The Night Before The Rest of Their Lives
Golden headlights rounded the corner. Aziraphale cocked an eyebrow.
"It says 'Oxford' on the front."
"Yeah, but he'll drive to London, anyway. He just won't know why."
Ah, yes, of course. A slight smile tugged at Aziraphale's mouth. A little demonic intervention now and again never hurt anyone . . . or, almost never.
"I suppose I should have him drop me off at the bookshop," he mused, before his gaze settled on Crowley's pitying expression. The demon's voice was soft, gentle.
"It burned down, remember?"
Oh.
The taste of red wine soured on his tongue.
He had forgotten.
There had been much more pressing matters on his mind in the last several hours. Still, sacrifices had been made—on both their parts, it seemed. The outcome was well worth it, obviously, but that didn't make the sting of grief any easier to endure.
Embarrassed, Aziraphale blinked back the searing well of tears that threatened to fall. Good Lord, it was just a dingy old hovel of books!
And his home for the last two-hundred years.
His life's work. His passions.
Six-thousand-year's worth of treasures and memories . . .
Crowley dipped his chin, catching Aziraphale's eye. "You can stay at my place . . . if you like," he offered, treading lightly, as though the angel had to be handled with the utmost care, fragile as glass.
And perhaps he was—the sweetness in the demon's tone nearly shattered Aziraphale's heart.
"I-I don't . . ." You pathetic excuse for an angel. "I don't think my side would like that."
Revulsion roiled in his gut. At himself. At this whole bloody . . . thing, that was, at the moment, apparently, incapable of being put into words. Ineffable. Aziraphale sighed. He hated this—truly, vehemently hated it all.
Crowley's gaze never wavered. "You don't have a side anymore," he corrected. "Neither of us do." Foreboding laced the finished thought. "We're on our own side."
An entirely new host of problems hovered at their heels as Crowley and Aziraphale stepped onto the bus that would take them—not home, perhaps—but back.
Back to square one.
The ride was far from comfortable. Shadows seemed to whisper. Passengers, at a glance, folded snowy wings that materialized into jackets, or flashed hellish features that were nothing more than cruel tricks of the unreliable light.
Aziraphale shuddered.
Ridiculous.
Not even the legions of Heaven could have reorganized themselves this quickly. There was still time. There had to be.
Still.
"We needn't discuss it now," he mumbled to Crowley. "But when we get to London, we'll have some logistics to sort out. Take Agnes's prophecy to heart, and come up with a new course of action."
"Course of, mmm, action, yeah, right."
"I highly doubt the forces of Heaven and Hell are fully back on their toes, but the minute they are, it's imperative that we have a plan in place."
"Mm."
Aziraphale glanced to his left. The sunglasses made it impossible to tell, but given the slump of Crowley's shoulders, the slack bobbing of his head with each bump of the bus tires, he was willing to swear that the demon's eyes were closed. That his breath had evened out, and he was drifting off to sleep, had he not done so, already.
Something like adoration squeezed Aziraphale's heart. His poor, darling Crowley. It had been quite a day, all things considered. Demon or no, it was no wonder he was exhausted. Come to think of it . . .
Aziraphale focused his attention on his own corporation. Everything felt heavy, as though, at any moment, gravity might force him further downwards, never ceasing. The corners of his eyes burned, and a slight tremor shook his core and folded hands. Perhaps these were symptoms of what humans often described as "shock." Or, some form thereof. He had to admit, unnecessary though it was, the idea of following Crowley's example and succumbing to a few hours' sleep sounded like a wonderful idea.
They didn't have a few hours, though. Tadfield wasn't terribly far from London, and if he was going to let Crowley rest, he'd have to be the one to navigate, wouldn't he? Not that he minded. He could do that. Tickety-boo.
Something landed on his shoulder.
Aziraphale turned his head, and unwittingly buried his nose in Crowley's mess of auburn hair. Startled, he jerked his neck back and stared down at the serene expression on the demon's partially obscured profile.
Aziraphale swallowed.
