#Actually communicating for a change #In which Heaven is misguided but not the root of all evil #Earth Observation files coming back to bite them #the act of observation changes the observer #Michael is a decent person #at least for this fic #POV Outsider

Since Series 2 is coming out soon I thought I should get some stories off my desk before they get jossed by new canon...

NB: I don't necessarily think canon!Michael would act this way, but I needed one archangel to be open-minded and she at least had a contact in Hell so you could argue there's evidence of a possible flexibility of mind there. Anyway, that is the choice for this story. (Gabriel is still a pillock, though.) I just wanted to explore what might have happened with those Earth Observation files.

Chapter 1

Michael looked up at the knock. "Ah, Aziraphale. Come in. Shut the door, please."

His entrance to her office was more suited to a guilty choirboy called into the choirmaster's office than a principality visiting an Archangel, but they were used to that. The request to shut the door had only made it worse. He handwrung his way across the office and sank into the indicated chair as if he wasn't sure he'd ever be allowed to get up again.

"I came as soon as—well, as I got your message." He twisted his hands together in his lap and sat very straight. "I do hope there's nothing wrong." The nervous inflection turned it from a statement into an uncertain question.

Michael looked at him a moment and hesitated, almost prepared to apologise and say it had all been a mistake. But no, that would be a dereliction of duty. Even if there were questions she didn't want answers to. "I think," she said carefully, "that is for you to tell me."

As he frowned in confusion she opened the file in front of her and slid a photo across the desk. He looked down, perplexed, and then his eyes opened wide. "Oh, I, er—"

"That is the demon Crowley, is it not?"

"Well, er, yes, I suppose—"

"That was taken from the Earth Observation files."

Aziraphale stared down at the black and white photograph of himself and the demon sitting on a park bench. On opposite ends, yes, but nevertheless, sitting peacefully. No smiting. "Well, er, you see—All those humans around. I could hardly attack him there. Trying to wipe the minds of so many humans would be rather tricky."

Silently she passed over another photo.

"He does have a tendency to be around crowds of humans. A wily serpent he is, quite cunning."

Another photo. Another. Another. Always the two of them, separate but within arm's reach. Never fighting. No holy wrath in sight.

"I was ordered not to do anything to alert humans to my true nature," Aziraphale pointed out, sounding half petulant and half panicked.

There were a dozen photos in front of him now, different places, different styles of clothes, but always the two of them, an angel and a demon. Neutral. Even amicable.

Aziraphale wasn't giving up, though. "It's been six thousand years. Both Heaven and Hell do have a tendency to be interested in the same events and it's only natural we should bump into each other. On rare occasions. Very rare occasions. Hardly worth mentioning, in fact. After all, six thousand years, it was bound to happen. I have been thwarting him, you know. And it's not easy. He's a tricky one, very tricky. Very clever. Diabolically clever, even. I—"

Michael slid over one last photo. In it Crowley looked over his shoulder at something, gesturing widely. Photograph-Aziraphale looked at him, intent and interested and—affectionate. There was nothing of enemies in that photo, not in Crowley's exuberant open gesture or in Aziraphale's unmasked fondness.

"Oh," Aziraphale said, very small. His face was a picture of misery.

"Why?" Michael asked, and hoped she didn't sound as desperate as she felt. Lust would have been—not good, but understandable. Demons were master tempters. But affection? Fondness? That didn't make any sense at all. "What is this?"

The fight went out of him; his posture slumped. "He is my friend."

Michael stared at him. "Your friend? How?"

He ran a finger gently over the line of the demon's face. "He was kind to me. He is kind to me."

There were too many inflections in there to unpack immediately. He was kind to me. He was kind to me. He was kind to me. If she was human, she would have had to catch her breath. Slowly, not wanting an answer, she asked, "And we are not?"

He paused. And then he looked up at her, earnest and open. "I'm sure you mean to be."

Michael had never been in a brawl in human form; she had never been sucker punched. It meant she had nothing to compare to this feeling of abject shock.

Perhaps Aziraphale took her stunned horror for disapproval. "I haven't betrayed Heaven," he assured her earnestly. "Goodness me, no. I have been faithful to Her and never wavered in my—Well, perhaps a little waver, here and there—but I believe in Her. I have faith in Her. It's just—it is hard sometimes, seeing what happens to the humans and trying to believe it's for the best. But none of that's Crowley's fault. He'd never Tempted me, he's never tried to make me Fall. We just—we're the only two who are stationed permanently on Earth. There's no one else like us. We're friends. He's my friend, my dearest friend. I've tried to deny it, but he is."

"He's a demon."

Aziraphale looked down at the photos. "He is like me."

"He's a demon!"

"And he belongs in Hell about as much as I belong in Heaven. Which is to say, not at all." Michael flinched. "Neither of us fit in where we are supposed to be. But we fit in on Earth. Together."

"And you truly believe he feels friendship for you? A demon?" She didn't try to mask her disbelief.

"Oh yes." Utter certainty. "He's been much braver about it all than I ever have."

"How can you be sure he's not lying? That's what demons do."

