And then there was…

It was a rather odd set-up. One never seen before in Hell. Although, that was the case every third Monday of November. It was an enjoyed pastime for some of Hell's inhabitants. Every so often, a name would be drawn and the design would be planned out and put up at Headquarters.

Standing in the doorway was a rather dashing man. At least, he had taken on the appearance of one. He was a baked sort of shade, a shade of something left in the oven for just the right amount of time. His face was slim and angled fiercely, deviously, as though his visage were carved from stone. And from this face, flitted about the two slit eyes of a snake, bright, piercing and ringed with emerald. His raven hair was slicked back against his head carelessly and habitually with his hand, save a renegade lock that curved down to his right brow. The lock of hair touched lightly upon it now that it was raised in curiosity as he gazed about the room.

It was small with shining, cream-colored floors and rows of plastic chairs, hugging close to the walls. In the middle of the room was an island of desks and cubicles. On this island, a troop of rather plain and miserable people stood, stamping and filing. They were almost gray with tragic dullness.

Crawly grimaced at the sight of it, having grown fond of the Tower of London layout from last month. This new one lacked a certain class and style. Brick, mortar and chains was a bit more hellish, in his opinion.

Little did he know that the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency would be as close to hell as any mortal would get without dying.

He obeyed the plastic plaque above his head that said, "Take a number" and yanked from the mouth of a massive, grizzly, black, ferocious, terrifying, grease-covered, red-eyed…It was a hellhound. And he yanked from its mouth a small ticket with the numbers 669. He clicked his tongue at his bad luck and sighed, looking around the waiting room for an available seat. The place was empty, save the few stranded office workers on their island of federally-funded despair.

Crawly offered the nearest one a slight toss of the head with a smirk, but this gesture was only met by a drooping, blank stare and an impatient growl from the mangy beast before him.

He sat down, nearly swallowed by the exaggerated curve of the plastic chair and waited, his eyebrow raised farther to the automated chime and voice that drifted through the room.

"Number 56, Window 8" it said.

And Crawly, frowning down at his ticket wondered if there was any significant relation between the two.

He sat still, never blinking – there was no need to – and never moving – he had no place else to be. And after a good, long while of waiting, a flood of people came in dressed in fine lace, golden cloths and shoes that clicked from a far too generous amount of heel – at least for any man. A fresh batch – all of them the condemned of their time. Crawly felt a smirk rise at his lips as he played spectator to this event.

He himself had taken to a similar sense of fashion and lounged stalky and slim in his black coat and red vest. His long legs were trapped within a tight prison of trousers, which were only a nuisance when he bent down to get things too quickly. (Then, they were not only a nuisance, but a ripped nuisance as well.) A single buckled shoed tapped the air with a sort of joy at watching the newcomers stumble about.

"Wh-where are we?" one of them dared to ask Crawly, seeing as there were some familiar qualities about him, apart from the two eyes that stared intensely into his.

Crawly looked around him. "Isn't it obvious?"

A look of realization mixed with pitiful expressions of horror on the men's faces.

"Oh, God!" one of them cried out.

"No, no, we'll have none of that down here." Crawly warned them. Then, whispered. "My dear Lord Satan can be a bit sensitive when people go about tossing that name around."

"Number 669, to see The Duke Hastur." the disembodied voice chimed.

The men all jumped with a start, looking about them for its source. Crawly's grin only widened.

"Well, that's me. Best be off now." he told them, getting up from his seat.

"Wait." another begged. "What should we do?"

"Hell if I know." the demon chuckled.

He strode toward the door, flicking his tongue at the hellhound and then turning to the damned batch with an icy glow in his eyes.

"Welcome to Hell, gentlemen." he purred. "I hope you enjoy your stay."

"Crawly, I've been expecting you." said Hastur, Duke of Hell.

He sat quite proudly at his desk, fingers steepled downward and an unpleasant smile on his face. Of course, this was more likely known as his ordinary smile, given that there was nothing pleasant about him.