For some unfathomable reason, his stomach chose this moment to perform a series of acrobatics, the likes of which he'd never known it was capable. Something odd was happening to his lips, as well—they were moving back toward Crowley's head, seemingly of their own accord, magnetically drawn.
No. Perhaps . . .
Perhaps he ought to wait. Ask permission, first?
A lurch of the bus sent him careening against Crowley, who groaned and nuzzled further into Aziraphale's suit coat. The angel's flushed face blended effortlessly with Crowley's hair.
It would be fine, wouldn't it?
Just this once.
Smiling, Aziraphale cuddled closer to Crowley, planting the smallest of kisses on the top of his head. A most welcomed distraction. His own eyes drifted closed as their mode of transportation lumbered steadily down the road.
"Crowley dear?" Aziraphale wriggled his shoulder, in case the whispering did not suffice. "Crowley? We're here, darling."
Crowley snorted, awake in an instant. He sat up, reflexively, and a jumble of words poured from his lips, as though he had been conscious the entire time.
"Right, 'course we are. Knew it wouldn't take long. I'll just have a quick word with the driver, then, shall I? Tempt him to oh-so-conveniently drop us off right at my door? Pardon, angel, I'm just going to squeak by you, there we are, that's a lad . . ."
Aziraphale pursed his lips as Crowley maneuvered his wiry limbs around him, bottling the laughter he'd nearly let escape. He scrunched his knees and feet as tightly to the seat as possible, fully aware that it hardly gave the demon additional room to pass him—one of many well-meaning, but ultimately useless human habits he'd collected over the years. He smiled. Watching Crowley swagger down the aisle, he felt far better than he had in days.
The bus pulled up alongside a rather impressive building in a rather prestigious part of town.
Hm. Stylish. Very apropos, he supposed.
Crowley gestured for Aziraphale to follow him onto the pavement. With a loud hiss, the bus rumbled off, and the two made their way inside.
The flat was modern, pristine—hip, he thought, might be the proper term nowadays—minimal, to the point that it hardly looked lived in. It wasn't a home; it simply provided Crowley with everything he required. Specifically, a roof over his head and the occasional space to have a lie-down.
"Ah! Lovely place you have here," he politely observed, intent on taking a full tour. His feet, however, slowed to a stop outside the kitchen. "Crowley? Would . . . would you mind if I . . .?" Aziraphale nodded toward the cabinets. Now that he was here, his guard finally lowered, he wasn't sure how much longer his shattered nerves could endure without a piping cup of tea.
Crowley waved a dismissive hand, stumbling toward his living area.
Aziraphale couldn't tell if Crowley had properly heard him. He watched his friend, warily, before giving in and beginning a thorough—ultimately futile—investigation.
"Erm, Crowley?" he hedged, a few minutes later. "I, er, can't seem to find . . . well, anything." The kitchen, he'd discovered, was utterly bare. Nary a tea bag nor biscuit tin in sight. Not even a discrete liquor cabinet for Hea—well, for someone's sake.
Crowley peered at him from the sofa on which he had collapsed. "Oh . . . oh, yeah. Sorry, angel. Wasn't expecting guests anytime soon. Well, apart from those bent on unleashing Hell's wrath upon me, at any rate. What's your poison?"
"Oh, ah, cup of tea, if you'd be so kind?" Aziraphale wrung his hands, stepping gingerly into the chic sitting room. He perched on the edge of the chair opposite as Crowley nodded, snapping his fingers. A full tea service appeared on the table between them, minus the sugar, the angel noted. He knew Crowley didn't take it, not in tea, nor coffee, but he'd failed to realize the demon knew the same was true of him.
Hands trembling, Aziraphale poured himself a cup, and it took the full force of his will not to down the scalding liquid in one gulp. He sipped greedily and reached for the pot to top himself off. Only then did he see that Crowley had outdone himself—the tea things were accompanied by a variety of liquors and cake.
Aziraphale turned to him, surprised. Impressed.
