"Let me make sure that I'm understanding this right," Crowley growled into the phone. "Azazel has been hanging about your flat all week, and you didn't think that you should maybe let us know about that?"

"I'm telling you now," Adam said.

"We've spent the last three days looking for him, and you're telling me that he's been camped out on your sofa this whole time?" Crowley glanced over at Aziraphale and they exchanged an irritated look.

"Wait. You knew he was on Earth?"

"He tried to blow Yeshua on the roof on Monday."

Adam made a gurgling noise. "Yeah, you see this, this right here, is why I wanted to stay out of it."

"Hard to stay out of it when you're letting Daddy's sex toy sleep on your bloody sofa."

"Fuck you too, Crowley," Adam spat out. "At least he cleans up after himself and doesn't put me in the situation of being forced to buy him lube out of pity."

"You're never going to let me live that down are you?"

"I HAD TO BUY YOU LUBE."

"You didn't have to. We were making due."

"You were committing gross acts of indecency, is what you were doing," Adam complained."Baylis and Harding should have you on some kind of watch list. It's no wonder why Aziraphale was in a depressive spiral, weeping and drinking the whole time. I'd be depressed too, if my boyfriend was experimenting with beauty products in my private places."

"We didn't just use it on him, and it wasn't that bad."

"No. No. Nope. End of this conversation right here. Azazel is on his way. Put Yeshua in a chastity belt, or whatever. Just leave me out of it."

"Actually," Crowley said. "Yeshua is going to Oxford. God torched all my plants and told him he's supposed to be spending time with you, not destroying our flat. Death picked him up a few minutes ago. They're on their way now."

"Death?" Adam said it in a way that made it sound synonymous with arsehole.

"Look, I don't know how things work in your world," Crowley said, "but it's date night, and I don't get to use the lube unless I spring for dinner and a show every once in a while." He caught Aziraphale's shocked expression at his words, out of the corner of his eye, and plowed on."I told him to take the bus, but he called Death instead. He's riding pillion like some biker moll of the apocalypse, on his way to Oxford. They're your problem now."

"Have I mentioned lately how much I hate you?" Adam asked.

"I have three hours of Shakespeare to sit through, a goat to send back to Hell, and a lover to console over the vagaries of holy home renovation. I don't have time to play chauffer on top of that. "

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "Just… don't hurt Azazel, okay?I know he's an idiot, and a demon and everything, but… just don't hurt him."

Crowley didn't miss the concern in Adam's voice, and he knew that, whatever else he might be, Azazel was worth putting up with to Adam- which was about the most anyone could say for any of them.

"I'm all out of Holy Hand-Grenades anyway," Crowley quipped.

Adam let out a sigh of relief. "Good. I'm not sure that you can count to three anyway."

Crowley smiled. "Course I can. One. Two. Five."

Adam chuckled. "Right then, you keep your angel happy, and I'll take care of Jesus and the tosser in the Halloween costume."

"Don't laugh in his face. I hear he doesn't like that."

"Try not to heckle the Prince of Denmark," Adam shot back. He'd once attended a performance of Hamlet with Crowley and Aziraphale, and it had left an impression. "It's rude, and the poor guy has enough problems."

"I don't see how it can be rude if we have direct permission from the author, but it's Midsummer Night's Dream this time, anyway. Thank… whoever."

"That's the one with the fairies, right?"

"Yeah."

Adam snorted out a laugh. "Perfect. You'll fit right in," he said, and ended the call.

"What fools these mortals be," Crowley muttered, tossing his mobile down onto the seat beside him.

"I gather that Azazel is coming here," Aziraphale said.

Crowley made an unhappy sound of agreement.

"Do you have a plan?"

"Yeah," Crowley said, starting the car. "It's date night. We have tickets and dinner reservations and everything. Practically an itinerary." He put the car into gear and pulled out into traffic.

"What about Azazel?"

"He'll keep," Crowley said, and didn't miss the happy look on Aziraphale's face.

oOoOoOoOo

Death pulled off the motorway into the dirt and gravel drive of a dodgy little biker bar. It was the sort of place that you wouldn't stop at for a piss, even if your bladder was about to burst. If you called to report a crime in that place, the dispatch officer would pretend to have a bad connection and hang up on you.

The faded sign above the door, said "SCUZZ'S ROADHOUSE," in peeling red paint.

"Why are we stopping?" Yeshua asked, as he climbed off the bike and stretched.

"JUST SOME OLD BUSINESS I NEED TO TAKE CARE OF. DO YOU WANT A BEER?"

