!”

Crowley perks up like a live wire-- sparking and vigorous and practically vibrating.

“And I set off call lights in empty rooms in the middle of the night--scares the Holy Spirit out of them overnight staff.”

Crowley looked to the ceiling thoughtfully with a disarmingly wide, dopy grin.

“And I uh… I pause the morning clocks at 6:55 and don't restart til a quarter after. I know it don't seem like much, but delaying hand off breeds ill will like nothing else. And when I REALLY want to shake things up, I--"

“Revive neglected houseplants?”

Crowley appeared confused for a moment, before falling deathly quiet and the color drained from his face like sand through an hourglass. He hadn’t realized how much Aziraphale had seen during his amateur stalking spree.

The demon's high set, angular cheekbones brightened to a honeysuckle pink. The heat surging through his corporation moistened his skin and fogged up his lenses so thoroughly that he couldn't see. Helpless to salvage any remaining dignity, the demon turned his face from the angel.

As delightful as Crowley's reaction was, a part of Aziraphale wanted to undo what he’d said.

“It was a lovely bouquet. I can see why--"

“Inflorescence.” Crowley muttered and Aziraphale hit pause on his thought.

“Er, Sorry, what was that?”

Crowley had many talents--many abilities he exceled at, but shutting up when he should was not one of them.

“A cluster of growing flowers is an inflorescence.”

He stared at the empty glass in his hand and immediately regretted choosing sobriety.

“A bouquet is a grouping of cut flowers.”

If drunk, he'd probably be running his mouth more than he would clear-headed, but at least he’d lack the lucidity to feel ashamed by whatever came out.

Aziraphale regarded the demon like something had just fallen off his body that wasn’t supposed to. Now he had to decide if it were better to reattach it, ignore it, or reassure Crowley less is more anyway.

Crowley shifted uncomfortably side to side and Aziraphale felt a uneasy twinge in his chest--something almost akin to empathy.

It must be terribly unpleasant for a demon to expose himself in this way--sliced open and their tender entrails put on display like some oddity. Vulnerability wouldn’t be a prized character trait in Hell--possibly even a punishable offense. Which made it all the more curious as to why Crowley would put himself in that position when had no real reason to trust Aziraphale in the first place.

“I suppose," Aziraphale looked at his tea and rubbed his fingers against the smooth handle of the mug “that is all quite…awful.”

Like the creature of opportunity he was, Crowley snatched the glasses from his face and wiped the moisture droplets from their surfaces with a handkerchief he'd conjured from who knows where. Once clean, he replaced them with a heavy, wet sniff.

“Yup-p!” he replied, putting an extra pop on the “p”.

“Monstrous really.”

Crowley nodded and Aziraphale kneaded and plied the information over in his mind

“So, that's the extent of it? We just stay out of each other’s way?”

The demon nodded again in the affirmative.

"Pretend the last few weeks didn’t happen. Go back to being friends."

"We are NOT friends." Aziraphale informed him sternly and in no uncertain terms.

Crowley wished he could plop his forehead on the table and moan out all the festering irritation in a full, unbridled display of dramatic splendor.

Not only was the angel dragging this out with his pointless hang-ups, but Aziraphale’s obsessive need to micromanage every infinitesimal detail was lame as hell.

“Well, Friendly…” he reiterated to sate the fussy angel's nit-picking impulses.

Aziraphale's lips sucked to a wrinkled pucker--contemplating if the distinction was enough to mollify him.

“We’re just two immortal beings who barely know each other, temporarily entering into a mutually beneficial agreement to not kill each other-- same difference. Tomato/tomaatoe.”

"It’s Tomato."

"Fuck, whatever!" he barked. "THE POINT is, Angel, I have 5 more months here and then I’m gone.”

Crowley swooped his hand through the air like a rocketing airplane.

“I never met you. You never met me. And we’ll NEVER have to see each other again.”

Aziraphale had almost forgotten about Crowley’s time limit on the assignment.

This could work.  

This could be fine.

That is, if he trusted Crowley at his word.

Aziraphale scrutinized the demon's serpentine mannerisms like an EKG.

“No one--” Aziraphale’s voice trembled and cracked under the pressure. “No one will be hurt?”

Crowley took off his glasses and forced Aziraphale’s eyes to meet his own. The low, yellow glow gave off the illusion of a bonfire smoldering just beyond the surface. The effect was both off-putting and intriguing.

