Soho, London, 1941

"What do you think we should do with this?"

Crowley lowered his sunglasses a little to squint at what Aziraphale was holding in his hands. The candlelight that illuminated the bookshop cast shadows and reflections on the smooth surface, but he could make out the photograph that Furfur had taken of the two of them on stage.

It would have been damning evidence - in Crowley's case quite literally - if Aziraphale hadn't managed to sleight-of-hand it out of the demon's clutches. Its existence was still a huge risk. If it were to fall into the hands of either Hell or Heaven, it would not end well for either one of them. He reached for it, took it from Aziraphale's hand and tilted it to get a better look. "Burn it?," he suggested. "Or maybe just rip it up into as many pieces as we can. Bury it? Throw it in the Thames?"

"You want to destroy it?" The angel sounded distraught at the idea.

Well, obviously he did. Crowley frowned. "Well, yeah. I mean, Furfur might come back looking for it once he finds it missing. If he does, I'd prefer he didn't find it. Wouldn't you?"

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. He took a sip of his wine. "I could keep it here," he suggested. "At the shop. Demons can't come in, you see."

"They can't?" Crowley looked around, verifying that he was, indeed, inside the shop. "You sure about that, Angel?"

"Quite sure," Aziraphale assured him. "It's an embassy of Heaven, you see, so demons can't enter. Well, unless they're invited, of course. Once somebody extends an invitation, the recipient can come and go as they please. You didn't know that?"

Crowley shook his head. "Well, not as such, no."

"Then why on Earth did you think I made a point to tell you to come in, the first time you visited me here?"

Honestly, he hadn't even thought about it at all. He had shown up at the door with treats to celebrate the upcoming grand opening, knocked, and been invited inside. That was how it was supposed to work, wasn't it? "Right," he said. "Bit risky, don't you think? Inviting demons into your embassy?"

"It's my shop before it's an embassy." Aziraphale told him. "The embassy thing was just Gabriel overstepping a bit. I made it quite clear I bought the property with my own money, and Heaven has no claim on it. Anyway, I didn't invite 'demons' in." He reached across the table as though he was about to touch Crowley's hand, but stopped just shy of actually making contact. "Just one demon in particular."

And therein lay a potential problem. Crowley wondered what might happen if the forces of Hell found out about this. He could explain away being in the shop as investigating the activity of the other side or something like that, but if the other demons realised that he had a special invite that allowed him to be there when they couldn't get inside… well, something like that would definitely set off alarm bells downstairs.

He swallowed nervously, then reached for his wine glass and took a long, deep gulp. "Better hope my side doesn't find out about that," he said. "Or your side either, for that matter. What would they say if they knew you'd been inviting the enemy round to share a bottle of wine?"

"I don't suppose they would be very happy about it," Aziraphale admitted. "But then, it's been quite some time since I extended that invitation, and nobody seems to have noticed yet. Just like they haven't noticed our Arrangement, or anything else we've got up to." He smiled.

Crowley didn't.

He eyed the angel appraisingly. He was growing more confident; more sure of himself, and less afraid of being found out. He had described Crowley as his friend twice already tonight, and the incident with the photograph, which Crowley had thought might knock him back a couple of centuries and leave him unable to admit even knowing the demon, seemed instead to have convinced him that things were okay, and that even if somebody did come for them, he was clever enough to outsmart them.

Under normal circumstances Crowley would be pleased. But these were far from normal circumstances.

Don't go getting sloppy, Angel," he warned him. "Just 'cos you managed to outsmart one idiot demon and a few halfwit Nazi zombies, don't go thinking you're safe, okay? That photo could get you into every bit as much trouble as it could me."

Aziraphale appeared to consider that. He reached for the image again and examined it. "More, probably," he said. "I imagine the punishment for being friends with a demon might be to become one myself."

Crowley's mouth dropped open. "I… no." He shook his head, his own fall flashed into his mind and he closed his eyes beneath his glasses, trying to banish the memory. He realised he was still shaking his head, and made a deliberate effort to stop. "I don't think they do that anymore," he said. "Do they? I've not heard about an angel falling since… well…" Since the Fall. Since he and the other demons had been expelled from Heaven. There hadn't been any stragglers, no latecomers falling for minor transgressions like asking questions and thinking for themselves. He had assumed that any angel who was going to fall already had.

But he knew first hand how cruel She could be, and how willing to take away everything for the smallest of infractions.

Any angel crash landing in Hell now would either be picked apart by demons, or end up in a position of power earned by the grudging respect they might have earned by defying Heaven. He genuinely wasn't sure which way it would go for Aziraphale, and he was determined not to find out.