"Yeah, okay," Yeshua agreed, and he followed his skeletal friend inside.

The place was just as shabby inside as out. A scattering of scarred tables and chairs, survivors of more than a few drunken brawls, were occupied by an assortment of rough men and hard women, dressed in weathered black leather.

Death strode passed them unremarked, as Yeshua, in his hoodie and man-bun, drew their cold eyes. Death took a seat at the bar, and the barkeep, a large man with a graying ponytail and wind burned face, turned to him.

"HELLO, PEOPLE COVERED IN FISH," Death said in the funerary tone of chiming church bells.

"Oh, fuck," Scuzz said.

oOoOoOoOo

Aziraphale and Crowley didn't actually buy tickets for the show; they never did, but there was a pair waiting for them at the will call desk, and their private box was ready for them with a bottle of champagne, all the same.

Aziraphale had once expressed some guilt over this, saying that they should really make more of an effort to patronize the arts, but Crowley figured that ol' Willy owed enough of his success to them that, even four hundred years later, the least that anyone still performing his plays could do was comp them a pair of tickets.

"I'm so glad that they're doing The Dream this year," Aziraphale gushed, looking over the program while they waited for the show to start and Crowley poured the champagne. "I think it must be my favorite."

"S'alright," Crowley said, "but I thought you liked the gloomy ones."

"I like all of them," Aziraphale said.

"You do not. You hate Titus Andronicus."

"Oh, that one doesn't count."

"Why not?"

"It's a collaboration," Aziraphale argued, taking the champagne flute Crowley handed him, "and I think we have George Peele to blame for that one. There's no art to it. It's all bloody violence and no poetry."

Crowley made a noise of agreement. "Well, it'll be all frolicking fairies, bestiality, and romantic hijinks tonight," he said, raising his glass.

"Cheers," Aziraphale said, clinking their glasses together and taking a sip.

oOoOoOoOo

Scuzz's hands shook as he pulled two pints of lager and set them down in from of them.

"I, uh," he started, voice shaking as much as his hands. "I didn't think I'd see you again."

"THAT'S UNRESONABLY OPTOMISTIC OF YOU."

Scuzz swallowed down his nerves and let out a shaky laugh. "I guess it is. I s'pose it's too much to hope that you just came in for a beer."

"I THOUGHT WE COULD TAKE ONE LAST RIDE TOGETHER. IT'S A LOVELY NIGHT FOR IT."

Scuzz made a choking sound close to a sob.

"DO NOT FEAR ME, OLD FRIEND. TO EVERYTHING THERE IS A SEASON. A TIME TO SOW, AND A TIME TO REAP. YOUR TIME HAS SIMPLY COME- ON TO THE NEXT GREAT ADVENTURE. THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY, THAT GREAT HIGHWAY IN THE SKY."

Scuzz nodded, tears streaming down his face. He looked to Yeshua then. "Who are you? I don't remember you from last time."

"THIS IS SHADY CONTRACTORS WHO DON'T FINISH THE JOB."

"What?" Yeshua asked, setting down his mug and wiping the foam from his mustache.

"SORRY. PRIVATE JOKE," Death said. His skull seemed to be grinning more than usual. "THIS IS YESHUA BAR YOSEPH, FORMERLY OF NAZARETH- BETTER KNOWN AS JESUS CHRIST, THE PROPHET MESSIAH, SON OF GOD." Death made some of his beer disappear somewhere within the depths of his cloak. "YESHUA, THIS IS MELVIN STAMPOLE, CALLED SCUZZ. ONCE, EMBARRASSING PERSONAL PROBLEMS. BRIEFLY, THINGS NOT WORKING PROPERLY EVEN AFTER YOU'VE GIVEN THEM A GOOD THUMPING, THOUGH SECRETLY, NO-ALCOHOL LAGER. BUT, ACTUALLY, PEOPLE COVERED IN FISH."

"Uh," Yeshua said, uncertainly. "Nice to meet you." He extended his hand.

"Yeah,"Scuzz said, shaking it. "Er, you too, Jesus… sir."

"Yeshua," Yeshua corrected. "The whole Jesus thing is just a string of translations from Greek to Latin to English. I've never really cared for it, but Dad says it's more palatable for the masses."

Scuzz squeaked a little.

Death drained his beer. "I'M AFRAID WE'RE ON A SCHEDULE."

Scuzz looked around the room at the other bikers. "Can't I say goodbye at least?"

Death tilted his skull to the side. "ONE ROUND TO START THE WAKE, IF YOU LIKE. THEN WE REALLY MUST BE GOING."

oOoOoOoOo

At some point during the performance, Aziraphale and Crowley's chairs had transformed themselves into a plush, red, loveseat, and they lounged together- watching the actors strut their hours upon the stage.