The demon's toothy grin accompanying his response was too sickly sweet for the angel’s taste given the weighty circumstances at play.

“Not A One.” the demon breathed, tongue licking languidly at the last syllable.

Aziraphale told himself he was only holding Crowley’s stare to get an accurate read on the demon’s character, or more so his intention. But truth be it, he couldn’t muster the will to tear away. He hunted for signs of deception, flickers of a darker purpose, or any slippery sliver of ill intent.

The angel’s experience with demons was quite lacking--practically non-existent. From the very beginning, he'd been warned of their deceiving, unfeeling nature--incapable of love or empathy, who's brutality was the root of all nightmares.

But that was so long ago and Aziraphale had certainly changed drastically in that time. Would it be so wrong to have hope in the possibility that a demon could as well?

Crowley extended an elegant, slender hand over the table and the gravitational pull to meet it was unnaturally enticing.

Was this some sort of twisted temptation?

Aziraphale hesitated.

The angel was being asked to make a deal with the devil.

What if Hell found out? What if Heaven did? This whole thing would turn into a disastrous, ungodly mess if it all went pear-shaped and he couldn't see either himself or Crowley escaping unscathed if it did.

On the other hand, it would be far less paperwork and headache (figuratively) if all of this just covertly played out without incident--keeping things off the record as it were. Might be worth taking a chance. Taking a chance on a demon? On the enemy?

Aziraphale swallowed what felt to be a handful of rusty nails.

“Have we reached an agreement then?” Crowley asked, his request dusted with a delicate honesty that knocked the angel's perspective off kilter.

A jolt of nervous energy sparked but smoothed over him like a settling bead of melted wax.

This would be fine, right?

He could do this.

Of course he could do this.

Then why in her Holy Name was his heart pounding with a force fit to break bone?

Aziraphale felt nauseous but charged, ashamed but eager, fearful but exhilarated.

This certainly felt like temptation.

Aziraphale's hand joined Crowley’s and gripped it firmly in his own.

A purple spark flickered but dissipated immediately between their palms.

The handshake was not what Aziraphale assumed it would be.

Scorching sulfur did not sizzle and burn into his flesh. The earth did not crack open beneath their feet to swallow them up. And their arms certainly didn't spontaneously combust in a burst of violet flame.

In fact, the demon's soft touch was instantly pacifying to his worries--like low moonlight filtering and scattering through the imperfections of antique window glass.

The sensation floated up like an invisible mist. It was reassuring in a way, familiar, and (dare he say) comforting? Like a hug one didn’t know they needed until they were surrounded by it.

“Deal.” Aziraphale replied.

Crowley let the angel's hand go and leaned back to cozy into the red, vinyl cushion. He smiled at Aziraphale, and a pleasing heat stirred low in the angel's belly. He looked away, taking another sip of his tea which had long turned cold by now, but he drank it anyway. Crowley continued grinning until the angel squirmed under his unyielding attention and the tips of his rounded ears darkened from rose pink to a brilliant candied-red.

Aziraphale snuck another glance at the demon's uncovered eyes and Crowley bounced his brows playfully at him when he did.

This day was already getting better.

“Rebel…” the demon whispered with a teasing, mischievous smirk.

The heat bloomed through the angel’s cheeks as Aziraphale cracked an impulsive smile behind his mug.

Chapter Text

“That’s IT!”

Without warning, Anathema had Azi scruffed by the collar and was dragging him tripping and stumbling toward the breakroom. It didn’t hurt, of course, but it was rather humiliating to be manhandled by a 5’5”, 120lb brunette while Crowley watched--smirking amusedly from the charting station.

Newt was at the table, happily scrolling through videos of pajamaed baby goats on his phone. He didn’t appear dumbfounded in the least to see his girlfriend stringing up their senior coworker like a prize bass.

“You’re not leaving this room til you tell me what on earth is going on between you two!” warned Anathema, unhanding her captive with more vigor than necessary.

Aziraphale grunted and staggered a couple steps back. He stroked over his chest and sleeves to reset the rumpled creases she left on his uniform.

“I wouldn’t have the slightest idea to what you’re referring,” he informed the girl with an angelically calm indifference.

Anathema was visibly vibrating where she stood. She didn't vibrate like a daisy on a gusty hillside, but more like a bomb with a loose wire. The girl's fiery dedication and stubborn insistence could outmatch any avenging angel--concentrated and vacuumed sealed in a pint-size package for easy travel and extra punch.