"Nah," he said, desperately trying to sound nonchalant. Aziraphale had been making an ill-timed joke, or he had had too much wine. "Nah, they wouldn't. They'd just demote you, assign you a desk somewhere upstairs and have you spend the rest of your existence archiving prayers or processing incoming souls and sending them on their way. You know, something nice and boring where there's no risk of you developing a spark of independent thought."

Aziraphale frowned. "I think I would rather become a demon," he said.

Crowley shook his head again. He lowered his glasses just enough to show the angel his eyes. "Don't ever say that," he warned him.

Aziraphale appeared to sober instantly. He blinked, then his expression grew serious. "No," he said. "No, of course not. It was a terrible thing to… I think perhaps opening that third bottle of wine was a mistake. Forgive me?"

Crowley shrugged. "That's your lot's department," he told him. "But if you want to make sure neither of those things happen to you, I suggest you burn the evidence."

Aziraphale looked at the photo again. "It really would be safe here," he said. "I was thinking of hiding it somewhere nobody would ever look. It's just, it's nice to have a memento. Not just of my time on the stage, but of the two of us, together. I don't suppose we'll ever get another one."

Crowley hoped they wouldn't.

Aziraphale sighed. "Okay then," he said, "I suppose you're right." Slowly and reluctantly, he moved a corner of the photograph over the flame of one of the candles and held it there, waiting for it to burn. Crowley watched, and waited.

Nothing happened.

Aziraphale's eyes met his. "It doesn't appear to be…" Confusion turned to understanding. "Of course. The camera was created in Hell," he said. "The resulting image must be impervious to fire. Probably to hellfire too."

Right. That did make sense actually. Damned annoying, but it made sense. "Does that mean holy water would destroy it?" he asked.

Aziraphale shook his head. "I don't know. But I don't have any holy water.

"Not even a little bit for emergencies?"

The angel frowned. "Of course I don't. It could destroy you, Crowley. I just told you you can come and go from this bookshop as you please. Do you think I would be so careless as to leave something like that laying around?"

"I told you the last time we discussed it, Angel, I don't want to use it on myself," Crowley reminded him. "You saw what nearly happened tonight; what I want is to be able to defend myself if they come for me. Magic tricks won't always work, you know."

Aziraphale considered that, then shook his head. "And what if you felt that you couldn't defend yourself? What if the forces of Hell were coming for you and you didn't see any other escape. Can you guarantee that you wouldn't take the easy way out?"

Easy? It wouldn't be easy. But perhaps it would be easier than what they had in store for him. He hesitated. He wanted to lie; to insist that yes, he absolutely could guarantee that. He wanted to assure the angel that there were no circumstances where he might be tempted to turn the weapon on himself, but he still ached when he moved after the years of torture that he had endured after Edinburgh. He still woke up screaming, convinced that he was still trapped in Hell. Even in his waking moments he would find himself there unexpectedly, as though his mind could not let go of the horrors they had put him through.

When they had finally let him go, it had been with a warning; if he found himself sent back there again, he would never leave.

He shivered.

"Exactly!" Aziraphale said in response to his silence. "And that's precisely why I can't let you have it, Crowley. "If anything happened to you…" his words tailed off into silence, but leaving his meaning very clear.

Crowley wanted to scream; he wanted to shake the angel, to make him understand. It was impossible; he couldn't understand because he was an angel. He had no knowledge of Hell, and no idea what demons would be willing to do to an agent they felt had turned against them. If they came for him; really came for him, it wouldn't matter what he did, or how many he killed in his escape, Aziraphale would lose him regardless. The best he could hope for was that he could take a few of them down with him.

He shook his head. There was no point even trying. One day, when the war was over and the world was more stable, he would take it upon himself to find what he needed. He didn't need Aziraphale's help. "Forget it," he said. "I'm not even trying to get holy water anymore. I'm suggesting that you use it to destroy that. He thrust a finger at the back of the photograph.

Aziraphale bent the photograph in his fingers, frowning thoughtfully. "It doesn't feel evil," he mused. "I don't think it will be any more vulnerable to holy water than an ordinary human daguerreotype."

"Photograph," Crowley corrected automatically. "Fine, so what do we do then?"

"I suppose we could just rip it up," Aziraphale suggested. He gripped one side of the photograph with the fingers of both hands, and tried to rip it in half.

The photograph remained whole, not even creasing under his efforts.