Crawly lowered himself to a stiff bow. "My Lord."

"I have called you here to carry out a task." said Hastur.

"And what would that be?"

"Well, if you shut up and let me tell you, you'd know." he shot at him, his patience perpetually running thin.

"My apologies." Crawly nodded. "Continue."

Hastur glared at him as he leaned back in his chair. "I want you to ascend. Wreak havoc in the name of Lord Satan."

This was met with a questioning look and Crawly asked, quite innocently, "Haven't I done that before?"

"I want you to stay there." Hastur clarified, rolling his eyes at him.

"Come again?"

"I want you to stay in the mortal realm."

These words made a sort of panic rise in Crawly. Not because he was afraid of the mortal realm, just that he knew how dreadfully boring it was.

"May I ask why?" he said with forced calmness.

"They've been sending down their Agents of Light. Might as well send up a few of our own."

"How many?"

"One, so far."

"One." Crawly scoffed. "Well, surely anybody could do that."

"Which is exactly why I'm assigning you with the task."

"But why?" Crawly whined.

"Because, I said so." Hastur replied with a paternal sternness.

Crawly was not sure how to reply to that and with a look of both defeat and suppressed annoyance, he said, "I'll take my leave as soon as possible."

Hastur smiled widely, his teeth yellow and riddled with little green somethings.

"I'm sure you will." said the Duke.

He needn't say another word, nor give a snap of his fingers, nor a complicated gesture of the hand. Crawly was sent away within a second's pass.

This, of course, was no time for Crawly to register what had just happened. Baffled, he took a look around him.

Beneath his feet were withered, brown leaves. Around him were the thin bones of trees. Creatures, furry and small, flitted around with a quickness that made them look like blurs. And there was but one other thing that made him realize where he was, if not anything else. For on the face of the demon Crawly, the sun hit with warm radiance through the barren trees.

His slit eyes squinted and he let out a long, well-deserved groan as he stood in his lonesome in the World of Men.

"Welcome to God's Good Earth." the sun seemed to stay. "I hope you enjoy your stay."

Crawly took on the name of Anthony J. Crowley. It wasn't much of a stretch, but had a certain ring to it. He had yet to find a name for the "J" to stand for. James was so ordinary and only menacing by the way of kings. Maybe Jove for ironic reasons or something sporty, like Jim. But for now, he was content with it standing for nothing at all. He was much too busy to bother thinking about it anyhow.

During his time on Earth, Crowley had done a good bit of work. Nations all around regarded him with the utmost terror as an unholy creature that wreaked havoc wherever he went.

(It is said by some that he was often seen riding a massive, black horse. Which was true in a sense. Crowley didn't so much ride his horse as he did grapple with it. Whenever he rode past any town or village, in the distance, a dark figure could be seen hanging half-way off the horse, blessing and hissing. This couldn't be helped though. Animals have an instinctual reaction to disaster or fowl and unholy creatures – the poor beast couldn't help but try to throw its rider off at times and it often did.)

But as much evil bidding as he did, Crowley was becoming increasingly discouraged. It seemed that every demonic deed was met with a not-so-dreadful outcome.

He whispered into the ears of many travelers the tale of El Dorado and there were plenty of shipwrecks, war and death, but after a long while of searching, they all decided to pack up and go home. There was also his starting a revolution in France, one that would go down in history as the bloodiest of its time. But, when it was all over, he learned that revolution wasn't such a bad thing really. Even the highest of condemnations he had received, the one that he had taken most pride in and put the most effort into, was still rubbish in the end. He had created tuberculosis and leaked it out on the world, only to find that it inspired a man, making him one of the most revered writers in history. For this, Crowley would forever shake an angry fist at the mental image of a Mr. Edgar Allen Poe. This was enough to discourage any demon, but he knew that he had no choice but to crack on.