“Don’t play stupid with me, Azi!" She snapped back. “Ever since you invited him up to your apartment--"

“You invited him up to my apartment.” the angel scowled. He wasn’t about to let THAT distinction go overlooked but Anathema glazed right over as though it hadn’t been said.

“And whatever happened during that night you spent together must have shaken you up something fierce, because the cold-shoulder you pulled had you going radio silent for weeks!”

"And we did NOT spend the night together," said Aziraphale dryly.

But apparently that was just another important distinction Anathema planned to ignore.

Aziraphale groaned inwardly.

Listening to reason was never Anathema's strong suit. She preferred to follow her own intuitive beliefs and to heck with anyone’s attempts to convince her otherwise.

“But I still held faith you two'd work out your issues eventually. That is until…”

It was then that Anathema’s frustration softened to something more familiar-- a pure, radiant sensitivity Aziraphale appreciated most about her.

“Look, Az, I’m sorry about your apartment--I really am. But something else happened between you two the night of the fire. Something you’re not telling me. Something big.”

Aziraphale bit his lip to stifle an overly emotional response. He’d been trying very hard not to dwell on his apartment or the fate of his possessions…his books…treasures…his memories…

A warm hand on his shoulder coaxed Aziraphale back to the present.

“You’re pretending to be fine, but you've created this labyrinth of smoke and mirrors. Everything’s all tense and secretive and…" Anathema swallowed uncomfortably. "Weird, Azi. It’s super weird…”

“It’s weird,” Newt nodded in agreement, undeviating from the video in his hand. “Kids can always tell when Mommy and Daddy are fighting.”

The angel sighed.

Anathema was correct that the last couple days had been a wax and wane of awkwardness and pleasantries. Crowley’s grumpy attitude toward the group as a whole had improved. The demon decided he'd prefer to go by "Crowley" rather than "Anthony" and the request was enthusiastically embraced by his coworkers. Jim issued him a new name tag that very day and Crowley's slinky walk held a bit more swagger since.

However, personal interactions between himself and Crowley ranged from indifferent to uncomfortable to intolerably straining with no definable reason why. But worrying over inconsequential matters was a waste of his energy. He was a professional and perfectly capable of pushing through the final months until Crowley departed for good. Then he'd be free to wash his hands of the matter and carry on just the same as he always had.

“It really is fine, Ana. There’s no cause for concern.”

“No cause for concern?!” Anathema stepped closer, trying to read between the lines of the angel’s incredibly poor deceptive skills.

“Two months ago, your auras were locked at opposite sides of the spectrum! Now they’re spinning between reds and tans and greys and greens! And the second you're within a foot of each other; they start flashing through the color wheel like lasers at a Pink Floyd concert! It’s almost like you heard a rumor Crowley spit in your afternoon tea and now you’ve been sucked into fighting a psychological war no one ever declared!”

Whatever vital structures had been supporting Aziraphale’s internal organs suddenly dropped out of placement. Churning nausea rapidly expanded through his belly to fill the newly vacated space and Aziraphale attempted to swallow the rising bile before it piqued.

Anathema had always been unnervingly perceptive little witch. And while he adored her, her assessment skills had officially moved to a tier that Aziraphale was unprepared to handle.

“While that’s all well and fascinating, I don’t believe ANY of that can be considered evidence of impending doom.”

“Are the two of you dating?”

Crowley's laughter burst through the doorway from the main room and the angel pinkened.

Anathema had been trying to set Aziraphale up for years and as much as he appreciated a well written romance, he would not be indulging in one of her own creation. Especially when her cupid’s arrow could not have struck a more incompatible mark.

“You speak of wars and mismatched auras, and your evident conclusion is that…” Aziraphale cocked an inquisitive brow “we’re dating?”

Anathema's eyes rolled a full circle behind her spectacles, undeterred by Aziraphale’s unbelievably naive view on the infinite complexities of intimacy.

“‘Love Hurts’… ‘Love is a battlefield’… ‘Every Rose has its Thorn’… those songs exist for a reason, Azi. Relationships aren’t always easy or pretty. But sometimes the effort is worth it when you're in need of a special connection.”

“Or a spectacular railing,” Newt added.

Anathema slapped a hand over her mouth and giggled.

Aziraphale pulled into a sour frown and folded his arms sternly across his chest.

“Would I be correct to assume you’re only broiling me because Crowley's account has failed to satisfy your enquiries?”