Crowley shrugged, his signature smirk in place. "Have whatever ya like. Make yourself at home. What's mine is yours, and all that rot." He nodded his approval as Aziraphale settled more comfortably in the chair, stirring a splash of milk into his second cup of tea, clutching the saucer like a proper gentleman. "I figure we'll be up all night—might as well indulge in a little luxury, eh? I don't know about you, but I'm gonna need something stronger before too long."
He hungrily eyed the liquor options, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.
He really should just take them off, the angel mused, helping himself to a slice of cake. Perfectly safe—no one here to spot those beautiful eyes of his . . .
The first forkful of sweet, airy sponge melted on his tongue.
"Oh!" Aziraphale moaned. "Mmm! Mm, mm, mmm, bless you, my dear boy."
Crowley frowned. "Oi, there's no need for that!" He tossed the dark glasses aside and scrubbed at both eyes. "What've I ever done to you?"
Aziraphale chuckled. "Well, I'm sorry, but this angel's food is scrumptious. Oh, that hits the spot!" He wet his lips, beaming. "Although, I shouldn't be surprised. It is your favorite, after all."
Crowley straightened as far as the plush cushions would permit.
"My favorite?"
Aziraphale nodded, holding up the plate for emphasis. "You order it almost every time we go out."
Crowley opened his mouth. Snapped it shut.
"My favorite. . . . Yes. Right." He threw up his hands in defeat. "You caught me. That is my . . . baked goods Achilles' heel. Yup."
Aziraphale glanced at him, amused, before tucking in with zeal.
"Mmm, delicious! Absolutely divine."
Crowley snorted. "You're really on fire with the back-handed compliments this evening, aren't you?"
The next bite never reached Aziraphale's mouth. His eyes widened, darting from left to right.
"No," he breathed. "But I soon will be . . ."
"Wot?"
Crowley studied him with a combination of concern and utter confusion. Aziraphale paid him no heed. He set his plate aside with a clatter, before rummaging through the pockets of his suit coat. Within seconds, the charred remains of Agnes Nutter's final prophecy lay flattened upon the glass coffee table.
"When alle is fayed and all is done," Aziraphale read. "Ye must choofe your faces wisely, for soon enouff, ye will be playing with Fyre." His eyes locked onto Crowley. "Heaven is not a place of torment. By definition, there can be no torture, no sorrow or suffering." He stabbed the scrap of paper, repeatedly. "What can they do to punish an angel? Truly?"
Crowley had leaned so far forward, he was in danger of falling off the sofa's edge.
"Hellfire," he whispered.
Aziraphale nodded.
Every inch of color drained from Crowley's skin. "They're going to destroy you."
The food and drink churned in Aziraphale's stomach at the thought—for once, he regretted consuming them. "And . . . the opposite of Hellfire is . . ."
The answer was obvious, but both of them understood that the frightful speculation had to be voiced aloud.
"Holy Water." By now, Crowley looked as ill as Aziraphale felt. "They know what I've done. Hastur's right—not even a demon would resort to wielding Holy Water against his own kind. I've done The Impossible. The Unthinkable."
"And now, they're going to see to it that you are eliminated in the same gruesome manner."
"Well, this is Hell we're talking about," Crowley weakly diverted. "I mean, the fate of a traitor is literally limitless. Could be anything, really . . ." He nibbled his lower lip, snake eyes full and pleading, waiting for the angel to contradict him. When Aziraphale remained silent, a great sigh wracked his entire body. "That's what they're going to do to us, isn't it?"
"I . . . I don't see how it could possibly refer to anything else."
"And Agnes would know, wouldn't she?"
"She's yet to be wrong, as far as I can tell."
"Well, now that we've figured out that bit . . ." Crowley seemed to physically deflate, slouching into the couch cushions. "What the actual fuck are we supposed to do about it?"
Aziraphale snatched up the nearest bottle and placed a full glass of port between Crowley's limp fingers. "There must be a way," he insisted, through a swig of his own. "Between the two of us, we'll think of something."
Crowley sneered. "And if we don't?"
