In this chapter Crowley is going to call Aziraphale clever quite unironically. Some people use the "dolphins are fish" conversation as proof his intelligence goes awry sometimes, but here's the thing: The term "fish" used to (some centuries ago) refer to any animal that lived in the water—including whales and dolphins (listen to sea shanties and realise how often they talk about the "whale-fish"). It was only later that "fish" was narrowed down (though even as it's now used it's not actually a taxonomically valid term!). There are probably books in Aziraphale's bookshop that still list cetaceans under fishes (especially if he has something like Historia piscium on his shelf).

By saying a dolphin is a fish, Aziraphale is not so much wrong as out of date. Perfectly in character!

Chapter 3

Michael approached the appointed meeting place with unacknowledged trepidation. She hadn't told anyone where she was going. If this was a trap then there would be no one who knew what happened to her. But Aziraphale was only worried about the demon's safety and whatever else had happened to him she couldn't believe that he would be party to anything that would harm her.

She walked through the park, past the duck pond, all senses on alert. But there were only two celestial beings in sensing distance. It was no guarantee, but it was as close as she was going to get. And she did trust Aziraphale. Despite everything, she trusted him.

(Oddly, it occurred to her that she wouldn't have necessarily known it was an angel and a demon that waited for her. She would have assumed it would be easy to tell the difference, but it wasn't. Still, there was something strange about the feel of them, something she couldn't put her finger on. Something she should recognise.)

They watched her approach with equal apprehension, though Aziraphale's manifested in extremely correct posture and fidgeting fingers while the demon was slouched and had his hands jammed as far as possible into his trouser pockets.

For a moment they all three stood there and stared at each other. Aziraphale's hands fluttered nervously, one going to hover in front of the demon as if to shield him. "Well, er, Crowley, Serpent of Eden, the Archangel Michael. I don't believe you've met. Not officially, that is."

The demon muttered something that might have been "Not in this form." Michael pretended not to have heard. It was easier not to look at demons and wonder which of her Fallen brethren might be behind the new face.

There was another awkward pause. Aziraphale again was the one to break it. "Yes, well. This way, if you please."

Michael went to follow him, only to have the demon insert himself between them, keeping a wary and protective eye on her as Aziraphale led them to a secluded nook in the trees where no one could observe them.

A set of outdoor furniture awaited them, a round table and three chairs in white-painted, elaborately worked wrought iron. The glass-topped table bore teapot, cups, and plates of food on a tea stand. It all had the whiff of a miracle about it.

Not the demon's, because he rolled his eyes at the sight of it. (Michael was reluctantly impressed with how he made sure everyone knew he was rolling his eyes even when they were masked by his sunglasses.) "Really, angel? At least they're not tartan, I suppose."

Aziraphale bristled like an affronted cat. "Tartan is stylish."

"Tartan hasn't been stylish for decades. Come on, angel, you have to catch up to the modern world some time."

"I think you'll find that I don't have to do anything of the sort."

Michael trailed behind, bewildered. Hadn't Aziraphale said they were friends? Where did petty bickering fit in to that? (It should be noted that angels don't generally go in for amicable arguments. As a rule they are either amicable or arguing. Not both.)

But then Crowley gently shepherded Aziraphale to a chair so he could pull it out for him. "There you go, angel."

"Oh. Oh! Thank you, Crowley." He sat, and shot a soft look of gratitude up at him through his lashes.

The demon froze, as if all his higher functions had short-circuited. He paused a beat too long before grumbling "Shut up" without heat. Pulling a second chair out he placed it right next to Aziraphale's and slumped into it, leaving the third one for Michael on the opposite side of the table, marking out very clear sides. How was it with two angels and a demon she was the outsider?

But she took her seat without protest. This was what she was here to understand. Somehow.

"Tea?" Aziraphale offered, holding up the teapot invitingly.

She started to refuse, then hesitated. Wasn't that one of the things she feared they were doing wrong? Always refusing to even attempt to appreciate his enthusiasm.

And really, Gabriel, the biggest anti-food angel of them all, was the one who delighted in human clothing. Gross matter inside, gross matter outside. What was the difference really? "Please," she said, and watched with trepidation as he poured her a cup and passed it over. She lifted the cup to her lip and hesitated, breathing the sharp, pungent scent. Humans did this? Aziraphale did this?

The demon asked, "You had tea before?"

Putting down the cup, relieved for the excuse, she said, "No."

"Oh dear, something a little easier on the palate then. Earl Grey, perhaps?" Aziraphale looked to the demon for approval but he took it for a request and snapped his fingers.

The liquid in her cup changed. Michael hastily pushed it away, tensing for an attack—that didn't come.

