This story is something that I wrote for skoosiepants, whose SG:A stories are funny and moving and ridiculous and fabulous. It's impossible to say how many times she's completely lifted my mood with them. Something that she's particularly wonderful at is weaving fairytales with perfect SG:A characterisation; this led to the story that I was inspired by.

The following story is a sort of prequel to skoosiepants' Whatever You Wish For, and will pretty much only make sense if you read that first. Which, for the record, is something that's unbelievably worthwhile, whether or not you decide to read my fic. Seriously, I can't recommend her highly enough. Many thanks to her for letting me play in her sandpit, and also to soupytwist and muffinbutt, who were good enough to let me bug them into looking it over.

This is a gen story, although if you read it in the context of the story that follows, obviously it's pre-slash, McKay/Sheppard.



( Humantales )

"You insulted the uniform, Ray."

Ray vaults over a chair and darts around the desk, keeping it between him and Fraser. The Mountie's got a light in his eyes that makes him look almost evil and Ray's laughing hard enough he almost trips over Dief, who gives an insulted whine and hides under the desk.

"No no no," he manages eventually, "no I didn't, I swear."

"You insulted the uniform, Ray." And okay, so the edge of his mouth is twitching up like he's going to laugh any second, but Fraser's a big guy and Ray's not gonna stop running until he's definitely laughing, for sure, and maybe not even then. For a Mountie, Fraser can be pretty damned sneaky.

"Not so much an insult," he makes a break from behind the desk, diving past Dewey and ducking behind Frannie, holding onto her upper arms and using her as a human shield. "Not an insult, more a - " he raises his voice a little, trying to drown out Frannie's outraged squawking. He lets go one of her arms so he can defend himself from the file she's trying to beat him to death with. "More of a - whaddayacallit. Enhancement."

"Enhancement."

Fraser's advancing across the bullpen like the slow march of death or something, and Ray lets go of Frannie and races for the door. He makes it out into the hallway, close enough to freedom he can smell it, and then a hand grabs the back of his jacket and pulls him backwards, almost pulling him over, tugging him into the supply closet. He collapses back against the shelves, still snorting helplessly, and Fraser reaches up to tug the light on.

"Enhancement," he says again, like he can't quite believe it, and Ray grins.

"Word of the day calendar, Fraser buddy."

"This - " and he reaches around behind himself, grabs hold of the offending article, tugs it into view. "This is an enhancement."

Ray regards the orange and black striped tail and swallows another bray of laughter, biting his lip and attempting to frown thoughtfully.

"I think it suits you."

Fraser stares at him for a second or two like he's nuts which, fair point, and then shakes his head slowly. His 'what the hell am I gonna do with you' look, except Fraser'd never say hell, not even in his head.

"Plus," Ray says, straightening up a little so where he was slumped against shelves now he's leaning, leaning with intent, "it gave me an excuse to stare at your ass."

"...you're incorrigible."

"Nah," says Ray, as he rests his hands on Fraser's hips, pulls him closer, "not until the 17th."

"Oh come on! I really gotta do this?"

Even in this, he's dancing. Interpretive, perhaps, and on the theme of 'raging librarian', (it's the heavy black glasses still resting on his nose that give this impression, I suspect, as well as giving him the appearance of youth. His gun lies haphazard on a pile of unimportant faxes and pizza menus just inches from where I'm perched until it's noticed and placed absently back in its holster), but there's no questioning the grace in Ray's movements. I confess it is - distracting, at times.

Currently harmless, certainly, although it is with some difficulty that I suppress the smile that would tug at my lips; I fear Ray's response, given the circumstances, would be less than diplomatic. Other times my reaction to his customary fluidity of movement has been even less appropriate. But that, I find, is far easier not to reflect upon.

"I'm afraid, Ray, that it's standard procedure."

"Standard procedure?" He clenches his fists in wild blond hair and spins in a small frustrated circle; this time I'm quite unable to prevent a small snort of laughter from escaping. "Oh, yeah, laugh it up, Mountie. I gotta do this, I'm taking you down with me."

He's right in front of me now, two fingers stabbing towards my face, and I lean away, reflexively tugging my tunic down a little in front.

"Well of course, Ray, I had assumed - we are partners, are we not?"

"Right," he says with a little less volume, rocking back on his heels and giving me room to breathe. "You and me, Fraser, we're a fuckin' duet."

Ray spins on his heel, adding a little shimmy to it, looking back over his shoulder with a grin and a wink.

(I've never been much of a dancer, never quite managed to lose myself in the rhythm. I'd never before considered it might be a question of fitting partnership.)

"What the - Fraser, personal space, okay? Driving a car. This ringing any bells for you, buddy?"

Ray's voice is angry but his eyes are laughing, and I've learned enough about this man that I can recognise that while the timing is, perhaps, inclement, the attention itself is not unwelcome.

(You would have thought I would be more confident of such things by now, after so long, but I find that I cannot help but regard every moment of such acceptance as a gift. More than I had ever hoped to have. I told Ray this, once, in an unguarded moment; I begin to suspect that 'freak' has always been a term of endearment, after a fashion.)

I lean back against my door, turned almost sideways in the car, and he glances over once or twice with one eyebrow raised, apparently amused by my regard.

"You got a grin on your face like the wolf when he sees a kielbasa, Benton-buddy." He glances at the road and then back at me. I'd worry more if I didn't know how highly he regards this car. "Should I be worried?"

"I was contemplating the back of your neck." He opens his mouth to speak but I beat him to it, the skin on my face heating a little. "Wondering how much I could allow myself without disrupting your concentration. Resting my hand there would almost be circumspect, if one were to choose to ignore the context. Fingers, though; one has to wonder if varying levels of pressure would have a detrimental effect on your hand-eye co-ordination."

Ray swallows hard, his knuckles tight as he grasps the steering wheel. His eyes are fixed on the road ahead but his ears are flushing a slow pink and I know that he hears me.

"I wonder - if the angle could be managed - what effect my mouth - "

"Jesus Christ, Fraser, are you trying to kill us both?"

I press myself a little more firmly against the door.

"Personal space, Ray," I remind him softly. "Driving a car." But if his driving is perhaps a little more reckless than usual, his speed somewhat excessive on the way back to his apartment, I don't feel I can protest.

Sheppard's hair goes silver it seems like overnight, and it leads to any amount of teasing (although at this point, what wouldn't?) but Rodney suspects it's less about discrete dye jobs and more like some kind of release. The admission that there aren't missions like there used to be, the acceptance of the fact that 'promotion' looks suspiciously like 'desk job', the recognition that you get to a certain age and joints start bitching loudly when you're trying to flee from the spear-wielding natives. With Rodney it's more gradual and less unexpected - the slow creeping retreat of his hairline, gentle expansion of his waist, a reduction of speed in the flailing hand movements ('though the tongue stays just as quick, just as sharp.)