"No!" Aziraphale snapped. "There will be none of that, do you hear me? We will figure this out, Crowley! End of discussion!"
For the longest time, all that could be heard within the flat was the subtle slosh of alcohol rushing down Crowley's throat as he drank. Aziraphale averted his gaze.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "That was uncalled for. I let my . . . panic . . . do the talking."
"Don't be daft." Crowley grinned around the rim of his glass. "It's nice to know you've still got some fight in you."
Aziraphale lowered himself onto the sofa. "Of course, I have." His hand brushed the warm length of Crowley's thigh. "We can't give up now."
Crowley stared at him, unmoving, for what could have, equally, been mere minutes or whole hours. Aziraphale held his gaze, unable to parse out the thoughts and conclusions brewing in those serpent eyes. Finally, Crowley set his glass on the table, and repositioned, until he was a breath away. Long, slender fingers reached up to cradle Aziraphale's cheek.
"And we won't. But, angel . . ." His thumb spread languidly across Aziraphale's lips. "There's still a chance that we might fail." Aziraphale shivered as the demon's words caressed his skin. "This could very well be it."
Yes. This is it, he longed to add. Our last night. On Earth. Together. If this would continue, if it meant he could have what Crowley was offering, then yes, whether he wanted to believe it or not, he would say it.
That they were doomed.
That this was the end.
Except that it couldn't be. He wouldn't allow it.
And neither, he knew, would Crowley.
As though coming to the same, disheartening conclusion, Crowley drew back, brow furrowed, mouth set in a thin line.
Aziraphale cleared his throat.
"Right," Crowley muttered. "Look, what about this? Book Girl—"
"Miss Device."
All the proper introductions and explanations had been made in the aftermath of Adam's cleverness and bravery. Crowley ignored him.
"She had the right idea from the start—study what Agnes wrote, to the letter. She's giving us the answer. We just need to do what she says." He snatched up the tattered prediction. "Ye must choofe your faces wisely."
"But what does that mean?" Aziraphale's nose scrunched. "Is it intended to be metaphorical? Literal?"
"The latter, I'd say. Seeing as the Fyre is literal enough."
"True . . ." Aziraphale couldn't wrangle his mind around the concept. Choose their faces . . . choose their faces . . .
Crowley's froze.
"Angel," he rasped. "When you gave me that Holy Water—when you gathered it up—what did it do to you?"
"Do to me?" Aziraphale frowned. "Nothing. It's like any other water would be, albeit a bit purer, perhaps."
"Feels sort of soothing. Licks over your skin, all warm and pleasant-like?"
"More of a cool, trickling sensation, but yes, I'd say that's on the money."
"Angel." Crowley smirked. "That's Hellfire. For me."
"Meaning?"Aziraphale prodded, though the cogs began to click the moment the question left his lips.
"We need to give our head offices exactly what they're looking for—a disgraced angel and a rogue demon. Nobody has to know which of us goes where . . ."
Aziraphale pressed a hand to his mouth. "Choose your faces wisely."
Crowley's smile broadened. "Literal, indeed."
Aziraphale leapt to his feet. "So . . . I stroll into Hell," he rambled, attempting to process it all. "You saunter into Heaven. Gabriel and—Lord Beelzebub, was it?—are none the wiser. The punishments are administered. We return to Earth unscathed."
"Sounds about right." Crowley bent at the waist and retrieved his glass. "Angel," he announced, lifting it in a toast. "I think we have a plan."
With a shake of his head, Aziraphale took to pacing. "It's too dangerous," he argued. "There are countless ways in which something could go wrong . . ."
"It's too late for that." Crowley rose from the sofa. "The whole thing's already gone pear-shaped."
"There must be something else—anything . . ."
"Aziraphale."
The angel spun to find the demon's body flush with his own. The thrum of his pulse grew deafening as Crowley grasped both of his hands.
"I don't know anything for certain," he told Aziraphale, voice low and even. "Except, if we don't give it our all, we will NOT survive this. It's all been right here, sitting in a book, waiting four-hundred years for us to riddle it out. And we have. We've got to do this." Breath mingled, noses brushed. "It's time, angel."