"Oh, really now," Aziraphale scolded, as if refusing to take food from a demon was the ultimate in bad manners. He poured tea into his own cup and passed it to her, taking hers for his own and lifting it to his lips. "Oh!" He beamed at the demon, giving a wriggle—an actual wriggle—of delight. "Is this that tea from—"

"Scarborough, '52. Yeah." He shrugged. "Well, you're the tea connoisseur. If you thought it was that good it must be."

"Oh! Your cup!" Aziraphale poured the demon a cup and passed it to him like handing over a sacred relic.

"Ta."

"Now, everyone, do help yourself to afternoon tea. If you haven't tried any before, Michael, then perhaps a scone to start with, or an egg and cress sandwich. Those ones there. Now, those are that salmon you like, Crowley."

"And fairy cakes, I see. Really, angel." The demon smirked.

"I happen to like fairy cakes," Aziraphale said, nose in the air. Taking a plate he put two on it. And then passed it to the demon. "And so do you."

"Tell the whole blessed world, why don't you?" But he took the plate.

Michael took a sip of tea to cover her confusion. It was... unpleasant.

"Too bitter?" Aziraphale asked anxiously. "Try some sugar. Here, just a bit. Try that." Reluctantly, Michael took another—small—sip. "Better?"

She managed a smile. "Yes," she said, half truthfully. "Thank you." Steeling herself, she took another sip, and he beamed.

The demon had disposed of the fairy cakes and replaced them with a scone, but he wasn't so much eating it as breaking it into ever smaller pieces. Through the distorted glass of the tabletop she could see his knee jiggling. Aziraphale put a reassuring hand on the knee and it stilled. The demon didn't look any less worried, but some of the nervous tension drained out of him. Michael blinked.

"So," Aziraphale said. "Michael. Er. You wanted to speak with us?"

She took another unwary sip of tea to cover her own uncertainty and nearly choked. Firmly she put down the cup and laced her fingers together. Back in Heaven she had thought through this conversation, made plans upon plans. It was just that none of them seemed to quite fit with reality. "How did you meet?" she asked instead.

And was treated to an eager story from Aziraphale of an angel on a wall, worrying about the humans cast out of Eden, and the demon that failed to attack him. The demon just sat back in his chair and let Aziraphale babble, apparently finding this normal.

Michael made herself listen to the whole story and not interrupt. (Gabriel, she was realising, was really quite rude.) And it did bring up some interesting thoughts (like: what kind of demon waltzes up to an angel just to have a chat?). But when he was done, she said gently, "Aziraphale... Might I speak with Crowley alone? Please?"

His eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Taken aback, Michael hesitated. Angels tried not to ask Why. It was a fundamental tenet of life in Heaven. Everyone had seen what happened to angels who Questioned. "Because I believe it will be easier to talk about you without you being right there," she said honestly. "Not only for me, but for—for Crowley too." She didn't say, "Because I don't know if he'll get a word in edgewise if you stay." See, she could be kind too.

Aziraphale made no attempt to move.

"I promise you, I mean him no harm. He is safe as long as he does not attack. Or as long as others do not attack on his behalf."

Aziraphale's exasperated sigh startled her, but drew no surprise from the demon. "Really now, he hasn't been out of my sight since I told him you wanted to meet with us. He can't have contacted anyone. I would have known."

"Aw, angel, and here I thought you just liked being around me and wanted my company."

"Well, obviously."

Michael took petty delight in the way the demon's jaw went slack.

"But while I trust you, of course I do, Michael hasn't had the chance to get to know you yet and so I had to ensure she would have no reason to smite you. Obviously."

"Ob-obviously," the demon repeated blankly.

"How can you be so sure, Aziraphale?" Michael demanded. There were angels who didn't have that faith in other angels. How could anyone believe so sincerely in a demon?

He didn't look at her, but at the demon. "Because every time I have thought him in the wrong he was right, and every time I've needed him he's been there."

Even at her most suspicious, Michael could see no triumph in the demon, only wonder and awe. Sighing, she looked back to Aziraphale. "Then grant me the chance to come to my own understanding. Please."

"It's okay, angel. I'll be fine. She promised, right?"

Reaching out but not touching, Aziraphale said, "You're sure?"

"I'll be fine. Don't worry about me."

"I always worry about you," Aziraphale told him tartly, but he stood. He looked to Michael. "I will trust your word," he said stiffly, and walked towards the trees, stopping under their shelter and turning back. His eyes fixed on Michael, clearly waiting for one wrong move. She was sitting at a table with a demon and somehow she was the untrustworthy one?

He was far enough away that he shouldn't have been able to eavesdrop, but Michael used a minor miracle just to be sure. And saw his disgruntled huff that told her that yes, he had had every intention of deliberately listening in. "I do believe there is more to him than we thought," she murmured.

To herself, but the demon snorted. "Could have told you that six thousand years ago. You lot have never bothered to look at him."