He supposes that he's accepting it with equanimity, which makes it kind of a shock when Sheppard's birthday present stings, a little. He takes it with good grace, though, sarcastic comments tripping off his tongue easily enough as he places the fedora dead center on his head. Sheppard reaches over to tip it to a rakish angle, carefully suppressed laughter in his eyes as the tips of his fingers ruffle through what's left of Rodney's hair.

The next year, it's a floppy hat like the Doctor's, and he takes it better this time. It's kind of fun to lull the new recruits into a false sense of security, wandering around the lab in white coat and ridiculous head gear and looking like nothing so much as an absent-minded and benevolent professor - until they screw up. Then all hell breaks loose and he relishes the fear in their eyes, looking up sometimes to catch Sheppard watching him from the doorway with some strange mutation of his usual smirk on his lips.

The third year, the replica of Magneto's helmet (and god, Magneto), he finally gets it. Finally works out what it is that Sheppard's saying. About age, and acceptance, and about the fact that they've got to a point now where they can look as ridiculous as they damned well please without anyone saying the first thing about it.

(And when the door to his quarters hisses open that night age means nothing - he feels like a teenager again.)

Next time his birthday comes around he's comfortable enough with it all just to beat John around the head with the Homer Simpson mask until they're both laughing helplessly, gracelessly, thighs pressed against each other under the table.

The candles are still flickering on the table behind him. Flickering a little more, actually - likely guttering now since the thin curtains are leaking cold white light around the edges. He is not sure how long he has sat here; the movement in the room stopped long ago with the quiet click of the front door, but he has felt no particular desire to move.

It should not have ended like this, he thinks. To effect so drastic a change in elements, reaction should have had more energy. Arms, and voices, and the door behind her should have slammed.

Maybe this is right, though; loss of energy through reaction, this is simple physics, and starting with so little to spare it makes sense that he will perhaps never move again.

He has run hands through his hair too many times. It stands out from his head full of tangles and complications and trying to smooth it back into place only catches his fingers and pulls at knots.

(This must be why his eyes are stinging, now. It is logical.)

Written for bethbethbeth for the go_exchange.

Aziraphale/Crowley, gen.


( Wednesdays )

Sports Night gen fic, although you can have Dan/Casey if you squint. (Unbetaed.)

( The Beautiful Game )

Something Linn asked me to put up, which was written for her birthday. It was originally intended to be longer, and may be added to at some point.

( Them fic, PG-13 )

It wasn't as simple as apples.

In a world of simplicity- because nothing had yet thought enough to be complicated, and things really were black and white- it was entirely more complicated than apples.

It was sunshine and perfect fruit and the slightest misting of dew and the impossible drama of a storm that had yet to happen. It was the smile that made him want to pull her long hair and twist her head to one side until she cried out. It was the indulgent expression that made her want to curl her nails in as she slapped his face.

It was an eternity away from spring blossoms spiralling above the London traffic, from girls in short skirts and builders whistling from scaffolding, but that was mixed in, as was hot desert winds and the scent of spices and the coffee that's offered with an arched eyebrow and subtle smile.

It wasn't, it had never been, as simple a thing as 'taste'. It wasn't, it had never been, as simple a thing as 'apples'; but how else to describe it? This was where language fell down. This was where no quotation from a leather bound first edition would do.

Everything had once been so much simpler. Everything had once made entirely more sense, before black had faded over time to stormy grey, and white had aged and darkened and worn. Before tea and conversation with the demon in the back room of his shop had somehow superceded the strange detachment with which he'd watched the religious ecstasy he'd inspired.

For the look in Crowley's eyes as he leaned closer, one evening; for the strange feelings running riot in the pit of his stomach… for this, he wouldn't mind a little less simplicity.

Crowley's taste… wasn't as simple as apples.

Billy likes to pretend he's in it for the inspiration.

Everyone writes about the devil, it's like rock star tradition, it's like some kind of boy scout pin badge. You got your unrequited love, you got your anger badge and your pain badge and the devil badge goes right up at the top, right where it shows. Only Billy's not so sure they've got a 'raped by your asshole best friend' badge, and he doesn't even know if they're supposed to have fuckin' pins. This is what childhood is to him; missing pieces. All the things he doesn't know.

And if some asshole jackoff in Seattle can write about - in his big apartment with the '59 strat wrapped up in plastic and a bowl full of fuckin' mangoes - if some asshole can write about the devil then Billy can sure as hell find chords under Sam's fingers over his skin.

(The words are supposed to be in the spaces between the contact).

And Joe's voice, in his head, which is the only place he ever hears it now, Joe Dick's voice, Joe's Dick voice: Isn't that what you wanted, Billiam? The limousines and the '59 strat and the fuckin' mangoes?

Fruit's always been a luxury. It's not something he's thought about.

It was the rider, maybe, the way it started on beer and bread and maybe some ham and then there was pizza and sparkling water and more fuckin' fruit than any sane man would ever eat except maybe Pipe. Pipe was an asshole but that was okay because he knew where he stood.

That's what Billy's in it for.

There's nothing there. No expectations. No lies because when do they ever talk long enough to bring that into it? Billy's got no illusions of it meaning anything; he's a toy, kept on because he amuses, because he answers back, and that's okay because he knows that. It's okay because he's an asshole, and that's all he has to be. There are no illusions and that's why there are no lyrics and that's why he never got a fuckin' scout pin. That's why his songs are still all about Joe, why he's all about Joe. Why that's all he ever will be.

But he likes to pretend he's in it for the inspiration.

One two.

Bam bam.

Right left.

And Fraser's big blue eyes staring at him past the bag he's holding like he's trying to figure Ray out, like there's gonna be some prize at the end of it if the problem gets solved; pat on the back from Welsh and free dry cleaning for a year, maybe. Only there won't be 'cos there's no problem, here. There's no case to be solved outside of Ray's fucked up head and the part where he forgot he was supposed to stop counting.

He was never a one before there was a two, is the thing. He was just Stanley Raymond Kowalski, son and brother and it was Ray who was one... or maybe Stella was one, maybe that was it. 'cos Ray never existed before Stella looked at him with those beautiful blue eyes of hers...

"Ray?"

"Not now, Fraser."

He shakes out his arms, gets back to pounding. Quick jab with the right and the weight's behind the left, like maybe he can hit the bag hard enough to knock some sense into a kid, twenty years ago, who created a whole new personality so he could be number two.

Bam bam.

He's dancing now, weaving like the bag's gonna go someplace only the rhythm's off.

It was a waltz they danced at their wedding, first dance and suddenly shy even though he knew they were good together, knew it right down to the heart of him, beating triple time -

one two three, one two three

- and -

"What the hell good is a law degree, Stella, if you can't even count to three, huh?"

- and -

"Give it a rest, Ray."

Give it a rest. A beat of silence, and it was back to two. Three was never even - he'd thought it was something they'd wanted, but it turned out Stella always knew what she wanted, all along. And it wasn't a family, it wasn't kids. Hell, it wasn't even Ray and the rests kept right on coming until it was more pause than music. You couldn't dance to it, that was for damned sure.

