Friday the 13th, May, 2033

Let us take a moment to understand how we got to this moment. For this, we have to go back about six years, to the beginning of the beginning of the end. For Aziraphale, at least. Not that angels can really end, it's a metaphorical end—but regardless.

It is Friday the 13th, May, 2033, when the beginning of the beginning of the end is released, so to speak. It had been boiling down in Hell for a very long time, a genius idea from the demons that, for once, did not come from Crowley. Heaven and Hell were just stumbling about trying to find their footing back then, only about a decade and a half having passed since the whole presumed ineffable plan went—as Crowley had once put it—pear-shaped. They didn't know what to do with themselves. There wasn't an Anti-Christ anymore, there wasn't a war between Good and Evil, and therefore there wasn't, as far as anyone could tell, anything to look forward to.

It was right about then that both sides seemed to decide they were better off pissing off the other side than waiting around, and went right back to the way they had been before the birth of the Anti-Christ: sowing Good and Evil respectively among humankind.

Beelzebub had been the one to come up with it this time: Arch-Enemies™.

The concept was this: everyone has a soul-match, their inherent enemy, who will oppose them their whole life long from the moment they meet—or perhaps even from before then. The richest man in the country and the most influential communist leader, maybe; or two lawyers who keep finding themselves on opposing sides of the same cases; or even a woman and her father's murderer. Arch-Enemies™ are opposing either in principle or because of some hate-generating event (or events, plural) that they cannot overcome.

Everyone has one. This is partly because people tend to make enemies. It's very natural, and anyone without any enemies was certainly not living their life in any way at all. But for those that truly had no perfect match, well, they were simply matched with someone else who had no perfect match, and no one was the wiser. Hell certainly didn't mind lying, it was one of their core principles.

And in the words of Beelzebub, to roaring applause, "People won't be able to resist finding them. Hatred and chaos! Discord! People will abandon their families and friends! Enemies will murder each other in the streets!"

So, on Friday the 13th, May, 2033, after an extensive ad campaign down in Hell, Arch-Enemies™ was released and the chaos began.

And ze wasn't wrong.

When people's left forearms burned like the fires of hell had pressed a brand to their skin, they had all collectively looked, found names on their forearms, and, with the aid of the internet, figured out what the name meant in less than two days.

Humans knowing who their most hated enemy on the surface of the earth was was a huge blow to peace. Even those who had never met their Arch-Enemy™ suddenly wanted nothing more to get them out of the way, as if getting rid of one's Arch-Enemy™ would clear their path to a long and successful life. They made mobile apps to find each other and arranged to meet. They booked plane tickets one day in advance and flew out to fight, or to talk it out, which often ended in fighting.

Hell was absolutely delighted.

Heaven was beside itself.

Perhaps more importantly, it became entirely clear that if Armageddon was to begin again, Hell had just tipped the scales dramatically in their favor.

On this day, Crowley was studiously not looking at his forearm, which continued to burn and, possibly, blister, the longer he didn't look at it. He had decided he didn't want to know, because he was a demon and demons were the enemies of everyone, as was their nature. What, did he have the whole of Earth's population scrawled across his forearm?

Well, actually, he had heard from word-of-mouth that demons' Arch-Enemies™ were a mixed bag. Some had other demons, because even though they were on the same side of the fight, they were demons, after all. Stabbing each other in the back was part of the job description.

A couple had gotten mortals. They were soundly mocked as extremely pathetic, and those mortals were soon dead in very painful ways.

And then there were the ones who had angels. That was growing to become a status symbol already: there was no sign of being a good demon—or, rather, a bad demon—quite like being soulfully opposed to a real angel.

And Crowley didn't want to know. He didn't.

But Aziraphale knocked on his door that day.

And, let it be noted, Aziraphale did not really go to Crowley in person, ever. In the years since Almost-Armageddon, they had begun to spend more time together, of course, that seemed inevitable. But usually, either Crowley or Aziraphale would call the other, and they'd arrange to meet somewhere else. For lunch, maybe. Or for a nice stroll around the park, or to the fireworks show, or what-have-you.

Aziraphale knocking on his door on Friday the 13th—this was not a good thing. Crowley was instantly aware that this was not a good thing. He had just been yelling at his houseplants again (they were, as always, extremely healthy), but when he heard Aziraphale through the door, he suddenly found his voice had left him entirely.

"Crowley," Aziraphale's voice came through the door. He warbled, which he tended to do when he was distressed about something, nothing like the quick, chipper way he spoke when he was very pleased. "Crowley, I know you're in there. You were shouting just a moment ago. I think—look, I think we need to talk about something. I suppose—well, I can imagine you already know what I wish to speak to you about—good God, Crowley would you open the door."

Crowley strode through his dark-wood halls, finding that he had absolutely lost his swagger. His hips weren't listening to him. He swung open the door and looked at Aziraphale, and he knew it without asking.

He didn't have to check his own forearm. Nor did he have to check Aziraphale's; Aziraphale's eyes were wet and his bottom lip trembled. His eyebrows were doing the puppy-dog thing he often did when he felt wronged by the universe: as if he would be able to persuade God Herself to fix something for him, because he was impossible to refuse.

To be fair, Crowley was sure that if he was God, there would be nothing in the world that would ever distress Aziraphale like that ever, not in the whole universe. He was impossible to refuse. Perhaps that's what they meant when they said the Almighty was all-powerful.

In any case, Crowley wasn't God, and he couldn't change anything for Aziraphale, not really. He could save a couple books, he could clear a paint stain, he could even save Aziraphale some nasty paperwork now and then, when Aziraphale had the terrible sense to walk around in a prissy, pristine coat in the middle of the French Revolution; but he couldn't change any more of it. He couldn't change that Aziraphale had Heaven to think about, he couldn't change that Aziraphale was just inherently better than him, and he couldn't change that Heaven and Hell were going to keep going at it, Armageddon or no.

He could get Aziraphale tea, maybe. Aziraphale always did like to consume food and drink. Maybe Crowley had something to eat in the apartment? Although he himself didn't eat anything…

"Come in?" Crowley tried.

Aziraphale hesitated at the threshold, as if steeling himself to step into a vampire's dwelling, or something. Crowley felt his frown deepen.

"What?" he asked, more sharply than he meant to, "I'm not going to set you on Hellfire or anything."

"Acually," Aziraphale was doing that thing he did when he was approaching a sensitive topic—taking a breath through his mouth and making a face like he was going to say something, and then closing his mouth. And then doing it again. Crowley's stomach turned and turned. Probably his insides were irreversibly tied up at this point. "That's what I was here about."