"Is it just me, or do Oberon and Puck always look as though they're moments away from disappearing into the scenery to give the bushes a good rustling?" Crowley asked.

"He certainly isn't all that keen on his Queen," Aziraphale agreed, "what with that business with Bottom's ass." He giggled into his champagne.

Crowley smirked, leaning in to flick his forked tongue into Aziraphale's ear to extend the sound.

Aziraphale let out a chuckling sigh when Crowley pulled away, and leaned further back in his seat. "This play always puts me in such a decadent mood. I think it's all the frolicking in the forest. It just makes me want to sink into a nest of pillows in a fairy bower and have someone hand feed me grapes."

"I could find some grapes."

Aziraphale hummed. "I would suggest it for later, but I expect we'll be busy with Azazel. Have you decided what to do about him yet?"

"The course of true love never did run smooth," Crowley quoted.

"I think the two of us have proven that true enough over the years, but how does that apply to Azazel? You don't mean to suggest that he and Yeshua…?"

"No," Crowley said quickly. "Hell, no. He's in love with Lucifer."

"But he's a demon."

"So was I."

"That's a bit different," Aziraphale said.

Crowley raised a brow. "Your view of the universe is always so narrow. It isn't different. You've just always felt more comfortable thinking of me as the exception to the rule. Trust me. I know the signs."

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably. "So, he's in love with Lucifer. How does that change things?"

"How would you feel if I asked you to sleep with Yeshua?"

"You already have. It wasn't the most comfortable night's sleep I've ever had, I have to admit."

"Forgive the euphemism," Crowley said, "but you know what I meant."

Aziraphale considered it. "I suppose that I'd feel a powerful need to slap you in the face like the jilted heroine in an Austen novel."

"Exactly."

"That's your plan then? Get him angry enough with Lucifer to abandon his mission and head back downstairs to give the Prince of Darkness a piece of his mind?"

"Something like that," Crowley said, making a show of yawning and stretching as he wrapped an arm around Aziraphale's shoulders. "Hush now and watch the play. They're getting to the bit with Bottom's ass in the fairy bower."

oOoOoOoOo

Yeshua was drunk.

Death's offer to start off Scuzz's wake with a free round for the bar patrons had extended to a second, and then a third, and a fourth, and then Yeshua had lost count.

Word had spread that old Scuzz was giving out free drinks, and everyone in the local Hell's Angels chapter had shown up with assorted hangers on. Scuzz was grinning a gap toothed yellow smile as he made his way around the tables with a pitcher in each hand, topping off drinks and making time to talk to everyone.

"Ya know, this is a nice thing you're doing," Yeshua said, leaning precariously in his stool to talk to Death.

"HE WAS ONE OF MINE- IF ONLY BRIEFLY, AND NOT BY MY DOING."

Yeshua frowned. "What? One of yours? A horseman? Of the apocalypse? Dunt remember him. 'Less Pestilence got reborn as a skuzzy biker after he retired."

"BIKER OF THE APOCALYPSE," Death corrected, "AND I TOLD YOU, HE WAS PEOPLE COVERED IN FISH."

Yeshua's frown deepened for a moment, and then resolved itself into a wide, sloppy, smile. "I love fish. Can we go fishing?"

"GO HOME JESUS, YOU'RE DRUNK."

"Can't go home." Yeshua hiccupped. "Can't ever go home again. 'S been two thousand years. You've taken everyone I ever knew. Nothin' there to go back to. An Heaven is… well… heavenly, but 's not the same. Unless this is my wake, an yer jus' not tellin' me ev'rything?"

"IT ISN'T. I ALREADY HAD TO TOTE YOUR SOUL AROUND FOR THREE DAYS, ONCE. I'M NOT GOING TO DO IT AGAIN."

"Well, then, I hafta make Adam agree to stop playin' with poop and go to Hell." He took a long drink. "Not even sure I think he should. But iss par' of the' inevitable plan, isnnit?"

"INEFFABLE."

Yeshua waved a hand. "Same thing. Tomato, potato, tomato, potato." He frowned. "Wha' was I sayin' again. Oh, righ' fishes." He chuckled. "You hafta watch this. Haven' dun this since Bethsaida."

Yeshua turned in his stool, scrunched his eyes shut, and waved his hands about as though he were conducting an orchestra.