And how the hell can you be number two if there's no number one, huh?

So maybe he was back to Ray. So maybe he'd been back to Ray until he'd started noticing how Fraser smiled, and the way he licked his lip when he was nervous. Until he started noticing the beat. And he wasn't sure he could do this again but how the hell did you learn to stop counting?

Right left.

Bam bam.

One two.

Bernard was hunched on the shore of the lake, watching the wind send small white-capped waves scudding over the surface of the water. There was a cigarette between his lips and a bottle of Souza gold (opened and well on its way to becoming a philosophical conundrum) planted next to him, and that was the side on which Crowley sat, close enough that he could reach it if he wanted. Bernard scowled at the waves and stubbed out the dog end on the stony ground before taking a long swig, putting the bottle down on the other side of him, away from Crowley. The demon looked at him sidelong and then shrugged, starting to sort through the stones around where he sat, choosing one every now and again and adding it to the slowly increasing pile by his side.

There was a long silence before Crowley picked up one of the stones he'd collected, tossing it up and catching it a couple of times before cocking back his arm and letting fly. It bounced five times before sinking out of sight.

"Not bad." Bernard's voice was a little rusty, he knew, but Crowley could attribute it to the cigarette, the tequila. Whatever. Fuck, he could blame it on the cold night air and Bernard's delicate constitution, if he wanted, if it was easier. Besides, the line of Crowley's immaculate black jacket'd be spoiled by a Tonks Pocket. He almost snorted and then scowled again, not wanting to think about Nymphadora.

"Think you can do better?" Crowley's voice was challenging and Bernard had reached over and taken the offered stone before even thinking, reacting to the tone more than the words because he didn't refuse challenges. He didn't toss the stone, though – just turned it over between his fingers a couple of times before swearing softly.

"I don't think I can do this."

"'Course you can." Crowley leaned back, arms supporting his weight, a grin on his face. "It's all in the wrist."

"Not this, Crowley." He dropped the stone and pulled another Camel from the battered pack he'd cadged off one of the bar's itinerant musicians. It took a while for the match to light and then he took a drag, smoke leaking slowly from his mouth as he pressed the knuckle of his thumb hard against his forehead. "All of this." He waved his other hand at the lake, the forest, the bar behind him. "It's too much."

Sunglasses turned his way, Crowley's expression fucking unreadable. He was regarded thoughtfully for a while and he hunched down further, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette and taking another swig of tequila, passing the bottle over just to disrupt the blank stare.

"The angel's inside. Talking to 'Dora."

It was physically impossible for Bernard to hunch any further, and hunching'd let Crowley know he'd scored a hit, so he straightened his back, instead. Like that was any better. Like Crowley didn't already know something was up.

Sometimes it was a fucking pain in the ass, having a best friend.

"Okay, well, what are the possibilities, I wonder?" Crowley started ticking points off on his fingers. "She's pregnant, and you can't take the responsibility. You're pregnant, and she can't take the responsibility. Sunny's fallen through some weird time wormhole and has come back pregnant, and neither of you is coping well. Your work. Her work. Your scandalous affair with the angel. Am I getting warm, yet?"

"Asshole." Slightly warmer tone of voice, this time. Crowley did that to you. Bastard.

"The original, and still the best." The demon smirked and buffed his nails on his lapel, aggravatingly smug.

Bernard rolled his eyes and flicked the cigarette towards the water.

"Her job. As usual." He rubbed the back of his head with one hand, uncomfortable. "It's… how do I deal with this? Not ever able to be there for her, having to wave her off; bye honey, have a nice day, it'd be good if you come back alive?"

Crowley shrugged, face unreadable. "Make sure you kiss her before she goes, and never let her leave on an argument."

"Not fucking comforting, Crowley."

"Not my fucking fault, Bernard."

Bernard turned to glare at him, spots of high colour on his cheeks. "You're no help, you know that?"

Another stone, flung by the demon – only this one didn't bounce, just ploughed straight into the water, leaving choppy waves in its wake.

"It's no easier if you get to go with them."

Bernard paled slightly, and looked back out over the lake, because it was easier than looking at the demon's face, right then.

"I just. I don't know why she has to do it. She's got me, she's got Sunny, she's got the bar. She could stay."

It was a long moment, before Crowley spoke.

"You ever have a thing for Jane Fonda, Bernard? The big hair, the ridiculous outfits…"

Bernard looked at him, nonplussed.

"Is there supposed to be a point?"

"Bear with me. Yes or no?"

"Maybe. I guess."

Crowley nodded slowly.

"So… say you've been married a few years. Sex is routine. You think maybe a little roleplay. And hey, you've got a girl who can do not only the outfits – she can look like whoever you want, too. And you wore that sheep outfit for her, it's only fair, right?"

Unconscious movement of hand to pocket as he grits his teeth. "I would never fucking… don't ever say that."

The demon looked directly at Bernard.

"Same thing. It's not just a job, it's a part of who she is. She's good at what she does, and she's not going down without a fight, and she can take care of herself. You just have to have the balls to trust her to do that."

"Yeah." He pulled the box of matches from his pocket and fiddled with them. "Yeah, I know. I just can't help getting frustrated when she comes home looking like she's taken on the world and lost, and then we end up fighting, and – does it get easier?"

"What?"

"The arguments. How do you deal with it? I mean, you and the angel have known each other forever. How come you always sort it out?"

Crowley pulled off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes.

"Don't make me say it."

"Say what?"

"You utter, utter bastard."

Bernard flailed slightly. "What did I do? I just want to know why."

"Because. I. Love him." A yellow eyed glare. "Wanker."

"And that's enough?"

Crowley looked at him for a long moment.

"Love each other, and you'll be happy. It's as simple and as difficult as that." He grinned, and got to his feet. "Now I've got an angel to be getting back to, and I think you need to talk to your wife-to-be." He held out a hand. "Stop being a git and take advantage of the time you have with her."

Bernard shook his head, and let Crowley pull him to his feet.

"Thanks."

"Yeah, yeah, don't spread it around. I'll never hold my standing as top ranking bastard." Smirking, he turned, and sauntered back to the bar, leaving Bernard alone to stare at the water for a bit before grinning and heading back to the staff quarters.

*

Yeah. The angel had definitely been here.

Nymphadora was curled up on the sofa, asleep. Clutched in her hand was a tartan handkerchief, there were another couple screwed up on the arm of the sofa, and there were a couple of used mugs on the floor. He crouched in front of the sofa and carefully brushed dark hair away from her face, and she opened her eyes and blinked sleepily up at him.

"Hi."

Her voice was a little hoarse, and her eyes were a little red, and he leaned forward and kissed her softly.

"I'm sorry. I love you."

Her lips curved into a smile, beautiful smile, and he could look at it for the rest of his life. He would look at it for the rest of his life. He'd make sure it appeared as often as possible.

"I love you too."

And hey, Crowley was right. That was the most important thing.