Currently, the year was 1925 and Crowley was taking up flat in America, looking more dapper than what was good for him in the year's latest fashion for men. He had found it much easier and entertaining to walk alongside the mortals, listen to their music and eat their food – the third he did during most of his free time. He managed this by wearing a round pair of sunglasses always. And when invited to take them off, he would decline, muttering something about his eyes being sensitive to light.

He lounged around in restaurant after restaurant, enjoying himself far too much at speakeasies. And it was from an alleyway one morning that he stumbled out into the streets of New York, leaning against a wall before boiling the alcohol right out of his system.

Miraculously sober, he straighten himself up. hen, smoothed back his hair before replacing his fedora. He flattened out his jacket, tugged down at his vest and started making his stroll down the street to his flat.

The day was plain, but pleasant and there was nothing extremely significant about it, at least, for Crowley.

On this day of February 21st, 1925, the very first issue of the New Yorker was to be published and for anyone who took stock in first editions, anyone who was a connoisseur of literature or even a part-time collector, regarded this day as one of the greatest to ever pass on Earth.

As Crowley made his way down the street, he happened to pass a newsstand and the back of a familiar head. He almost chose to ignore it, but could not help but turn back around and tap the shoulder of the man in front of the newsstand.

"Excuse me," Crowley began to ask.

And when the man turned around, he was met with a familiar face - round and soft like a child's. The angel looked up at the demon with wide, curious, blue eyes. On his head was a thicket of bright, blonde curls and a straw top hat. He stood a head shorter than Crowley in his tartan patterned suit, the gold chain of a watch looping just below his holy heart.

"Aziraphale?" Crowley breathed.

"I'm sorry," the angel frowned. "Do I know you?"

"Of course you do, it's me, Crawly."

The angel's eyes widened at the name and a warm smile. "Crawly, is that really you?"

"In the flesh." Crowley smirked. "Though, it's Crowley now, Anthony J. Crowley."

"Well, it certainly is good to see you." Aziraphale beamed, shaking his hand with an unexpected vigor.

It had been so long since Crowley had seen another one of his kind. He had once met up with a demon who misplaced an iceberg a while back. The last he heard of him, he had gotten a condemnation and a promotion after the sinking of a very big and expensive ship. Ever since, he had felt this dreadful sense of loneliness that mingled with his sudden lack of confidence.

It could never be said why the angel would be glad to see Crowley, he was a demon after all, but it wasn't all that difficult to assume why Crowley was happy to see him as well.

"You've certainly changed a lot since I've seen you." Aziraphale said, returning Crowley's hand to him.

"Huh? Oh, yes." Crowley replied, looking down at himself. He had come a long way from a snake in the garden. "I guess I have. Looks like you've changed a bit yourself."

Crowley poked Aziraphale's plush stomach with a slender finger. The angel blushed coyly.

"I suppose I have been indulging more than I ought to lately." he told Crowley.

The demon chuckled. "There's nothing wrong with enjoying a bite to eat every once in a while."

"Now, you and I know that that isn't true." Aziraphale hinted.

The two laughed at this while the man behind the newsstand tried to think of why a thing like that should be so funny. You just had to be there to get those sorts of things.

"What are you doing here anyhow?" Crowley asked.

"Oh, I'm buying this." Aziraphale said to both his acquaintance and the man behind the stand.

He plucked up a magazine and rummaged in his pockets for fifteen cents.

Crowley looked down at it and frowned. "You came all the way down here for that?"

"No, no, of course not. I've actually been down here for some time." Aziraphale said to him and then to the man. "Thank you."

"How long?" Crowley asked, trying to keep in pace with the angel as he was off to do whatever else he'd decide to do today.

"Hmmm, I'm not sure. Time just seems to get away from me these days." Aziraphale replied with a shrug.

Crowley could understand that. He could barely remember how long it had been since he'd seen hell. There were even times when he had forgotten he'd actually lived there.

"What brings you here, Crowley?" the angel asked, tucking the magazine under his arm.