Doubt slashed through the haze of Aziraphale's mind. "I-I wouldn't even know how to begin," he stammered. "I've cosmetically altered my corporation on occasion, but morphing into another body altogether? It seems . . ."
Preposterous.
Crowley's mouth twisted. "We're miracle workers, angel. How hard can it be?"
"So you have no idea as to how this insane scheme is going to work."
"Not a clue. But I have a theory." Crowley tightened his grip, molten gold spilling into the whites of his eyes. "Just . . . focus on me as hard as you can—how I look, what I'm wearing—and I'll do the same. With any luck, we'll . . . swap."
"Swap," Aziraphale deadpanned.
Crowley nodded. "That's the idea."
"Now?"
"Seeing as it's nearly morning."
"Of course. Right."
"Hey." Attuned to Aziraphale's fidgeting, Crowley managed to step even closer. "You can do this. It's gonna be fine."
No. Run, every instinct hissed. This is bad. Leave it all behind. Save yourself.
And abandon Crowley?
Never.
He'd sooner end his own existence.
Which was still quite possibly on the docket, if he didn't swallow his cowardice and do as the demon said.
Aziraphale looked his former, never-quite adversary in the eye, and nodded.
He concentrated on the dry warmth of Crowley's hands against his skin, watched as those stunning, slitted eyes lightened to a pale shade of blue. The fiery color faded from the hair at his temples, his hard features softening. . . .
Aziraphale hoped he was mirroring Crowley's transformation. He could feel something, shifting, changing. . . . The finer details came effortlessly to mind—even areas left to the imagination were shockingly easy to conjure. . . .
The sharp cut of his cheek, firm line of the jaw. The severe curve of his nose, in direct contrast with his thin, delicate lips. The swirl of ink near his right ear. Soft auburn hair. His long, lean body, broad at the shoulders and cinched at the waist. Snugly tailored trousers and jackets, snazzy waistcoats, metallic accents, snakeskin boots. Black, always shades of black.
Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut, coaxing the miracle down the length of his body. With a final burst, the magic evaporated. A flawless reflection of his corporation stood before him, holding his hands, scanning his appearance from head to toe. Aziraphale glanced down at his body, so incredibly foreign that he gasped.
"C-Crowley?" It was an idiotic, unavoidable question.
"Hi, angel." Crowley's new face split into a grin. "Knew you could do it."
Relief burst from Aziraphale in a fit of nervous laughter.
"So it would seem! Oh . . ." His fingers raked through an unfamiliar hair style. "Goodness! This is all rather exciting, isn't it?"
Crowley nodded toward the corridor at his back. "Want to come into the bedroom?"
Aziraphale stiffened. "I beg your pardon?"
The ghost of a smile appeared, briefly, at the corners of the demon's mouth. "To see how you look?"
"Ah! Actually, I think I might pop into the loo. Assuming you have one?"
Crowley rolled his shoulders. 'Course. Standard layout, same as any flat.
Both angel and demon went their separate ways.
Aziraphale stepped over the threshold, and was greeted by the enormous mirror above the bathroom sink.
A dumbfounded Crowley stared back.
Mesmerized, Aziraphale ran a hand down the length of his—er, Crowley's . . . his?—subtly sculpted stomach. His heart leapt, pounding beneath his ribs.
His fingers twitched, aching to explore. The layers of clothing, obscuring what he'd longed to see for decades, beckoned to be lifted, removed. A chance to study his handiwork. All secrets revealed . . .
Aziraphale grimaced.
No, he mustn't.
This whole thing seemed terribly invasive—an entirely new tier of consent, or lack thereof. It may have been his own original corporation, transformed, but this body belonged to Crowley, and the angel possessed far too much respect and reverence for him to take any form of advantage. Well-intended though it might have been.
He blew out a breath. "Give me strength," he prayed. "Give. Me. Strength."