"Give it here," Crowley told him, and snatched it back again. He did the same, and got the same result. He scowled at the picture as though it was somehow doing it on purpose, then clicked his fingers, moving his hand in an upward motion to pull demonic energy out of Hell, aiming to destroy the evidence.

The photograph didn't appear to notice.

Aziraphale tried a miracle of his own, and got the same result. He looked at Crowley, appearing worried now. "What do we do?" he asked.

He had no idea. He glanced around the shop looking for something that he might be able to use, but there was nothing. The blasted thing was impervious to damage. Whatever it was made from, it had clearly been designed to last. He sighed. "Where were you going to keep it?" he asked.

"What?"

"You said you could keep it here in the shop," Crowley reminded him. "No unauthorised demons and all that. Where were you going to keep it?"

Aziraphale's face lit up. "Really?"

"Really," Crowley told him. "But only because I'm out of ideas. You understand that if either side gets hold of this, it's over, right?"

Aziraphale nodded.

Crowley pressed one finger onto the photo and slid it across the table toward the angel. "Actually, don't tell me where you're putting it," he added. "The fewer people who know, the better."

Aziraphale picked up the photograph and looked at it for a moment. "I have to admit," he said. "I'm not unhappy that we can't destroy it."

That was because he had no idea, no idea at all of the danger the image posed. By leaving it here in his charge, Crowley knew that he was trusting the angel with his life, and Aziraphale didn't even seem to realise it. It was probably for the best; no use both of them spending the rest of their lives terrified. "Just make sure you keep it safe," he said.

"Oh I shall," Aziraphale insisted.

"And out of sight," Crowley added. "I come in here and find you've stuck it on the wall, I'm going to be very unhappy."

Aziraphale chuckled, then picked up the bottle of wine and topped up both their glasses. "I promise not to frame it," he assured him. "It will never see the light of day again."

Soho, London, many years later

"Angel?"

Aziraphale looked up from his book and glanced at Crowley over the frames of his reading glasses. "Hmm?"

"Is this what I think it is?"

It was a pointless question; he already knew the answer. He leaned in closer to examine the image. It was unchanged by the years that had passed. It showed an angel and a demon standing on a stage, the angel dressed uncharacteristically in black, wearing the painted moustache that Crowley had carefully drawn on for him before the show. Between the two of them, they were holding a rifle.

Neither appeared particularly anxious, but Crowley was acutely aware that behind his sunglasses, his eyes were already wide with terror.

That was the night it had almost ended; the night he had come within inches of discorporating the angel, possibly permanently, and the night Aziraphale had saved him from Hell's vengeance with a silly sleight of hand. It was the night he had almost lost everything, twice.

"When did you do this?" he demanded.

Aziraphale at least had the good grace to look embarrassed. "A month ago," he admitted.

"A month?"

"Yes. Well, we no longer have to keep it a secret," Aziraphale said, with a shrug and a smile. "And it's a lovely memento."

Crowley grimaced. "You promised not to frame it." he reminded him.

Aziraphale considered this, then nodded. "I lied," he said. "Well, not at the time. I genuinely meant it, but things are different now."

Crowley scowled. He leaned in to examine the photograph more closely. "Why do you look so happy?" he asked. "Our miracles weren't working, and I was about to shoot a gun at your face."

The corner of Aziraphale's lips turned up into a smile. "I was on the West End stage," he said. "And I was there with you."

Crowley squinted at the photograph again.

"I'll take it down if you really want me to," Aziraphale told him. "But it's only very small, I doubt anybody will notice it, and it's the only one we have of the two of us together. We don't have to worry about what Heaven or Hell know anymore, so I thought, why not?"

Crowley considered it. Aziraphale was right, of course; it didn't matter who saw the photograph anymore, and it really was the only one they had. It still made him very nervous. He folded his arms tightly across his chest and sighed. "It's fine," he said. "You're right; leave it up."

Aziraphale beamed. "Really? Oh, thank you!"

Crowley made a show of rolling his eyes. "Whatever." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. "Hey, come over here a minute," he told him.

"Why?" Aziraphale asked, already halfway to his feet. He crossed the room to Crowley.

Crowley placed an arm around the angel. "You're right," he said. "We don't have any other photos. Yet."

He opened his camera app, then reached out his hand holding the phone, turning the camera on the two of them. If Aziraphale insisted on having that thing on the wall, Crowley was at least going to temper the impact by surrounding it with pictures of happier times.

He leaned in, bringing their heads together. "Say cheese, Angel," he told him, and pressed the button, capturing the very first of many, many more images of the two of them.