"Me? Um…well, business really."

"That's nice." the angel grinned at him. "Care to join me for lunch?"

"Oh, um…alright."

"It's just been so long since I've talked to anyone, you know, 'other-worldly'." Aziraphale explained. "And I think it'd be nice to catch up, don't you?"

"Yeah, alright."

The two carried on like this over the next two weeks or so – meeting up in restaurants to talk of old times and of new ones. It was always decided that whoever was the last to say "not it" would have to pay the bill. So, it was always Aziraphale's treat.

Crowley enjoyed their time together. Aziraphale was good company, for an angel anyhow, and he felt that with each meeting that came to pass, he felt less lonely, less bored and much happier.

Today, they decided on a quaint Italian place not too far from Central Park. And as they sipped their wine, Crowley tried very hard to explain to the angel some business about Schrodinger.

"Well, that's life, isn't it?" Crowley went on. "Not knowing what's inside the box until you open it."

"But you just said that there was a cat in the box."

"Yes, but not literally."

"Well, why would someone bother experimenting with a nonliteral cat?" Aziraphale argued, his cheeks and nose starting to grow red from the wine.

"I don't know why I bother with you, Angel." Crowley sighed.

"Sorry." Aziraphale smirked. "More wine?"

Crowley downed the rest of his last helping before he wordlessly held out his glass.

"Why do you think so deeply about things that there's no use thinking about?" Aziraphale asked.

"How do you mean?"

"Well, life, existence and all that, they're ineffable, indescribable. There's no possible way for you to think of everything, let alone the reason behind them."

"I disagree." said Crowley. "I've got all the time in the world to do that and even after the world's good and gone, I'll have time still."

"That's another thing." Aziraphale told him, taking a sip of his wine. "How is it that you've always got time to waste with me? I thought you were here on business."

"I was – I am. I'm just…taking a break is all." the demon stuttered nervously.

"And why's that?"

"It's just hard work, wreaking havoc on the world."

"You could always do some little things. You know, like…tie people shoelaces together or...move the furniture an inch out of place so people can stub their toes on them." Aziraphale suggested.

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you giving me tips?"

The angel blushed. "Not really, just a few little…suggestions."

"Huh." was all Crowley managed to say as he slumped back in his seat. "Imagine, a demon having to take advice from an angel."

"Well, I do know my share of wiles, Crowley." said Aziraphale. "What with the smiting and all."

"Really?" Crowley asked carefully. "Like what?"

Perhaps the angel could help him after all. Maybe all he needed were some fresh ideas, things he hadn't tried before.

"Well," Aziraphale started off after swallowing a bit of food. "There was this one time when the Plague hit that I had a few healers born. It didn't take that big of a chunk out of it, but entire villages were saved sometimes."

That was no good, Crowley had already tried his luck at pandemics.

"Anything else?" he asked hopefully.

"Hmmm." Aziraphale said thoughtfully, tucking his hand beneath his cheek. "There were plenty of others. All over the place really. I remember trying to stop the Great Fires in London, but decided it might just be easier to give them a way to rebuild the city and even better than before. Then there was some matter with tuberculosis and a few things during the Hundred Year's War. I can't remember all of them though."

The angel went back to his satin pie, smiling past the taste that was so good, he was sure it was sin.

Crowley stared at him, shocked into silence. There was the slightest flicker of red behind his glasses.

"Tuberculosis?" Crowley asked, terribly puzzled.

"Mm-hmm." Aziraphale replied, making sure to swallow before he went on. "You remember the outbreak, don't you? Terrible business – 'good' work on your people's part – and I was all alone down here when it happened. So, I figured, if I couldn't stop it, I'd make good of a bad situation."

"Really?" said Crowley with forced patience. "And what was that exactly?"

"Well, I guess you can say I played muse to some people. Told them that they should vent their sorrows in an artistic way. Some things can't be helped. So, coping is the next best thing in my opinion."