A sudden thought helped assuage his guilt. Crowley would be insufferable if he knew. Flattered. Smug. Aziraphale snorted. Cocky bastard.
Reassured, he straightened his jacket lapels and popped the collar, as he'd seen Crowley do many a time, revealing the bright flash of red fabric underneath. He frowned. Something didn't feel quite right . . .
Ah ha!
Beaming, Aziraphale snapped his fingers. There. He turned before the mirror. Much better.
"You alright in there, angel?"
"Fine," Aziraphale called over his shoulder, taking one last lingering look, before rejoining his friend in the sitting room.
It was quite alarming to find his own corporation slouched on the demon's sofa. It nodded its approval.
"Not too shabby, angel," Aziraphale's voice purred. "Well done."
"You, as well." Aziraphale shook his head. His words, Crowley's tone and timbre.
Good Lord. What had they gotten themselves into?
Dawn's pale rays filtered through the wall of windows. Sunday morning. A new day. The first day of the rest of their lives.
In theory.
"So, ah, w-what do you think we should do? Now that we're . . . er, now that we've . . ." Aziraphale gestured between their exchanged corporations.
Crowley tilted his head. "Well, nothing to be done but wait for our people to get in touch. And in the interim, live life as normally as possible, I say."
"Yes, yes, very sound logic. Very reasonable. Well then, ah . . . how, how do we do that, exactly?"
"I think I'll start by heading over to A.Z. Fell and Co. Survey the damage. Seems like something the real you would do."
A familiar sickness flooded Aziraphale's stomach at the mention of his bookshop. Centuries of collecting, irreplaceable editions, all his wine, music, and leather-bound companions, consumed by flames.
"Yes . . ." he mumbled, rather miserably. "I would, in fact."
Crowley stood and tucked something heavy into the inner breast pocket of Aziraphale's jacket.
"Here. You with one of these is a dead giveaway. As am I, without. Please refrain from tampering with my social meeds. I do have a reputation and an aesthetic to uphold."
Aziraphale withdrew the mobile phone, eyeing it as though it might explode.
Crowley chuckled. "We'll reconvene at the park later today. Yes? In the meantime, have another cup of tea, angel." He grinned, stepping forward to lightly peck Aziraphale on the cheek. "And some more cake. You need it."
With that, he turned on his heel, leaving a sputtering Aziraphale in his wake.
He stayed rooted to the spot until his befuddled brain processed Crowley's parting instructions, which, it seemed to him, contained excellent advice. A minor miracle later, he sat, watching the outside world wake, sipping a fresh cup of tea. The reheated liquid calmed his nerves, providing a sense of normalcy and comfort.
After a makeshift—and delightful—breakfast of leftover cake, Aziraphale busied himself taking that overdue tour of Crowley's flat. While sparse, the possessions within were obviously organized and well tended, as evidenced by the collection of houseplants.
"Hallo, there!" He wandered about, admiring their lush, waxy sheen. "My, aren't you spectacular!" As Aziraphale leaned in to get a better view, a chorus of rustling leaves rose from all sides of the room. "Oh, heavens! It's alright. I'm not going to hurt you," the angel soothed. "Goodness," he murmured. "What has Crowley done to you?"
Crashing drumbeats and the squeal of an electric guitar startled the angel out of his wits.
Well! No wonder the poor plants were terrified.
He plunged a hand into his jacket and pulled out the offending, vibrating device. His own name appeared on the screen. Gingerly, Aziraphale tapped the button that would, theoretically, allow him to "accept" the call, and held the phone awkwardly against his cheek.
"Er, hallo?"
"You're never going to believe this, angel."
A bit disconcerting, hearing his own voice through the phone's tinny speakers.
"Crowley! Er, Aziraphale." He forced a growl into the word.
A loaded pause down the line.
"What the Hell was that?"
"That was you. I mean, me."
"I sound like a swashbuckler to you, do I?"
"I . . ." Aziraphale huffed, rolled his eyes. "I'm doing my best. This is going to take some getting used to."