Aziraphale frowned at her like she was an errant fledgling. "How could you even know that?" he demanded. "How much time have you actually spent around demons? And even if you are right about demons, I find it hard to believe that even the most dishonest demon could keep up a lie for six thousand years."

Had it really been so long? Had they really abandoned him for that long? "But how can you know?"

"Because I know him," Aziraphale said simply. "Do you think I didn't suspect at first? That I didn't ask all these questions myself? But he is kind to me, he has always been kind to me. He listens to me, even when I talk about things he's not interested in. And he remembers things. He rescued something precious to me when even I had forgotten about it—just because he knew I would be upset." He smiled at the memory, that smile of warm affection from the photo (it was a look, Michael realised abruptly, she had never seen on him before). "He came into a church—consecrated ground—to rescue me when all I risked was discorporation and he risked extinction." He shook his head at the memory, not noticing Michael gaping at him. "He couldn't walk for a week afterwards, his feet were so burnt."

"I suppose he told you that." She was proud she managed to get an edge of snideness into her voice. (They had let him down. They had all let him down and none of them had even noticed.)

"Oh no, I looked after him. After all, he had just saved me. Really, he shouldn't have left after a week but he didn't want to risk me being found harbouring a demon. But he is always so thoughtful. And so kind. He won't harm children. He says it's because they haven't had enough time to blacken their souls yet, but he never harms them. That's more than I can say for a lot of angels.

"It's about choice. He offers the humans a choice. No one has to follow through. It's not his fault if humans are good at making bad choices. But he gives them a chance." That's more than I can say for a lot of angels, he didn't say.

He looked at Michael. "He's never Tempted me, you know. Even if he could have. Oh, he's tempted me, but never into anything I didn't already want. He was just—my friend. Kind and clever and thoughtful. Oh! One time he..."

Michael let him talk, watched his face light up. She'd seen him smile like that before when he was trying to talk about some clever human thing that wasn't actually relevant to the report at hand. It never lasted long before Gabriel would pull him back on track, cutting off the unnecessary chatter, and the smile would fade. Did the demon let him talk for as long as he wanted? Did he share Aziraphale's strange fascination with the humans? He's like me. Could a demon really feel friendship for anyone? (A demon had offered Aziraphale kindness where his fellow angels had offered—what? They'd never pretended to understand him. Had they ever bothered to try?)

"Aziraphale," she interrupted. Watched the light drain out of his face. She needed more information. "Before I make a decision on how to deal with this, I need to speak with—"

"The others. I understand." His voice was almost steady.

And Michael realised then: He feared them. They'd known he was nervous (strange thing in an angel) but thought it just fear of public speaking or a perfectionist's worry about not doing a task well enough. Or even just too much time spend around humans instead of the safety of Heaven. They hadn't bothered to look closer.

But she was looking now, and she recognised that frisson and it was not nerves. He was afraid of them. And if this demon was fooling him, had drawn him in for nefarious purposes, then it was their fault for being so dreadful as to drive him into the arms of the first bit of kindness he experienced. (He was sure they meant to be kind; what kind of angels were they?)

"No, not the others. The demon. Crowley."

He stared at her. "No! You can't—" He swallowed hard. "I won't let you hurt him."

"I didn't—"

"I'll accept whatever you decide," he said desperately. "Whatever punishment you assign, I won't fight it. Just leave him alone, please."

(Would anyone offer that for her? How could he offer it for a demon?)

"I just want to talk to him, Aziraphale. To try to—understand. I believe you believe him. I do. But I have to see for myself before I can trust it."

"Ah. So you don't trust me."

Michael paused. Yesterday she would have automatically said that of course she did, he was an angel, but he was making her rethink everything she had thought she knew. Today she had to think about it; actually think. "If I didn't trust you," she said carefully, feeling her way through the realisation, "then I would have shown those photos to the others before I ever contacted you."

"Ah."

"Aziraphale—you are asking me to disregard things I have known to be true since before the Earth was created. I am not saying you are wrong. I am saying I have to be sure."

"And if you meet him, then what?"

"I don't know," she said honestly. "But I believe this is the next step."

He sighed. "I can't guarantee he will come. I'll tell him everything, you see. I won't lead him into a trap. I refuse."

"I expect nothing less." She took a deep breath. She was really doing this. "I vow he is safe from me for this one meeting, no matter the outcome. Unless he attacks first. In any form. If he comes in peace he may go in peace. This I swear."

He studied her carefully. "I believe you." A sigh. "Very well, I shall try. But if he is wise he won't come."

Michael tried a faint smile. She had a feeling it came out crooked. "If he was wise, he would not have tried to befriend an angel."

He shut the door very gently behind him. Michael waited a moment to be sure he was gone, then opened the folder again. There was one more photo, one she hadn't given to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, black and white face alight with angelic grace, beamed at an unidentified human. In the background, unnoticed, the demon Crowley looked at him, looked at an angel, with unguarded fondness.

Michael had a feeling he was not going to be at all wise when Aziraphale got hold of him.

A/N: I figure Aziraphale talks openly in the end because he has always talked too readily about Crowley and because now that she knows there's no point in hiding.