"In what way did they 'vent', if you don't mind my asking."

Aziraphale shrugged. "You know, the usual business. Art, music, poetry."

"Like Edgar Allen Poe." Crowley guessed.

Aziraphale nodded. "That's right."

With that, Crowley turned away almost mechanically and slid out of the booth. He took his leave, but not before making a complicated gesture of the hand and sending what remained of Aziraphale's pie flying right into his face.

Squinting quizzically past a mess of chocolate and cream, Aziraphale wondered what he had said to upset him. He smeared away a bit of pie from his eyes, licking his fingers quite carelessly and chased after his friend, who was already halfway down the street. He fumbled for his handkerchief all the while trying to keep up with Crowley's long, heavy strides.

"Crowley, why'd you do that?" Aziraphale whined, wiping away at his face with little success.

"You know bloody well why." he shot at the angel, keeping his eyes locked on the sidewalk before him.

"Well, for whatever reason, I doubt it was good enough to waste a perfectly good piece of pie." Aziraphale muttered.

"My condemnation!" Crowley shouted, suddenly turning on him. "The only good bad job I ever did and you went and smited it!"

Aziraphale shrank away from the demon's scorching rage.

"Smote." he corrected in a small voice. "And I honestly have no idea what you're talking about."

"Tuberculosis, that's what I'm talking about! You work your black heart out on a thing, just to get it blown up in your face with a puff of smoke and pixie dust!"

"We don't use pixie dust." Aziraphale reminded him.

As an angel, it is expected that Aziraphale be attentive and caring in nature, sensitive to other's emotions, which he was. But it was an entirely different matter when it came to the feelings of demons. In order for one to be empathetic, one must be able to understand what the other is going through. And for a being completely incapable of enjoying, let alone, partaking in the evil-doings of demons, the right way to approach this situation was hopelessly lost on him. He could only respond in what way he could out of common decency.

"I know that!" Crowley barked at him. "But what I can't understand is why after all my hard work, you had to go and ruin it!"

The right wheels were beginning to turn in that miraculously crowded head of his. The comprehension of what Crowley was talking about could be found somewhere between the thirteenth edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica and the program to Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest, played in St. James's Theater in London.

"That was you?" Aziraphale gasped.

"Yes, it was me. Of course it was me! You said it yourself that you were all alone. Well, guess what? So was I! The only reason I'm in this bloody realm is because of you!" Crowley bellowed, shoving a finger at the frailly-nerved Aziraphale. "They said there was only one other when I got here and it just had to be you, didn't it?"

"Surely, you must be mistaken. I only intended –"

"Oh, don't try to play coy with me. You did to smote it, I know you did!" Crowley cut him off.

But Aziraphale could only answer the demon with the coyest of expressions on his face when he squeaked, "Smite."

Crowley's lips pressed into a hard line, the two red rings in his glasses were beginning to intensify.

"You know," he fumed. "I thought you I might actually bring myself to call you a friend, but it turns out you've been the reason behind all my problems, haven't you?"

"I wouldn't say that." Aziraphale frowned.

"That's the problem with you lot. You've always got to get in other people's business, even when they've clearly got a job to do. Now, I can't ever show my face in Hell again because of all the time's you've ruined my plans."

"To my knowledge, I may have only ruined just that one." Aziraphale said in his defense.

"I doubt that." Crowley hissed venomously.

He turned away from him and began to make his way back down the street.

Aziraphale felt something boil up inside of him, an emotion he never knew he was capable of and with eyebrows slanted and his pie-covered face molded into a look of determination, he shouted at the back of the demon's head, "You don't have to go blaming me for all your faults just because you're a bad demon!"

Aziraphale immediately felt another emotion wash over him as soon as he said it, one much more concentrated than petty frustration – he felt guilty. And even more so when the demon turned around and the look of rage on his face softened to something like sadness and the red glow in his eyes faded to nothing.