“You mean grilling?” Anathema teased sweetly before relenting to his case. “Maybe.”

She gave her boyfriend the go-ahead chin nudge and Newt complied promptly on cue.

“Crowley says even the devil himself couldn't tempt him into a date with you. That you're too demanding, prudish, and persnickety to have any real fun. That narrow-mindedness is not a virtue and, no, tartan is NOT stylish. He thinks you're wound up so tight that if he pushed you off the Empire State Building, you’d probably bounce like a rubber ball.”

Newt flipped to a new video of 5 or 6 baby goats in bright-colored jumpers leaping and boing-ing merrily between haystacks. Newt smiled.

“He also said you’re void of genitalia.”

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped open, a low, wet noise gurgling at the back of his throat.

“And even if you manifested yourself something useful, he doesn’t have the time or patience to teach you how to use it properly.”

“I’m sure that’s just the hurt talking.” Anathema reassured him, but of all the things Aziraphale felt, reassurance was not one of them.

Aziraphale’s bewildered silence must have acted as a catalyst that spiked his coworker’s suspicions. The girl’s delightful brown eyes, usually full of wonder and whimsy, narrowed behind her large, thick lenses, like she held the power to analyze the secrets of Aziraphale’s very soul. Suddenly, her face softened to one of gentle concern and she tentatively brought a hand back to Aziraphale’s shoulder and squeezed.

“Oh, Azi, you sweet flower…” she cooed with supportive understanding “Did you get caught up in a night of hate-fucking and not sure how to deal?”

Aziraphale blinked.

“I-I-Is...is that a t-thing?” Aziraphale stuttered. He shouldn't be asking ridiculous questions to sate some misplaced morbid curiosity. He should have shot down the implication like a rabid squirl before it took a savage, ragged bite out of his credibility.

“Oh yes-of course!” Anathema’s hand drifted up and down the angel’s bicep in gentle, comforting strokes. “It happens when a couple’s powerful underlying attraction is concealed by their overwhelming despisal for one another. Feelings grow stronger over time until serendipity hits them like a freight train, and they fall into an angst-filled night of unbridled sex, sweat, and passion.”

Aziraphale blinked again, a little slower to allow his coworker time to reveal the punchline.

There was no punchline.

“You made that up.” He whispered, part mystified, and part horrified--scrambling to disperse the barrage of obscene images taking shape in his head.

Clutching a string of imaginary pearls, Anathema gasped as though the remark insulted her personally.

“Did not! Enemies to lovers is a VERY popular trope!”

Aziraphale shook his head absentmindedly and distanced himself from the idea and the young lady suggesting it.

“I shall spare you the lecture on romanticizing such an inherently toxic relationship dynamic and simply assure you that my name will never...NEVER be associated with such an atrociously distasteful scenario.”

Anathema flicked her attention to Newt who shrugged.

“So that’s the story you’re going with? Everything is fine.”

“Indeed. Tip-top. There are no militant inclinations, no smoke and mirrors, and most certainly NO copulating--hateful or otherwise. No issues of concern whatsoever. Indeed, my dear, I don’t know how to make that any more clear than I already have.”

And what he said was true.

Mostly.

But Aziraphale was caught in a flurry of embarrassment and deception that had tension creeping its way up his neck like strangling, predatory vines.

The topic had to be cut off at the knees now.

Anathema rested one hand to her hip and stretched out a saccharine grin laced with mischief and wicked smugness.

“So that wasn’t your ass Crowley was pinching ten minutes ago?” she asked accusingly.

Aziraphale flushed and Crowley’s wild cackling echoing from the other room didn’t help.

Much to Aziraphale’s inconvenience and Crowley’s unequivocal delight, the demon discovered he could use the violet spark to zap the angel at his whim. Aziraphale had been crouching to refill an acid jug, unaware the position exposed a strip of skin on his low back. The very loud, very unangelic sound that ripped through him caused Jim to poke his head out of the office like a curious gopher to ask if someone had amputated a limb.

It wasn’t funny.

Crowley verily disagreed and made no effort to hide it.

“He did not grab me, Ana.” Aziraphale glared at his coworkers. “I was merely…startled.”

Anathema’s apparent dismay did nothing to soften Aziraphale’s stance on the subject.

“As I’ve informed you before, my dear girl, I’m not the dating type. And even if I were, I think I’d rather be ‘railed’ by a virulent case of leprosy than date a blasphemous hipster who's drinking habits could drown a fish, has the quaint personality traits of barbed wire, the emotional depth of a rock, and the refined interpersonal skills of a stomped hornet's nest!”