She turned her attention to him. "But you did. Why?"

He slouched deeper into his chair and scowled at her. "What do you care? All these centuries—millennia!—and you've never cared about him. Why start now?"

Michael scowled right back. "Look, demon, I am willing to try to find a way to make this work out positively for Aziraphale, but consorting with a demon is hardly on Heaven's list of approved activities."

She ignored the demon's mocking snort of "Consorting."

"If you are his friend, as he seems to think, then it would behoove you to cooperate before you get him in further trouble. If this is all some ridiculous plot on your part you might as well confess now and save us all the trouble."

The demon, however, probably didn't even hear her last words, caught up in quiet but frantic panic. "It's not his fault, none of it's his fault!" He was leaning forward in his desperation, tongue tripping over itself in urgency. "You can't take it out on him: it was all me. Blame me all you want, don't blame him. He was doing what he thought was right, he never did anything wrong. I made sure, okay. If you need someone to punish, punish me. Whatever you want, I'll do it. Just leave him alone. Please."

Michael sat back, frankly stunned. Even in a best case scenario she hadn't expected this. "That's what he said," she said slowly.

"He what?" The demon yanked his glasses off to stare at her. Michael barely registered the snake eyes; half of the angels had had animal heads for a millennia. Eyes was nothing.

"Aziraphale told me he would accept whatever punishment I thought necessary as long as we left you alone."

The demon closed his eyes. "Oh, angel, you compassionate fool." His eyes shot open, horrified. "No, wait! You can't!"

It was Michael's turn to close her eyes, trying to hold onto her temper. "Then explain this to me. Tell me why he is not a traitor. Tell me how an angel and a demon could possibly be friends."

He dropped his glasses on the table with a brittle clatter, rubbed his face with his hands. "He was kind to me," he said into his hands.

"I beg your pardon?"

He lowered his hands. "He was kind to me. No one's kind to demons. Not even other demons." He considered this. "Especially not other demons."

"And so you wanted to be his friend?" she asked sceptically.

"We kept running into each other. And he was often flustered, always worried, sometimes rude... But he was always kind too. He loves so readily, he loves the world and the humans. They say angels are beings of love, but he's the only one I ever saw that was. And he's earnest and honest in a universe that thinks those are weaknesses but he never lets it stop him. He's clever—awfully clever. 'Snot just that he knows a lot, but he can put all the pieces together. Other angels I meet just smite and run, demons most of 'em couldn't plot their way out of a plastic bag—but he thinks. And he thinks I'm as clever as he is. Which is rubbish, obviously, but it's fun trying to keep up. And brave! Bravest being I ever met because he's scared but it doesn't stop him. Makes him cautious, makes him hold back, but never stops him."

He poked at the ruins of his scone. "But all that, it's just, I don't know, rationalisation. Reasoning after the fact. He's Aziraphale. When he smiles, I'm happy. He's my best friend. It's not reasonable, it just is. What's that quote from that ridiculous book? Whatever souls are made of, his and mine are the same. If, you know, I had a soul."

Then, as if realising he'd said all that out loud, he sat back in his chair, crossed his arms, and glowered at his plate, mouth firmly shut.

"Did he tell you exactly what he said in my office?" she asked quietly.

He squinted at her, puzzled. "Just that you had photos and so he had to tell you we were friends and you were worried and he didn't know how to explain it to you."

"He said you were like him."

"No! He's so much better than I'll ever be."

"He said that neither of you belong where you're supposed to be."

"Oh."

"Is he wrong?"

The demon heaved a sigh. "If you're just trying to get more evidence so Hell will torture me for an extra thousand years, I wouldn't bother. They'll do it anyway."

That, Michael acknowledged, was true. Hell would not react well to a rogue demon. For all his history as a rebel, Lucifer did not take well to betrayal. Unless... "Are you trying to make Aziraphale Fall?"

"What? No!" He thrust himself away from the table in horror, chair falling to the grass with a dull thud, staring at her with wide gold eyes. "No!"

Aziraphale rushed forward, worried, but the demon was already calming himself and held up a hand. "It's okay, angel. Just... unexpected. Wasn't ready for that." Aziraphale looked thoroughly unconvinced, but reluctantly let the demon coax him into going back out of earshot, though he shot Michael a grim look at he went.

"No," the demon said quietly, picking up his chair and taking his sea. "I would never—Do you have any idea—If you knew how much—" He bit his lip. "You don't know how it feelsss. You don't know how much it hurtsss, how long you ssscream. I would never do that to him. Never. If I thought... I'd leave. But he's not. He wouldn't. Not him."

And finally that nagging sense that something was off fell into place. She was an angel and, despite what this demon might think, she was a being of love. She could sense love.

She could sense love here.