"I'm so sorry, Crowley. I didn't mean it." Aziraphale said, his voice growing thick with apologetic tears.

But Crowley only looked at him a moment longer before turning away and disappearing into the heavy foot traffic just at the street up ahead.

Since that day, Aziraphale saw neither hide nor hair, nor horn or thorny tail of the demon Crowley. (Demons, of course, do not have thorny tails. They do not have horns either, but it could be understood why one would believe that, when searching for a human-looking demon in a city abundantly populated by humans).

The angel's days seemed longer and emptier. It was almost to the point that even the purchase of a perfectly rare book was not enough to fill his time – almost. Aziraphale paced in and out of bookshops, madly trying to distract himself from the heavy sense of guilt constantly hanging over his head like some sort of tormenting halo. (Angels do not have halos, none that are visible, at least. Instead, think of it as a concentration of goodness enveloping them, one that shines an invisible flame and can only be seen by the select few who think they are dying or are suffering from extreme cases of dehydration. This was a lot like that, only a much harsher flame, one that chewed and gnawed away at the angel's sensitive and compassionate disposition).

There were times when he sat in the restaurants they had visited – the ones that were especially good in their pastry-making – and waited for his friend to join him. He felt though, that even if the person he had expected to sit across from him did, he would not deserve his company. Aziraphale made a mistake and that is a heavy burden for a being as seemingly infallible as an angel.

So, quietly and alone, he would read and eat nothing. And days went on like this until he was almost in danger of losing that plush stomach of his. Food was only as good as the company you enjoyed it with.

But one particular afternoon, Aziraphale decided to take a walk in the park. Actually, he was just making a stop by the newsstand, but the story in the paper was so engaging, that he did not realize how mindlessly his legs carried him along as he peered down at the article through his round-rimmed glasses. It wasn't until he heard the crisp grass flatten beneath his feet that he looked up.

The Park was lit up by a generous sun, making everything glow with fresh radiance. There seemed to be a sudden barrier between the bustle of cars and people and this quiet, green place. Trees whispered songs while birds sang along. Children were at play. Mothers were chatting. Sweethearts were holding hands. All of it was beautiful and it almost felt like home to Aziraphale in a way that a bed and breakfast does to a weary traveler. He removed his reading glasses, slipping them back into the pocket of his coat and then, folding the latest news of the Monkey Scopes Trial on itself. He tucked the paper under his arm and began to stroll around the Pond.

Little feathered creatures glided around, tails wiggling to and fro. The angel smirked, feeling an instant love for them, but wondering why it was that they were made to look so silly. Sometimes they would dive, disappearing completely and then reappear, seemingly dry, after a few quick shakes. There were a million flutters coming from the Pond as nearly all of them found a reason to plunge into the flat, green water, just to come up and shake their tiny, round heads. Then, little by little, they all began to congeal into a mass of fluttering, silly things at the Pond's end.

Aziraphale followed their pilgrimage up to a small stone peninsula, where they congregated and proceeded to make their demands. The rock sat like an overturned gondola in the water and who should it be sitting atop this rock than the demon Crowley himself.

From where Aziraphale stood, Crowley seemed trapped in a painting. As he sat on the rock, surrounded by a mob of ducks, a gray bridge arched over his head, framing him, quite perfectly, in this moment.

Any English major of prestigious air would proclaim that the bridge was symbolic – Crowley's own halo of torment. But Aziraphale was not an English major. He didn't have to be to understand that when a friend was feeling sad, you just knew. And when a best friend was sad, you felt it too.

Hesitantly, Aziraphale made his way toward Crowley, unsure whether or not his presence would be welcome. But as he made his steady journey to the end of the rock, Crowley made no hint of objection to it. Surely, he must have noticed the angel as he stood over him, but he chose, for now, to remain silent as he looked out into the Pond.

Crowley held in his hand what was left of a brick, it seemed. It was, in fact, a loaf of bread, but none like Aziraphale had ever seen before.

"What is that?" he frowned.

