"You're a bastard, you know what you cheeky angel? I'm sitting here with a fifty-or-somethin' year-old wine and you're not here at all so I'll just drink it. I don't care that you missed any of our typical meeting times at the park anymore, you know that? So I'll just go and…"

Crowley's incessant whining played out on the answer phone, becoming a familiar background noise. Aziraphale wasn't sure if he should be smiling at it or not – if it should be his own version of a warm welcome home like sappy book or if he should smite it into oblivion. Crowley was drunk in most of the messages anyways, so he ended up ignoring them. He only wanted to get rid of the messages, and since he wasn't sure how to work the machine, other than press the arrow button to play the messages, he'd just let it run out.

Just as he was finishing dusting off his top layer of books, the door was kicked in. He yelped, falling a few meters until he hit the hardwood floor with a resounding thump.

"Aziraphale you little prat – if it takes tearing down this store until there's nothing left, I will find you!"

"Shut the hell up you incessant demon and leave me alone! Damn it! You could have broken my back and then what?"

"… what? Aziraphale? Is that you?"

He hissed. "Who else would it be? I didn't ever think a burglar would try to break into this place and steal some of my Bibles, or pretend to be me, or call you a demon."

"Oh. Uh. Well, where are you?"

Another hiss. "Back here. Third row of books. Damn it, my back…"

There was a hurrying of a feet, and then Crowley was helping him up, dusting off his back and placing his glasses back on his nose after fixing them. He felt like some porcelain doll being put up on display. Aziraphale fixed him a stare.

"Well?"

"Uh… hi." Crowley looked like a kicked puppy, or a disappointed toddler who didn't get his milk, or a mix of both.

"Right, then, since you have nothing worthwhile to be doing here I'll just-"

"No! No… wait. Just- just let me… talk to you? Where have you been?"

"Could we talk about this somewhere more… comfortable?"

"You want to go out somewhere? The Ritz?"

Aziraphale shrugged.

"I was thinking just of finding a chair to sit down in, but sure dear. The Ritz works."

Nothing seemed real in the restaurant. No one argued over who got more food and if the cooks were jipping them out of something. No one cried, asking to please, please just give me something in a language that no one understood. No. Everything was happy. The waitresses smiled, their hair done up in a bun. The couple in the table across from them flirted easily, comfortably, occasionally brushing hands. The wine was set at their table at their wish, and the food was ordered without argument.

It was as if nothing had happened.

Crowley wanted to know what happened.

"Once the drinks come," Aziraphale told him.

The drinks came, and still nothing was said.

"Once the food comes," Aziraphale told him.

The food came. He was silent.

And now the food was gone, and Aziraphale didn't know what to do. He felt cornered by those slitted eyes watching his every move, knowing he'd have to say something now. Just when he was beginning to build up the courage to speak, to explain that he had just gone off to France or Spain to get some fresh air or some blatant lie that he knew both of them would never believe, Crowley cuts him off:

"'Shut the hell up you incessant demon and leave me alone, damn it?'"

Oh, well. Aziraphale supposed that maybe he had been a little harsh.

"I was just… surprised, dear, that's all."

He sips his wine, not quite meeting the demon's hidden eyes.

"Surprised. Right. So, the next time I'm surprised, I suppose I shall just praise Someone and get down on my knees, asking that Someone for forgiveness, hm?"

"If you'd like. I'd have no problem with it, dear, if that's what you-"

"You shut the hell up! You think that's all this is about? You're gone for over six months, you look like shit, there's still blood matted in your hair (you couldn't take a shower but change your clothes?) and the first thing I hear from you is shut the hell up you incessant demon and leave me alone, damn it. Some angel you are. Thanks. I was almost worried."

Crowley pushes in his chair, and turns to leave.

"W-wait! Crowley, stay, please," Aziraphale calls, and he realizes that he's done something horribly wrong, and Crowley didn't deserve that, and please, please, just stay. He'll explain. Maybe not all of it, but he'll explain enough so that he understands if he'd just turn around already so Aziraphale could stop trailing behind him, following him to the door and hoping that the restaurant wasn't suspecting them of dine-and-ditching.

Crowley pauses. He doesn't turn around.

"What happened." It's a statement, almost. Aziraphale swallows.

"I… was in Vietnam."

"Why?"

"To help."

"The Americans?"

"No! I mean… no, of course not. Now please dear, can we just go back and sit down?"

"Fine."

Crowley turns around, avoiding even glancing at Aziraphale, and sits back in his seat with a huff. Annoyance and irritation emanate his being.

"I went to Vietnam. I tried to help the people there. I ended up passing out for a week. I had no strength. I couldn't even walk. I went through rehabilitation in an American medical facility set up there. They sent me back."

Aziraphale knows Crowley is searching him, and he starts thinking that it isn't fair again. He should be the one irritated. He had a right to be irritated. And upset. And distressed. And miserable. And he just didn't want to even be anymore.

"That's all?"

And that's it.

"Oh, yes, that's quite all. I wasn't starving. I wasn't going from village to village, trying to do anything, anything, just so that they could survive a day longer. I didn't see kids blown up or shot or burned to death. I wasn't carrying around a few young children, hoping that they might survive. I didn't watch them die without any hope in their eyes left. I didn't see a man get sent out to fight with a broken leg just because his government told him to. The only thing I didn't do, was die. Get discorporated. Whatever."

Crowley puts a hand on his. Aziraphale wonders why his face feels so wet.

And then Crowley says that they should go for a walk, and he doesn't know what else to do so he just nods, takes Crowley's hand, and follows him out the door.

He doesn't even bother to check to see if the money Crowley left on the table was real or not.