Crowley sighed. He lobbed his tea bag at the bin, and it was some indication of his state of mind that it fell directly in, rather than splatting against the wall and leaving an annoying brown stain, as it usually did.

"My dear, are you quite alright?"

Crowley stared at him for a moment, sunglasses rendering his expression unreadable. "Fine."

"Well you certainly don't look fine. Maybe it's some kind of virus...?" A gentle hand against his forehead, and it was a moment before he could shake it off.

"It's not a virus, angel, I'm a demon."

Aziraphael grabbed his arm, fingertips trailing over the sensitive skin of his wrist before Crowley snatched his hand back. "Your pulse is racing, my dear!"

"Sod off, I'm fine," he shot back, through gritted teeth. He stood abruptly, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair and turning to find Aziraphale stood too close, his eyes the ridiculous blue of a Indian summer sky. He froze, unable to move as the angel raised a hand to cup his cheek.

"A little too warm," Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley nodded, dry mouthed. "Ah, calpol it is then, and off to bed." The angel smiled sunnily and patted his cheek. Crowley silently cursed all things Heavenly, and those Below as well, for good measure. Then sucked in a shaking breath as he was kissed, gently. "Got to keep your strength up, after all."

Crowley had never seen quite that smile on the angel's face before. He decided he rather liked it.

Aziraphael leaned back against the counter, and sipped his tea, and watched Crowley. It really was one of his favourite things to do - not just because Crowley was, when it came down to it, really rather attractive, but because of the faces he pulled when he believed himself to be unobserved.

The demon had entirely too much control. It was enormously frustrating to know that he knew precisely how he looked at every moment, and that he had planned it for greatest effect. To know that he hadn't quite relaxed, in your company.

It was also frustrating that he never smiled. He smirked, sneered, sniggered and snorted, crooked the corner of his mouth slightly in a way that was both intensely annoying and... well, prompted thoughts that Aziraphael really wasn't supposed to have... but he never seemed to smile. There was never honesty in his expression. Which was only to be expected, in all probability.

But these moments when he believed himself to be unobserved were what the angel particularly liked. When he reacted to a book and not to the the knowledge of his audience, or when he was completely absorbed, as he was now, in a crossword at the kitchen table. He was staring at the clues, unseeing, chewing absentmindedly on his lip and tapping his pen against the edge of the newspaper, an inverted constellation of inky black stars.

Aziraphael smiled, slightly.

And Crowley looked up, and caught him looking, and smiled back

Rearrangement


Aziraphale stopped conducting the Handel and frowned out of the windscreen.

"You might want to put the windscreen wipers on, you know." It had been a nice day, until they'd left Tadfield – apocalyptic thunderstorms and the like, which had been making ready, were unwilling to go on their way without a small show of resistance; sullen clouds loomed low over the English countryside and rain that was virtually horizontal was blatting against the glass and almost entirely obscuring the view.

"I'm sorry," he continued, a little more politely. "What was it you were saying?"

"I said, that could have gone a hell of a lot worse." Crowley paused, then shrugged. "Literally, actually."

"Oh. Yes," said the angel. "I suppose you're right."

"It happens more often than you give me credit for." He scowled at the clouds for a second, then pulled his sunglasses down his nose and squinted over the top of them. "Lot of fuss about nothing, when it came down to it, which shouldn't surprise me with this lot. It's like I say – it's not about individuals, not any more. You can't spend a year picking away at one soul any more than you can expect the fate of the world to rest on the shoulders of an eleven year old boy. People are people everywhere, and the important part of that is they're not, you know, persons."

"That's a bit pessimistic, isn't it?"

"I know, usually your line. I'm just saying that it was all a bit of a pantomime. I mean, giving all that power to a kid who's been brought up on Saturday morning cartoons and the works of Franklin W. Dixon, most likely."

"Which wasn't exactly what was intended…"

"Which, I'll grant you, was not exactly what was intended." Crowley spared him a quick sideways glance. "Only maybe it was. We don't know, do we. What was all that you were saying about ineffability?"

"Oh," said Aziraphale vaguely, staring out of the window at a field of bedraggled cows. "That was all for show. Actually I thought we were all going to die."

Crowley snorted.

"That's what's so great about you, angel. That sunny outlook of yours. Is that in the mission statement? Anyway, as I was saying – could be we were doing exactly the right thing all along, in any case."

"Yes, but you're a demon." Aziraphale still wasn't looking at him. "I don't know if it's actually possible for you to do good."

"What's put you in this mood?" The Jeep swerved onto the wrong side of the road for a second, passing a mini and narrowly avoiding getting flattened by an articulated lorry. Aziraphale's knuckles were white around the end of the armrest. "Before we left it was all wine and ineffability and now – "

"And now I've had time to wonder if we're going to get into terrible trouble for all this."

Crowley pushed his sunglasses back up his nose and switched on the windscreen wipers. He'd preferred it, on reflection, when the angel'd been looking out of the window – he looked wretched.

"I'd rather not think about that."

"We did – " Aziraphale's hands were twisting together in his lap and Crowley beat a sharp tattoo on the steering wheel to try and rid himself of the urge to grab the pale hands and force him to stop. "We did do the right thing, didn't we? When it came down to it?"

"I'm not sure it's actually possible for you to do evil," said Crowley, trying to sound reassuring.

"I hope so," answered the angel, quietly. "I really do hope so."

There were tailbacks on the M25 – it was no great surprise. Somehow, Handel's water music did very little to fill the silence between them, and Crowley was almost relieved when the angel didn't invite him in for a cup of tea. Almost. He stayed where he was, the Jeep's engine idling, until the shop door had closed and a distant light had switched on – the kitchen, if he was any judge.

"Bollocks," he said, to no one and nothing in particular, and switched the windscreen wipers back on as he pulled away.

It was going to be a dark and stormy night.

*

Sleep was not something that the angel had ever managed to quite get a taste for. It had always seemed rather a waste of time one might use for reading, only there was nothing he could quite manage to settle to and there was only so much tea that even an angel could manage to drink.

Aziraphale was lying on his back on the sagging sofa in the back room of his shop, watching occasional flashes of lightning starkly delineate the cracks on his ceiling, his hands laced together and resting on his stomach. There had been an exceedingly local lightning strike a while before and he had rather taken advantage – it wasn't as though anyone else would be in the shops at this time of night, and the small localised black out had meant he hadn't had to struggle his way out of the mire of cushions in order to turn off the lamp.

He wasn't thinking about anything in particular – or rather, he was trying not to think about anything in particular. He'd rather hoped that Crowley might have suggested a cup of tea, or a continuation of the drinking they'd started earlier; he would have been able to ungraciously give way, overtly grumpy in case of watchers, and distract himself comfortably from the discomforting thoughts that were preying on his mind.