There was a 'plop' and a haddock fell from nowhere to land with a splash in the pitcher in Scuzz's right hand. He stopped in the middle of his sentence to stare at the fish in confusion. There was another 'plop', and he turned his head to see the tail of a second fish sticking out of the pitcher in his right hand. He looked up to see where the fish were coming from. This was a mistake. There was a 'sploosh,' and a mountain of fish rained down from the ceiling, completely burying the biker.

"Ooops," Yeshua said, quickly lowering his hands and spinning on the stool to face the other direction, so as not to appear guilty. He ruined the illusion, almost instantly, by suddenly cackling into the stunned silence, and barking out. "Ha! People Covered in Fish! I get it now!"

oOoOoOoOo

Azazel hovered outside the windows of the flat above the bookshop, peering in, but all was dark and empty. He beat his wings a little harder to rise up to the roof for a landing. He touched down lightly on a stack of boards that he hadn't noticed in the dark, lost his footing, and tumbled down into a pile of sawdust, face first.

He came up, sputtering out a mouthful of powdered trees, more of it stuck in his hair and feathers like a fine coating of fairy dust.

Azazel ruffled his feathers and shook his hair out, but that only seemed to make the sawdust and wood shavings burrow in deeper.

Growling in frustration, he jerked his mobile from his pocket, and used the light from the screen to navigate his way through the hazardous detritus of abandoned construction on the roof.

No one was home, and it appeared that this whole trip had been a complete waste of time. He could have stayed in Oxford with Adam and sat around eating takeaway and watching videos on his phone.

He waved a hand at the door leading into the flat, and stumbled inside.

oOoOoOoOo

Scuzz stood atop one of the tables, thumping one motorcycle boot against the wood to keep time as he led the drunken bikers in a rendition of some song about bestiality and hedgehogs.

Yeshua sang along with the chorus, wedged in between two sweaty Hell's Angels, twice his size, one arm thrown over the shoulder of the man on his left, as he sloshed his beer in his swinging right hand in time to the song.

"BUT THE HEDGEHOG CAN NEVER BE BUGGERED AT ALL," Death intoned behind him, in a surprisingly sweet baritone, as he came in on the last line.

Yeshua spun to favor him with a grin. "Charon! Wher've ya ben? Bruiser and Gus was jus' tellin' me bout this time they got into a figh' with a kangaroo."

"IT IS TIME FOR US TO GO."

Yeshua turned around to look at Scuzz, who needed two of the others to help him down off of the table. As soon as they let go of him, he promptly stumbled over into the pile of haddock that still lay on the floor, twitching occasionally.

"Not sure he's safe to drive like that," Yeshua said.

"HARDLY A CONCERN."

oOoOoOoOo

After the play had finished, they had done The Ritz.

Crowley had informed the maitre de that it was their anniversary, on their way through the door and a bottle of Moet et Chandon had been sent to their usual table.

Aziraphale had remained very quiet, a perturbed look darkening his angelic features, while the sommelier popped the cork and poured their glasses.

"What's wrong, angel?" Crowley asked.

"I didn't know that it was our anniversary. I haven't gotten you anything." Aziraphale was the absolute vision of remorseful despair.

Crowley laughed. "It isn't."

"It isn't? But you said…"

Crowley waved a hand, still chuckling. "I just wanted the good champagne."

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale said disapprovingly.

"Well, it's been six thousand years. I'm sure it's the anniversary of something. What's today? May the 11th?

"The twelfth."

Crowley searched his memory. "We were at that wedding in 1191," he suggested finally. "King Richard the 1st and wassername. The French girl who never actually came to England. Berginaria? Bergaria? Bulgaria?"

"Berengaria," Aziraphale said, "of Navarre."

"Well, it's their anniversary anyway," Crowley said. "And, actually, wasn't that the night you finally agreed to The Arrangement?" He brightened. "It was! They were off to the crusades, and Upstairs wanted you to tag along—help with the forceful conversions, and retake the Holy Land. You got really drunk, and let it all out. Maudlin, and weeping into my doublet all night. Said you couldn't possibly stand another year watching blood spill in the sand. And I said, I didn't mind. I could take care of it for you, only they want me to do a bit of messing about with the new Pope, and I can't exactly walk into Vatican City like I'm taking a stroll in the garden."

Aziraphale smiled his soft, happy, smile. "I guess it sort of is our anniversary then," he said, raising his glass. "To old arrangements and new ones."

Crowley raised his own glass to toast, smirking at the angel.

Just before the glass touched Aziraphale's lips, he had a sudden, reckless, and ridiculous, and wonderful idea. He snapped his fingers, and it was done. No taking it back now.

Aziraphale nearly choked on the ring.