“Oi!” Crowley yelled out from the main unit.

“Stay out of it!” Aziraphale hollered back and promptly readdressed his coworkers.

“So, everything’s fine.” Ana repeated, conveying she knew good and well it wasn’t.

Aziraphale nodded and it was one of his most convincing bluffs yet.

Blustering out a sigh, she released her friend back to his tasks with a dismissive flick of her fingers. Aziraphale didn’t waste the opportunity. He hustles back to the wateroom--hiding his face from the demon sitting behind the computer who didn’t have the decency to pretend he hadn’t listened in on every word.

-----------

Later that night, Aziraphale rang Crowley on his mobile to discuss his concerns regarding the demon’s earlier behavior. He tried to explain that the violet spark was not to be toyed with. That his recklessness not only put themselves at risk, but also the overly curious brunette sticking her button nose way too far into their personal lives. In return, Crowley gave Aziraphale some back talk about needing to lighten up and that he already knew what was at stake, so he didn’t need a fuckin’ lecture.

“You asked for this arrangement, Crowley,” He sternly reminded the demon. “And while I have every intention of carrying through on my part, I can’t do that effectively when you’re flaunting supernatural abilities like a cowboy swinging a loaded revolver.”

Crowley laughed, but in a dark way that suggested he didn’t care for Aziraphale’s analogy.

“You can carry your part however you please, Angel.  But ya wanna know what I think?”

“I’d rather not.”

“I think you’re jealous…”

Aziraphale guffawed.

“That’s Absurd! Jealous? Jealous of WHAT?! Your callous disregard for the safety of others?!”

“You’re jealous of what every human is jealous of…what you don’t have.”

Aziraphale’s face pinched. He did not want to hear where this was headed, but he found himself paralyzed to intervene.

“Just look at yourself, Angel--with your neat little curls and your perfect wee bowtie. You revere Heaven's hoity-toity rules and regulations as irreproachable scripture. Just a celestial drone--completing all that is asked of you with ignorance and pious devotion. Always without question...without complaint. But secretly...I think you hate it."

Aziraphale's pulse picked up to the pounding thunder of an approaching stampede.

"You hate it so much you want to burst out of that prison of compliance and unreasonable expectation and watch the whole damn system go up in flame. You like it when I push you. You like when I spur all those nagging little outliers of doubt, rebellion, and unquenchable thirst. You like it cause you know it’s the closest to freedom you’ll ever get.”

Aziraphale's hands squeezed and wrenched around the receiver until his knuckles went white and tingly and the edge of his ring dug painfully into the joint.

“I know.  I know because I've been there.” The demon's words landed somewhere between hope and despondence--a no-man's-land of ambivalence where both options don’t fit just as much as they do. “We are more alike than you know, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale had tried to be nice. He tried to mind his manners and keep the peace in the face of judgement and adversity. But the gilded chords of decorum that linked his actions to the standards he meticulously honored…snapped.

“We are not at all alike,” spoke Aziraphale with a voice cold as the grim reaper’s touch. “I am an Angel. You, sir, are FALLEN. I am of light, truth, love and loyalty and CAN NOT be tempted by acts of unholy trickery. While YOU, demon, are of brimstone, despair, and temptation incarnate. Ironic… for one who failed the first temptation they ever faced.”

In hindsight, Aziraphale could have chosen a more civil response.

Too late for that now.

The angel fully expected Crowley to fire back with some distasteful, scathing remark that would provoke their disagreement into something more heated.

This did not happen.

He said nothing.

Nothing at all.

Seconds passed and Aziraphale began to wonder if Crowley had hung up on him.

The dead silence broke with a simple, animal-like noise.

“Ngk-Right.” The demon’s voice grumbled through the receiver--rough and weighted and hollow. “Course.”

Crowley pushed out a few more short, nonsensical almost-words that were too low and muddled for Aziraphale to decipher, after which, the line disconnected.

Aziraphale quietly put his phone on the desk and ignored the heavy catch that tugged in his throat.

He tried. Heaven help him, he tried. 

Not his fault demons are naturally quarrelsome and abrasive. 

Of course he didn’t expect Crowley to apologize for his insulting, unfounded comments. And it’s not like a demon would ever actually admit when they’re wrong.

And Crowley could not have been more wrong.