Ineffability, that was the problem. It was rather hard working out what was supposed to be the right thing to do when the very nature of God precluded any sort of understanding – as far as he was concerned, what they had ended up with had … well, felt right. A sort of narratively satisfying ending, as though it could be underscored and left, a new chapter begun. His conscience hadn't really been pricking him at all, which was somewhat unprecedented when it came to working with Crowley – it had dulled over time, that was certain, but there were still always the traces of uneasiness. Not this time. Only, well, whether or not it felt like the right thing to do there was unfortunately rather a difference between what was right according to Himself, and what was right according to those Above. It would be nice to believe they might sweep it all under the carpet, what with having been got the better of by a gang of eleven year olds and a singularly inept grouping of occult – or ethereal, if you like – influences. It would be nice to believe that.

At this rate he'd be worrying himself all – well. He'd be worrying himself. And there was no harm in asking.

Aziraphale rolled to his feet, stomach still sloshing faintly, and decisively shifted the desk – a rather easier undertaking than usual, since it had yet to collect the usual layer of papers and books and book-binding bits and pieces. He knelt down to roll up the threadbare carpet, then tutted and went in search of a piece of chalk; Adam, thorough as he unquestionably had been, hadn't managed to restore things quite as they had been.

A large circle was traced on the floorboards with great care. It had really been an awfully long time since he'd done this, and his mind was rather too occupied for the precise recollection there ought to be, so he improvised. A couple of verses from the Cabala, some of the nicer sections of John's interesting Revelations, and a snatch or two of poetry that the Metatron had always rather liked. He lit seven white candles, placing them at equidistant points around the circumference.

Then he stood in the center of the circle, cleared his throat, and uttered the Words.

A bright blue light shot down from the ceiling and filled the circle. After a minute or so, Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably.

"Er. Hello?"

There was no answer, although the light remained just as bright as ever. The angel hunched his shoulders a little.

"Hello? Anyone there?"

Of course there was someone there, that was the thing. He could tell. There was a very vivid impression that someone or other was listening, quite possibly with pen poised and notebook waiting.

"I'll. Er." His voice sounded rather thin, all of a sudden. "I'll just be going then, shall I?"

Still no answer, and Aziraphale walked rather briskly out of the circle; it had been worth a try, worth the effort to find out, and if it hadn't worked it felt rather as though that had been for the best, when all was said and done.

The blue light didn't fade away, though. Not even when he blew out the candles.

*

The houseplants were trembling.

It was almost possible to see them leaning away from the unfortunate diefenbacchia that had dared to lose a leaf some time in the night.

The day had dawned far brighter than the night would have suggested, small wispy clouds looking freshly laundered, birds singing, sunlight pouring in through the window and throwing the side of Crowley's face, half turned away from the window, into shadow. He was tapping the withered leaf against his lips, seemingly lost in thought.

The diefenbacchia wilted slightly.

"To be," Crowley eventually mused quietly to himself, "or not to be. That is… a bloody stupid question."

Because it was always about being. Being, and continuing to be, and living to be another day.

Only then there had been Antichrists, and apocalypses, and the angel's voice with a polite 'excuse me'. And there had been the conviction that things were going to be Okay, only then they weren't again, and it had felt worth fighting for. Tyre irons didn't amount to much, and even running he'd only have managed another five minutes or so, but he'd have had those five minutes. Only he didn't.

Which was where the whole mess started up again.

He wanted to think it was because five minutes wasn't all that long, anyway. And because the heroes never went down without a fight – only when in the Hell had he started thinking of himself as a Big Damn Hero?

It was all the bloody angel's fault, that was what it was.

Crowley grabbed his jacket and his car keys, and slammed the front door on his way out.

Some indefinable tension that had permeated the flat eased, slightly… Until he slammed back in again, and picked up the diefenbacchia.

"Thought I'd gone bloody soft, didn't you? Ha. You should be so lucky."

This time, when he slammed the door, it was hard enough to make a picture fall off the wall.

*

"Aziraphale, you about? Brought you a plant."

Crowley put the pot down on the counter, picking up a book and idly leafing through it. It was pleasantly cool in the bookshop – it always was. Huge bookcases piled higgledy-piggledy made a mockery of window dressers in the upwardly mobile shops surrounding – although it had to be admitted that most of them tended towards blacked out windows or discreet blinds. It was a source of endless amusement that all of this had accreted around Aziraphale. There was probably a metaphor involving pearls in there, somewhere, but it was edging a little too close to Biblical rhetoric for Crowley to feel comfortable expanding. In any case, the light that did manage to wend its way into the shop was diffused and indirect, making it impossible to see for the moment or two of adjustment from the bright sunlight outside.

He always made a point of moving the umbrella stand a crucial couple of inches to the right, before leaving.

Aziraphale insisted that the lack of light was the best thing for the books, and that was no doubt true, but Crowley couldn't help but think that it wasn't the whole reason. The fact that it seemed to discourage more customers than not had to be more than a happy coincidence.

"What are you doing here?"

The angel's fluffy head was poking around the top of one of the bookshelves – playing with his kickstool again. It wasn't exactly his most welcoming tone of voice; Crowley folded his arms defensively and managed to poke himself hard with the corner of the book.

"Well that's a nice welcome, isn't it. No 'hello, Crowley', no 'how're you coping with continued existence'…"

"Hello, Crowley." Resignation, in his voice, but the faintest touch of laughter too. Enough that Crowley held hopes that he might get offered a cup of tea later. "How are you today?"

"See, that's more like it. One of these days we're going to manage a polite greeting first time around, and from then we might even progress to compliments, although I wouldn't want to rush you. I mean, it's only been six thousand years."

Aziraphale chuckled softly, and Crowley found himself grinning in return. And then the angel spoke again, and his jaw dropped.

"I do not love you except because I love you."

"…what?"

"Neruda." Aziraphale nodded at the book he had in his hand, and Crowley thankfully dropped his gaze, his brain making entirely unhelpful noises. "It goes on the second shelf to your left, somewhere between that book on pottery and Being and Nothingness. If you would?"

"Right." He looked vaguely at the book for a second or two longer, then went over to shove it on the bookshelf. "And what," regaining composure, which was rather easier with his back turned, "kind of cataloguing system is that, anyway? How's anyone supposed to find anything?"

The stool clattered across the floor, and Crowley turned to face the angel, who was a good deal closer than he'd been.

"If people only looked where they ought to be looking, my dear boy, they'd only ever find what they thought they wanted. This way, they might well find what they actually need."

Crowley blinked. Sometimes sunglasses were a ble- a very good thing.

"Yeah, that or you're just being a contrary b- "

"Now now, Crowley." The laughter in his voice was considerably more pronounced. "There's no need for language like that."

"Language like what? You didn't give me a chance to say anything."

"I could hear you thinking it."

"Insinuations are all in the eye of the beholder, angel. Could be I was thinking innocent thoughts about puppies, and, you know, rainbows."

Aziraphale shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose and entirely failing to suppress his laughter, and Crowley could feel himself grinning somewhat idiotically in return. It was a hell of a relief, far more than he'd anticipated, to know that nothing had changed.

"You going to offer me a cup of tea, then?"