"Pumpernickel." Crowley replied without meeting his eyes.

He tore off a chunk and tossed it into the water, watching as the ducks tangle in a scrimmage for the one piece. Victory went to one of the more greedier ducks, which Crowley was slowly becoming annoyed with. He had contemplated whether or not he should throw the whole loaf at it and be on his way, but he decided against it and supposed that there was still hope yet for the underduck.

Aziraphale crouched down and observed with him, sneaking a glance over at Crowley, unsure whether or not he had returned this glance from behind his dark glasses.

"Why pumpernickel?" Aziraphale asked.

"It's tastes awful." said Crowley. "They seem to enjoy it much more than I ever have. It was practically made for them."

Aziraphale nodded, not understanding entirely and sat down with his legs pulled up against his chest.

"Crowley…" he began in a small voice. "I really am sorry for what I said."

"Don't be." was the reply. "I thought about it and I think you're right. I am a bad demon."

"No, don't say that." Aziraphale begged. "Please don't believe that. I didn't mean it."

"You didn't have to mean it, it's true." Crowley said, flinging another piece of bread into the water. "I'm a terrible demon."

Aziraphale was crushed by this, feeling utterly helpless. It's one thing to hurt someone by saying things you don't mean, but another thing entirely to make them believe in those very same things.

The expression on Crowley's face was blank, but in it, there were a few cracks where the pain of such sorrows could not be concealed.

He tore the loaf in half and handed a piece to Aziraphale.

"They're growing restless." he said. "If they revolt, I don't think I could fight them off on my own."

Wordlessly, Aziraphale took the bread and proceeded to toss pieces near the back edges of the bunch. A few hungry ducks swallowed their share happily – glad to have finally gotten the piece they had worked so hard for.

"So, how often have you been coming here?" Aziraphale asked carefully.

"Every day."

"Oh." was all he could say.

He searched the vastness of his mind for what to say next, but in all the time he had distracted himself with piles upon piles of books, Aziraphale never once thought of what he might say to Crowley if he ever got the chance to see him again.

Little did he know Crowley was suffering from a similar case of uncertainty and could only think to say what few things he had and offer the angel a lopsided chunk of bread.

"Crowley," Aziraphale started off, quite blindly. "What makes you think that you're not a good demon?"

Crowley sighed. "You know why."

"No, I don't." Aziraphale said with a measured patience. "Of course you're a good demon. The terrible things you've done have gone down in history."

"Human history." he corrected. "If we measured everything by how humans regarded it, everything would barley be worth anything."

"That's not true."

"Really?" Crowley challenged smugly. "And why not?"

"Because…look around." Aziraphale said. "All of this is because of two humans. Just two – no more, no less – who happened to do a very simple but bad thing and looked what happened. Millions upon millions of people rushing in and out of stores, down the streets in cars, flying in airplanes, making music and we're only just in one city. We'd have to measure everything by the way of humans because this is what it's all for. They're His favorite for a reason."

Crowley thought about this and though he agreed, it was not enough to convince him that he was wrong.

"That may be so, but whatever bad thing I did, never lasted. I mean, no matter how hard I try, it just turns out to be a good thing in some way or the other."

"Not always." Aziraphale said guiltily.

"Aziraphale, even if you hadn't smo – smi…interfered, I'm sure it wouldn't have been much different." he told him. "I'm just no good at being bad. It's always been that way. I've always put so much effort into doing truly wicked things, but humans – the way they carry on without thinking – it's like they've got it built in there somewhere. And there not even evil all the time, whereas I, a demon, should be. I have to try to do all the terrible, nasty things that they do without the slightest bit of effort. I mean, if the truth of evil lies in man, why do I even exist? What good am I as a demon if I can't be evil in my nature?"

There was a long moment of silence between them. Aziraphale picked at the bread mindlessly a moment and then mumbled. "If it's any consolation, I'm not all that good at being good myself."

Crowley turned to him and frowned. "How do you mean?"

