In the days that followed The-Armageddon-That-Never-Was, Aziraphale and Crowley had set up a new arrangement. They would spend their days as they wished, sometimes creating miracles and mischief wherever they saw fit and other times just enjoying the world as it was, not destroyed, but in the evenings they would always come together. They would dine in a place of the angel's choice then go to one of their homes to sleep the rest of the night away. It suited both parties as it adhered to Aziraphale's love of food and Crowley's love of sloth. Some nights they would stay at the book shop. Aziraphale would work on restoring or researching old books for his collection and Crowley would sleep on the old but perfectly preserved couch in the back room. Other nights they would spend the night at Crowley's flat so that he could have the pleasure of sleeping in his own bed. Although, as much as he loved his sleep, if the angel ever expressed the desire for a little snooze Crowley would always give up the bed for him. It didn't seem right to him, an angel sleeping on the couch. It was like imaging his beloved Bentley spending the night in a rusted old garage in one of the seedier parts of town.

It was on one of these nights, in Crowley's poorly lit but stylishly decorated flat, that an old friend decided to pay the demon a visit.

Aziraphale was snoring softly, his white hair sticking up in all sorts of direction and his cream suit perfectly folded and placed upon the leather armchair in the corner of the bedroom. Crowley stood in the doorway a moment longer than he needed. He only stopped in to check that the angel was actually sleeping and not just speaking words of comfort to the trembling house plant which sat by the window. His slim black shades were low on his nose, allowing his yellow eyes to glow in the moonlight as he watched the angel's stomach rise and fall with his breathing. There was something about watching Aziraphale that brought him more peace than he had found anywhere else in the universe. He had been everywhere, done and seen everything, and yet he always found himself here; watching this soft angel and wanting to follow him wherever he went.

Crowley pulled himself from the frame and closed the door softly behind him. Leaves shook in terror as he walked through the hallway back to the front room and lowered himself onto the black leather couch. It was low to the ground and wide, giving the demon plenty of space to stretch out his long limbs as he slept.

They had dined some hours earlier at a new Italian place in Victoria. Crowley hated Westminster, but Aziraphale had read some rave reviews in the local newspapers about Il Posto Italiano and just had to try their spinach and ricotta arancini. Crowley had complained about the location, the name, the food and what he presumed the staff would be like, but dutifully drove them both there and requested a table for two.

Aziraphale moaned loudly as the battered balls of risotto crumbled between his teeth and Crowley tried desperately to feel annoyed about it.

'You have to try one, I implore you,' Aziraphale held his fork out towards the demon, and Crowley took the food from the prongs with his teeth.

He nodded in agreement and then drank some more wine.

'So,' Aziraphale dabbed his lips with a pressed napkin, 'I know you don't hear as much from your side as you used to-'

'We don't have sides anymore, remember?' Crowley wrapped his arm around the ear of his chair and slumped backwards.

'Right you are,' Aziraphale backtracked, 'that being said, I must ask, this influx of youths toting blades and being paid by adults, who should know better, to carry out heinous…' he clambered for a word that wouldn't hurt to speak, 'crimes.'

'Nothing to do with downstairs,' Crowley interjected, 'if that's what you were thinking.'

'I was afraid you would say that,' the angel sighed.

'Finish your food,' Crowley prompted, 'Humans are as they have always been. Tricky.'

'It was supposed to be your influence that made them so.'

'And the world was supposed to end a few weeks ago,' Crowley raised his brows, 'Things don't always happen as they were supposed to.'

'Angels weren't supposed to befriend demons.' Aziraphale offered in a sour tone, but a bright smile broke through.

'Exactly,' Crowley lifted his glass, 'and look how well that turned out.'

Crowley sat upright on the couch. The television was on, tuned to one of the radio stations rather than the normal programming. A low buzzing noise filled the room, not loud enough to hear if one was not alone or immersed in a task. The demon's instinct was to check if Aziraphale was still in bed, but as he stood he saw a figure in the dark. It was not the angel, it never could be. The stench coming from the person alone could never be attributed to the perfectly groomed Aziraphale, but there was also something inherently evil about the air around them. The television speakers buzzed and crackled as the person opened their mouth.

'Hello Crowley,' their voice came out like a slug crawling out of a drain pipe, but Crowley recognised it immediately.

'Dagon,' he said, 'I must say I prefer you as Freddie.'

At least when he spoke to him through the radio Crowley didn't have to see the termites slaloming between the demon's teeth. Dagon was extremely tall and quite slim and to the untrained eye may look a bit stupid. He had a long chin and eyelids that drooped so low it was a miracle in itself that his eyeballs were able to stay put and not slip out down his cheeks.

'To what do I owe the pleasure?' Crowley asked, watching the termites crawl out from Dagon's trouser leg and scuttle towards his plants.

'We know what you did, Crowley,' Dagon said, 'we know that wasn't you who bathed in the holy water and lived to tell the tale.'

Fear was something rarely felt in Crowley's chest. It was alien and unwelcome like a relative who only visits every other Christmas but treats your house like they own it, resting their muddy shoes on your cream couch and leaving their glasses to sweat all over your tables without a coaster to protect the glossed wood. He hid it well, but Dagon could sense it and licked his mud-caked lips.

'I didn't think field work was in your job description.' Crowley said, trying to ease his nerves with a puzzled frown.

'We've had a bit of an office re-shuffle,' Dagon purred like a cat with half a rat stuck in its throat, 'Ligur's position opened up unexpectedly and they needed a body to fill it.'

'So they sent a secretary to do a loan shark's job?'

Dagon reached out a hand and Crowley felt his throat close up tight like a drawstring bag. He was incapable of making a sound as he clutched at his neck and dropped to his knees.

'I'm not a loan shark,' Dagon said, stepping closer to the purple-faced Crowley, 'I'm a bounty hunter, and that bounty doesn't have to include a corporeal form.'

Crowley slapped a hand against the floor, watching black spots appear in his vision and feeling his face turn numb.

'It's time you came home and took your punishment like a demon.'

'Oh no, you don't!' Aziraphale leapt out of the dark, his shirt buttoned unevenly and Crowley's spray bottle gripped tightly in his hand.