And Aziraphale cast a glance towards the back room, and when he looked back the smile had entirely faded.

"I really don't think that's ever such a good idea."

"Oh."

"It's not necessary, is it?"

Crowley's stomach squirmed.

"Necessary?"

"Well if you've something I really ought to know – "

"Not today. I've got stuff I should be doing in any case." Crowley saluted ironically, stung far more than he'd ever have thought he'd be. "I'll see you when you need something, angel. Ciao."

The door shut behind him with a satisfying clatter, and he stood for a moment or two, feeling oddly bereft. And then he shoved his hands in his pockets, and mustered up a smirk, and sauntered in the direction of Oxford Street; no rest for the wicked, after all.

*

"Bugger."

Aziraphale waved a hand and the sign on the door flipped over the 'closed', the lock clicking shut. He kicked the stool out of his way and it fell over with a crash and rolled to a halt in the children's section. (Although he didn’t believe that adults should have any help perpetuating their tastes, there was a clearly defined section of books for the young – he looked on it as something of a public service and made sure to disrupt the Sky television signal in the local area, every now and again.)

"Bugger and blast."

The pile of books on the counter that he'd been meaning to get around to reshelving for some weeks now loomed at him accusingly, but he ignored them in favour of picking up the plant Crowley had left and carrying it with him into the back room. The door swung shut behind him silently as he cast around for somewhere to deposit the pot, and he eyed the bright blue shaft of light that had yet to dissipate balefully.

"Dash it," he muttered, half under his breath.

The kitchen, he decided, would suit. It was the only place downstairs in this building that got any real light, and killing Crowley's plant would just be the icing on the cake. Skirting the circle had become habit, and Aziraphale fussed around with saucer and water, placing the plant Just So, before he came back out into the back room and stepped deliberately into the circle.

"Well?"

His tone of voice was rather less deferential than the last time. Again, there was no answer, but the quality of the silence felt as though it had changed slightly. Aziraphale folded his arms.

"I'm waiting…"

Still no reply.

Frustrated, Aziraphale frowned and disentangled his arms, one hand on his hip and the other with finger waving.

"Look, I won't have you playing silly buggers with me, you know. I'm far more likely to know the rules. If you have something to say to me, I'd much rather you said it and got it over with."

It dawned on him, all of a sudden, that he was shaking his finger at the collected Company of Heaven. It was not something he made a habit of, to put it mildly. The finger went on wagging for a moment or two quite without his volition, and then he folded it back into his hand safely.

"Yes. Well." Aziraphale cleared his throat, uncomfortable, feeling rather like a duck squawking defiance at the QE2. "If you'd like to have a word, you know where I am. Obviously. If not, I have work I ought to be doing." And he stepped decisively out of the circle and went to make himself a bolstering cup of tea.

A little later on the day was improved, rather, when he found that sweeping into the circle caused the dust to disappear with a pleasant sort of 'twing'. It was certainly going to make cleaning somewhat easier, although he did wonder vaguely where it went.

*

The boiled sweet hit the businessman in the back of the head with a damp little noise and slid slowly down the hair, anchoring itself just above the collar of his particularly expensive shirt. He whirled around instantly, his glare focussing on the woman with her young son, standing next to the suave looking guy in the sunglasses.

"What the hell did you throw at me, you little brat?"

The woman drew herself up to her full height and glared right back.

"What did you call my son?"

"I'll call him worse than that, lady." He passed his hand over the back of his head, and made a disgusted face. "What the hell is this? You should keep better bloody control of your spawn!"

"Spawn?"

Crowley went on his way, smirking to himself. It had been a pretty productive day, all told; since Aziraphale had refused to lay any sort of claim to Traffic Wardens he'd considered them fair game and had directed their footsteps accordingly. Third time this week along the same few streets, and he could almost taste the outrage. He could virtually smell…

Wait. What the hell was that –

"Hullo, Crowley."

Oh, said Crowley's internal monologue helpfully. Shit.

"Hastur!" The tone of voice was almost dripping with 'ol' buddy, ol' pal' but the thought process behind it was more like that of a rat backed into a corner. "Long time no see."

"Not really."

"No." Crowley cleared his throat, and looked from side to side with an air of poorly concealed desperation. "Suppose not."

Hastur stepped out of the doorway in which he'd been lurking, squinting in the bright sunlight, and bent down a little, his thin face twisted into the nastiest smile Crowley'd seen since they stopped putting the heads up on London Bridge.

"Hows about you and me go somewhere for a little chat, eh?"

"Chat," said Crowley hopelessly. "Yeah."



It was Sunday. The first day of the rest of the world.

Around three thirty.

St James' park was reasonably deserted – the world was still trying to pick up the pieces after an event that no one could quite remember. There were a couple of students, holding hands and trying not to catch each others' eyes, and a tall man feeding the ducks.

And there were also Crowley and Hastur.

They sauntered side by side across the grass. In actual fact, Hastur was doing most of the actual sauntering. Crowley was moving more in a sort of deferential crouch.

"Been visiting old friends this morning, Crowley, have we?"

"Don't know what you – "

"Funny thing. There was me thinking 'is bookshop'd all burned down. Right to the ground. Now where would I get to be thinking somethin' like that, eh?"

"Um. Because it did. Sort of."

"Terrible shame, that." Hastur's voice was oozing concern, and Crowley's mouth was dragged up at the corners into something that wasn't so much a grin as it was a terrified rictus. "Angel was lucky to survive."

"Yeah, well. He wasn't in it at the time."

And Hastur stopped. Dead.

"And how would you, Crowley, be knowing a thing like that? Not your place to go knowing a thing like that now, is it?"

"…er."

"Fraternisin' with the enemy," said Hastur, in a voice with far too much unholy glee. "That's what they call that. Wouldn't like to think what'd happen to you if the Boss himself got hold of information like that, Crowley. I'm looking forward to the punishments you will receive. The lowest imp, in the nethermost pit of Hell, will pity you. The most damned of all damned souls, Crowley, will rejoice over the fact that they are not you." And his laugh was like rusted chains. And Crowley shuddered.

"You think the Boss doesn't know?"

Hastur's eyes narrowed, a gleam of animal cunning in them.

"He's not been in touch yet, has he?"

Only he wasn't quite careful enough, and Crowley could hear the genuine question in his voice. And a slow, a very slow grin started to spread across his face.

"He didn't talk to you first?" He shook his head, slowly, sucking air in between his teeth. It hissed, and his grin spread a little further. "So you're working on your own initiative, then. And that always goes down well Below, of course."

Hastur's grin hadn't faded at all, but it was rather frozen.

"Could be promotional material, that could. 'Course, there's not much in the way of actual opportunities when you're a Duke of Hell. Not unless someone else makes way first." His grin was wide now, wide and careless and bordering on the manic. "Maybe I should be telling Dagon to watch his back, eh?"

"Oh, you're gonna suffer," said Hastur, but his voice lacked the menace it'd had before. Now it was bordering on the sullen.