"Well," the angel exhaled. "I've noticed that every time I try to do something good, I just end up hurting people, putting them in harm's way. Like those healers I told you about. You should have seen how quickly they burned them at the stake for witchcraft, the same with Joan of Arc."

"Joan of Arc? That was you?"

"Only a small part, but look what good it did." said the angel. "I mean, yes, she's an icon now and all that, but a dead one. One that died a very terrible and painful death. I can only wonder what things might have been like if I hadn't interfered. But looking back on all that I've done, I realized that your greatest failure was my only success. That it was so evil I had to smite it. Which has to count for something.

And that you did something good and I did something bad, well, it's only like you said all those years ago, before there were so many of them running about. Mankind was essentially created because you whispered some nonsense about a fruit and it's not such a bad thing, but I gave them fire. Sure, it kept them warm for a while, but then they learned that it could burn. Then, burning wasn't enough. They had to make guns and things that could explode."

"And so the Great War began." mumbled Crowley.

"So every war began." Aziraphale corrected, wearily. "I just can't help but think that it was my fault in some way."

Crowley wasn't sure what to think of this. He leaned back on one hand, a puzzled look on his face. "Huh." was all he uttered.

Aziraphale felt as though he could say more and hoped that he wouldn't say too much. "But you know what? I keep trying because I've got no other purpose and I'm sure I'll continue to unintentionally do potentially terrible things while you do potentially great ones. It'll all be alright, though. We can only try. That's why you exist, Crowley, because even if you do have to try, trying isn't so bad. And in the end, the world will still be in balance from all our hard, faulty work. There will still be some good and still be some bad. I guess you could go so far as to say that we complement each other. Like…like ducks and pumpernickel. What good is one without the other, right?"

"Did you just use a metaphor?" Crowley tested with an impressed smirked.

"Simile." Aziraphale corrected with a smile.

Crowley chuckled to himself, looking down at the bread in his hands.

"You know, if it really means that much to you, you could take credit for my good deeds gone wrong and I'll take credit for your bad deeds gone right." Aziraphale offered.

Crowley turned to him with a smile. "I like the way you think, Angel."

Soon, their stubs of bread turned to little brown crumbs. They dusted off their hands, paying no mind to the disgruntled troop of hungry ducks that demanded more, and stood, stretching their stiff legs and arms.

Crowley let out a sigh of satisfaction as he looked around at the sky and the trees and then turned to his friend.

"How 'bout lunch?" he suggested.

"Alright. You want to try that new French place near 59th?"

"Why not just go to France?"

Aziraphale smiled. "That sound's delightful."

"Not it." Crowley said quickly.

Aziraphale stumbled over the phrase, but saw no point in trying after clearly being defeated once again. He grinned and said, "Ah, what the Hell. It's my treat either way. Come along, Darling."

As they stepped off the rock, a very tall man took their place and after pulling a hunk of bread from his pocket, he proceeded to feed what hopeful ducks remained.

"Lead the way Prometheus." said Crowley with a bow and an outstretched hand.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Aziraphale asked walking past him with a puzzled look.

The demon stood up straight and fell in pace with him. "Don't worry about it, Angel. I'll explain it on the way."

And with a wave of his hand, they were off to Paris in search of the perfect café, or perhaps, a decent patisserie.

The tall man on his rock went on unnoticed by the two as he happily watched them go. Pinched between his foot and the rock was the newspaper Aziraphale left behind.

His face was a familiar one, but one you couldn't place for you had not seen it before. And on this face was a smile that fell on them as well as the entirety of all things. It was a smile that never went away. A smile that seemed to have no reason to it, but was the answer to all reason, just the same. Endless, warm and unlike any other.

And if one were to describe it, they would say that it was at the center of all things. That it was almost too much and too good to believe. That it was much like an unlikely, but inseparable friendship between an angel and demon. That it was impossible, unbelievable. That it was INEFFABLE.