"Well, be better, will you? That was dreadful . . . honestly."
"You had something to tell me?" Aziraphale tersely hinted.
"Oh, yeah, right," Crowley muttered into the mouthpiece, to avoid being overheard. "It's the bookshop. It's . . . it's still standing, angel. Better than ever. Clean and spiffed up . . . not a trace of the fire, anywhere."
Aziraphale's fingers went slack, but he recovered in the nick of time, reinforcing his grip before the phone tumbled to the floor.
"But . . . but how can that be?"
"Dunno for sure, but my best guess is, somehow, when he altered reality, Adam must've set the clock backwards, or some such. Restored everything. Made it like new again. Which is why I wanted to ask you—is . . .?"
"The car!" Aziraphale exclaimed, thinking ahead. "Is it also miraculously repaired?"
"How the Heaven should I know? That's why I'm asking you, innit?"
"You didn't see it on your way out?"
"I wasn't exactly looking for it, was I?" Crowley snarled. "I hailed the first cab I saw, angel, nothing more. A demon does not a masochist make."
"Oh, alright, yes, well . . . hang on, my dear, I've not left your flat. We're still on for our rendez-vous in St. James's Park, yes?"
"Far as I know," came Crowley's sardonic reply.
"Alright. I'm leaving now. I'll go look, and I'll tell you as soon as I get there."
"Angel, you can tell me right now. The whole point of a mobile phone is that it's . . . well, mobile."
"And ruin the surprise? I think not, dear boy!"
"Put my glasses on before you go! I left them on the sof—"
"Jolly good! I'll see you soon!"
"Don't forget."
"Of course not. What makes you think I will?"
And he cut the connection before the demon had a chance to reply.
Satisfied, Aziraphale returned to the couch, where, sure enough, Crowley's dark glasses waited. He put them on and cast a final glance around the flat.
"It was lovely to meet you," he told the houseplants. "I'm sure we'll be seeing more of each other very soon."
He beamed as the leaves returned his parting wave.
A balmy August morning welcomed him—brilliant sunlight warmed his upturned face as he set off toward the street.
And there . . . right outside Crowley's flat . . .
The ninety-year-old, bought-from-new, gorgeous, gleaming, demon-beloved Bentley.
It was perfect, more beautiful than Aziraphale remembered. A smile spread across his lips. If only he trusted himself enough to drive it to the park—the look on Crowley's face would certainly be worth his wrath—but he didn't dare. Instead, he flagged down a passing cab, positively giddy that he would be the one to give his best friend the good news.
It took him an age to locate Crowley—and it really shouldn't have, all things considered. For years, he had been conditioned to look for a tall, lithe fellow with flaming hair, decked in black. Not a portly bookseller, cutting a straight, dignified figure in a cream suit coat. Although, as he approached, he noticed an uncharacteristic looseness to his body's posture—cool and confident.
All of that dissolved, however, when Crowley spotted Aziraphale. His expression would have been comical, were he not in such pained suspense.
"Well?" he barked.
Aziraphale grinned.
Happiness bubbled inside of him to match Crowley's ecstatic relief. Love rolled from him in waves, enfolding Aziraphale in an ethereal embrace. He nudged Crowley's shoulder.
"I think this calls for a celebration, don't you?"
The comment brought the demon rudely back to the reality of their situation.
"Bit premature for that, isn't it?"
Aziraphale shrugged. "Perhaps. But I say we revel in the little victories while we can. Oh!" He pointed out one of their many haunts as it came into view. Crowley studied him, gauging whether or not the angel was serious. Aziraphale kept his hand extended in a most insistent invitation.
Crowley chuckled. "Alright. If you must. The usual."
Aziraphale nodded, propping an elbow on the edge of the vendor's cart.
"Strawberry lolly. And a vanilla with a flake, please."
Not a scratch on the Bentley. Not a smudge or a book burned in the shop. No word yet from Head Office. A plan devised with his partner-in-crime. Ice cream before noon.
So far, it was shaping up to be a very good day.
Absolutely tickety-boo.