"Probably true." And it probably was.

"But not today."

*

Aziraphale brushed the last of the breadcrumbs off his hands decisively. The park didn't have nearly the calming effect it ought to when Crowley wasn't there.

Except – as the angel turned to go, and caught sight of the only other inhabitants of the park (the students having gone long since, to avoid each others' eyes somewhere rather more private) – Crowley was there. And looking rather harried. Or, well, harried in that particularly Crowley way, which seemed to involve somewhat crazed grins and ridiculously suicidal actions. It was in some hopes of preventing the latter that Aziraphale headed over, managing to catch the end of a conversation.

" – tomorrow, though. I'd watch out if I were you."

"Yes well. If you're going to have eternal torment, best it always start tomorrow."

"Good afternoon, gentlemen."

They both turned to face the approaching angel, Crowley's expression dissolving into something rather closer to panic once more. Hastur's welcoming sneer was just about as bad, and Aziraphale considered him for a moment and then pointed a finger in his direction.

"Begone," he instructed the demon pleasantly, "foul fiend."

There was a rushing of wind, and a pop that made the hearer feel as though their eardrums had just been turned inside out. The angel smiled, satisfied; Crowley was still gaping at the space where Hastur had been.

"…did I know you could do that?"

"No," Aziraphale told him smugly. "In spite of much provocation, might I add."

"Where's he gone?"

"I'm not entirely sure." At Crowley's faintly horrified look, he smiled innocently. "There's a tendency towards home, I've found, wherever that might be. Or else, for some reason, Wolverhampton."

"And it'll last – ?"

"Not all that long, really." His smile melted into a look that was stranded somewhere between nervous and hopeful. "I don't suppose you'd like to repair somewhere for a nice cup of tea?"

"Depends," said Crowley, and he folded his arms. "Is it really necessary?"

The angel shifted his weight uncomfortably, rubbing his hands together.

"Ah, yes. About that, Crowley – "

"Yes," said Crowley. "About that. I wouldn't like to think I was cramping your style, angel, so I'll just be off. If you need anything, you have my number."

Aziraphale watched him walk away, and it was a good few minutes before he noticed that he was still rubbing his hands together fretfully.

"Right," the angel said, softly.

*

"Right," rather more angrily this time, as he stormed into the back room of his shop and stood in the middle of the circle of blue light, hands on hips. "Now listen to me. I've had it just about up to here," he demonstrated, "with all of this mucking about. Either you have something to say or you don't. If you do, very well. I'm more than ready to hear it. If you don't then I'd thank you to allow me to get on with my work in a room with a carpet, as Himself no doubt intended."

Continued silence, for a minute or two, then the sound of a cleared throat.

It wasn’t the sort of noise that indicated a persistent tickle; rather more the annoying reedy sound of someone determined to indicate their continued presence while wishing to appear humble, as though their greatest wish was to not go causing any sort of bother. Aziraphale, startled, took a step backwards, quite out of the circle.

In response, the light intensified, concentrating itself into an area that would be a little taller than a regular human if the shoulders weren't quite so hunched. Gradually the light solidified and faded, leaving in its wake an angel in a rather threadbare robe of a colour that had probably been white before he'd taken to wiping his pen on it. He had a pronounced stoop, probably exacerbated by the (admittedly impressive) wings that sprouted from his back – the lush plumage threw into sharper relief his rather thinning blond hair.

He was brushing dust off his robe, with rather a pointed glare.

"Oh heck," said Aziraphale, quite without meaning to. And then, collecting himself, "er, hello, Gabriel. Tea?"

The other angel stepped over the chalk line fastidiously, moving rather as though he wasn't quite used to walking. He took his time looking around the somewhat shabby back room, and Aziraphale had to stand with his hands firmly in pockets in order to suppress the urge to bustle about, tidying up bits and pieces. He was embarrassingly aware of the dirty mugs by the sofa, the newspaper spread across the table with its half-finished crossword, the numerous books that cluttered virtually every surface.

"And this is how you live, is it?"

"Um," said Aziraphale. "Well, yes, actually. It's more comfortable than you'd – "

"Why?"

"Because – " he paused, slightly off-balance, then rallied. "Because it provides a useful cover. Not to mention the fact that I was instructed to learn about them. For more effective thwarting, you know. And they do so love to write about various vices. Crowley said – "

"Ah. Yes."

And Aziraphale bit his tongue, rather painfully.

"Crowley." The palpable distaste in the archangel's voice was as bad as the most telling moue of distaste, though his expression didn't change. It was the aural equivalent of watching someone pick up something distasteful at careful arms length, with tongs.

"Yes," he answered with some defiance. "Crowley."

"The demon." Gabriel ran his finger along one of the bookshelves that lined the walls, rubbing his fingers together afterwards and looking rather at the dust than at Aziraphale. "He was against Hell, at the end. Explain, please."

And somehow defending Crowley's actions, defending Crowley, was far easier than if Gabriel had asked for an explanation of how he had, when it came down to it, stood in defiance of Heaven.

"He's not so bad, once you get used to him." A look at the archangel's expression and he continued, hurriedly. "I mean, he's doing his job, rather as I am. And his job is humanity, and it seemed so – " another pause. It was rather like navigating a minefield – "he couldn't see the reasoning behind it. I think he's grown rather fond of humans."

"Hmm."

And Gabriel turned, and met his eyes and… clearly it had been entirely too long. Aziraphale had forgotten how it felt to be at the other end of that sort of look – impersonal compassion. And the feeling that one's sins were written across the back of one's head, in very great detail, there for the reading. He quailed, rather.

"Very well," the archangel eventually concluded, and Aziraphale shook himself, watching as Gabriel delicately stepped back into the circle. "As you were."

The blue light winked out of existence at the same time as Gabriel did, and Aziraphale breathed easily for the first time in a good long while, it felt like. He knelt to roll the carpet back into place, and he didn't even mind the fact that his hands were shaking.

He ought to tell Crowley.

That was just what he ought to do.

*

"Hi."

Crowley was sitting on the exceedingly stylish sofa in his apartment, flicking playing cards into the bowl he'd set over by the television.

His aim was perfect.

It sort of ruined the point.

"This is Anthony Crowley. Uh. I'm probably not in right now – "

He scowled at his answering machine, the ace of hearts bouncing off the rim of the bowl and skidding across the floor. Who'd be calling him, in any case? If it was telemarketers again, he had a good mind to do something really bloody rotten to them.

They'd seemed like such a good idea at the time, too.

" – or asleep, and busy, or something, but if you leave your name and, y'know, number – "

"I'll be sure to phone back when I know you're in the bloody shower and hang up just as you get to the phone," he muttered wrathfully.

"BeeeEEeeeEEeee."

"Hello, Crowley."

The angel's voice. Warmer than it had been; back to normal, in fact, and it was kind of odd to think quite how friendly 'normal' was. Quite how pleased Aziraphale often seemed, to see him.

"I wouldn't dream of insinuating that you might be sitting there listening to this message, my dear, but if you should happen to hear it in the next couple of hours, or so, I'll be at the Ritz. And I believe I owe you dinner."

The gentle click of the receiver was echoed by the four of hearts hitting the television screen.

If only Aziraphale'd be consistent somehow, he'd be a hell of a lot easier to bloody resent in peace, was Crowley's considered opinion. He got up and walked over to the table, grabbing his keys and his sunglasses and shrugging into his jacket. It'd be easier, after all, to resent him from up close.

Crowley slammed out of his apartment, determined to order the most obnoxiously expensive thing on the menu.

And he wouldn't let the angel steal dessert, either.

*

"'snot like I'd let you get eaten by the bear. Not entirely - "

" - thass dreadfully kind of you, m'dear – "

" – just use you as a diver. Thing. Sion. Chew on you a bit, find a sneak, stick up on him, pow! Bob's your distant cousin."

"Pow?"

"Pow."

"Gosh."

Crowley propped himself a little more securely on the angel's shoulder and stared at the side of his face.

"'sa very polite bear," he eventually offered. Aziraphale appeared to be too busy searching through various pockets for his keys to offer an opinion on that.

"Aha!" The angel managed to get the keys into the lock on his third try, and he turned his head and smiled in a way that was reassuring and familiar and doing exceedingly odd things to Crowley's stomach. He carefully disentangled himself, taking a moment to find his balance, and stepped away.

"I'll be – I'll be, y'know – "

" – coming in to help me with a fine Clos Vougeot grand cru? There's a chap."

Burgundy. Damned angel and his damned wine and Crowley couldn't quite remember why he ought to be annoyed at being offered another bottle, but he was doing his damnedest in any case.

"Manip- manipu- crafty bugger," he muttered, as he followed him into the shop.

"Pull up a pew." Aziraphale chuckled to himself as he wandered off to find the corkscrew. "In a manner of speaking, you know."

"Oh, yes. Very – " the demon dropped onto the sofa, then winced and fumbled under himself to extract a particularly pointy 1984 – "very funny. Hilarious. Cheers." This last as a brimming glass of red was placed in his hand. He settled himself a little more comfortably, as Aziraphale lowered himself into the armchair.

"I think," the angel said, staring into his glass of wine, "we ought to talk."

Three and a half bottles of wine were suddenly trying to fight their way out of Crowley's stomach.

"Nothing good ever starts with that."

He was feeling, suddenly, rather more sober.

"I wouldn't say that." The angel was slurring less, too, which wasn't of any particular comfort. "I just thought – well. We've had something of an Arrangement for a good number of years, now."

" – nine hundred odd years – " he muttered into his glass.

"Quite, quite. And it seems a little off to have something so important go without a revision or two, in so long."

"Ha!" said Crowley, bitterly. "Says the side with the Bibles."

"Yes, well." He had the grace to look a little uncomfortable, at least. "That's quite beside the point. I just thought I should point out that I don't think it's doing nearly so good a job as it used to."

"Really," Crowley asked, heavily.

"Really. For a start, I'm not at all happy with how often we've been seeing each other."

"Right." The red wine appeared to be at war with the oysters he'd had and he clenched his teeth tightly, head bowed.

"I don't see how I can be expected to have a successful liaison with you if I'm lucky to catch you every six months or so."

"…what?" Crowley lifted his head, not entirely sure he'd heard right. The angel was twiddling the stem of his wineglass between his fingers, seeming entirely occupied with it – a faint flush of pink painted his cheekbones.

"I thought perhaps it might be more fitting to make it a regular thing, you know. Every other week, perhaps."

"Oh. Right." He could feel the smile slowly spreading across his face, and didn't make the slightest effort to stop it.

"And of course the Ritz might well pall, but there's always sushi, or Greek, or – I'm given to understand London's a dreadfully cosmopolitan city, these days." A small answering smile was tugging at the corners of the angel's mouth, too.

"And of course there's always galleries," Crowley added helpfully. "Exhibitions, film festivals, you know."

"It's important to keep abreast of the current distractions from the Church." Aziraphale was entirely failing to appear solemn.

"I think," said Crowley, lifting his glass a little, "that that is something I can happily drink to."

Somewhere, no doubt - muffled by traffic or no - a nightingale was singing.

Aziraphael poured them both another glass of wine, still chuckling quietly to himself.

"Rancid yak butter? I can't say I have, and I must admit I'm truly grateful. Some of the things people do to tea make me awfully glad I'm not so free with the flaming sword as I might be - if I were Michael, now..."

Even Merriman had relaxed enough that the corners of his mouth were tilting up a very little.

"Michael's fond of tea?"

"Gracious no, no. But he's so very fervent when he does get worked up about something. Try spilling something on his little skirt, sometime. Or... rather, don't."

Aziraphael took another sip of his wine, cradling the glass in his hand an leaning back in his chair.

"Of course, the very worst of all was Oscar. You'd never think it to look at him, but he always managed - mostly it was distraction, I think. He was like a magpie, you know. Always - " a graceful movement of his free hand - "flitting off to find a snatch of poetry or a quote or to fix the knot in his tie."

His smile had the faintest touch of sadness to it.

"I suppose it's a measure of - I won't put up with cold tea for just anyone, you know." He looked away. "Greater love hath no man than this, and so forth."

Naomi had Zoe's eyes, that was the main problem. Big and beautiful and ridiculously deep brown and Crowley looked at Aziraphael who was laughing entirely too hard to be of any use whatsoever so he turned a glare on her father.

Wash was sitting in a wicker chair that was fraying at the edges, leg stretched out in front of him and a huge grin on his face. Zoe was leaning on the back of his chair, her arms loosely wrapped around his neck.

"Now, dear." She pressed a kiss to Wash's temple, looking relaxed and happy - motherhood suited her. "Can't go forcing a man to go against his nature, not in public at any rate."

"But he's not a man, he's family." The grin coloured Wash's voice, and he took Zoe's hands in his. "Also there's precedent, baby, can't ignore the precedent."

"Angel - "

"Don't look at me, Crowley. I'm not getting involved for fear of a far worse fate being assigned. It's only playing horsey, in any case, it won't kill you."

Crowley sighed long-sufferingly and bent to grab her under the arms and lift her, shrieking with delight, to sit on his shoulders. The lollipop she'd had, unnoticed, in one chubby hand, ended up in his hair.

"You," he said ominously, glare trained on Wash who was crying with laughter, "are going to die. Slowly. And no one will ever find the body."

"Sure they will," Wash eventually managed, wiping his eyes. "The angel'd rat on you in a second. No offense." This last was directed at the Prior, but he was looking away, looking at Crowley. A strangely tense moment of silence, between them, before Aziraphael replied.

"I don't know that I would, you know. You'd probably be wonderful for my garden."

"GIJJUP!" Naomi shrieked, and Crowley rubbed his face and obligingly trotted off, the loud laughter of the others echoing behind him. His back was safely turned before he grinned.