Chapter Text
They took the train back to London. Raphael was too exhausted to just whisk them all back to the office, and Aziraphale wouldn't let Crowley steal another car when there was perfectly good public transportation available. Crowley had some quibbles with his definition of 'perfectly good', but since he was himself feeling the strain of an exceptionally busy day, he didn't put up more than a token protest. And if it miraculously turned out that everyone else who should have been in the first class carriage hadn't shown up, Aziraphale had the good grace not to mention it.
Mephistopheles tried to slink away before they got to the station, but Crowley had been expecting something of the sort, and was ready with an iron grip on the other demon's collar and a glare that put the fear of holy water into him. Mephistopheles came along perfectly quietly after that, and with a sort of reverent terror that Crowley secretly enjoyed, despite Aziraphale's disapproving expression.
Wist had recovered enough to walk, although he still seemed diminished somehow, reduced to just a large black dog rather than the creature of shadow and mist they'd met on the moor. Raphael had used the last of his power to heal what he could, and Aziraphale and Crowley had both taken a turn as well, but it had been hard to know what they were trying to repair.
"I suspect it's a matter of time," Raphael said. "You made yourself a conduit for such tremendous power... it's lucky you weren't drained completely of your essence. It should restore itself eventually."
I'd feel better if I could go back to my moor, Wist grumbled, but since none of them currently had the ability to transport him there, he'd had to settle for the train like the rest of them. He was now stretched over two seats, chin resting on the table, and had indicated that he would be amenable to a ham sandwich. Crowley had crowded Mephistopheles into the window seat across from Wist, and taken the neighbouring seat himself to make it clear there was going to be no wriggling out of things. Aziraphale and Raphael were sitting at the table across the aisle, with Raphael's staff stashed in the luggage rack above their heads. Shortly after the train pulled out of the station, an attendant tried to come by and tell them that dogs weren't allowed on the seats, but changed her mind so abruptly she almost walked into a wall. Then she brought them all complimentary gin and tonics, which probably wasn't part of the normal service even in first class.
"Quinine was one of mine, you know," Raphael said absently, turning his glass in his hand. "I said to the others, look, if we have to go ahead with the whole malaria thing, let's at least give the humans something that works on it. And then Gabriel went and put all the trees on the wrong damn continent." He shook his head. "Never thought they'd turn it into a cocktail. But then, I never thought of antibiotics or vaccines, either. Could've saved myself a lot of time stirring that bloody pool."
"Clever buggers, humans," Crowley agreed. Someone probably ought to tell Raphael that his hair was a disaster, but Crowley was finding that fact far too satisfying to be the one who did. "Speaking of. What do we think are the odds that Julia Gregory's actually dead?"
"Well, we did leave her behind in a collapsing pocket of space-time," Aziraphale said, though he sounded as doubtful as Crowley felt. "Surely that should have done the trick?"
"Want to bet on it?"
"I don't gamble," Aziraphale replied primly, and Crowley choked at the bald-faced lie. "But I do rather think that's the last we'll see of her. Hopefully."
"Hopefully," Crowley echoed, in a deliberately poor imitation of Aziraphale's voice. "I'm just saying, everyone knows it's up in the air unless you find the body—"
"Oh, hush and drink your gin and tonic, there's a dear," Aziraphale replied with a sigh. "This isn't one of your spy thrillers."
"I'll be looking into it, anyway," Raphael put in. "I'm not about to leave something like that up to chance."
Crowley muttered rebelliously to himself, picked up his drink to take a sip, and realised Mephistopheles was staring at him with open confusion.
"They told us you went rogue," the other demon blurted out, "but they never said you were working for Upstairs now."
Crowley almost spat his gin and tonic across the table, getting a reproachful look from Wist.
"I am not working for Heaven," Crowley snapped. "Neither of us are! We were just minding our own business—"
"Well, not exactly," Aziraphale put in. "I mean, we do make a habit of poking into these things—"
"Angel, please." Crowley passed a hand across his eyes in utter despair. "Look," he went on, addressing Mephistopheles's wide-eyed bewilderment. "It's complicated. And anyway, what were you doing working with Julia Gregory?"
"Ah. Er. I didn't exactly intend to." Mephistopheles looked wretched. "Oh, I'm going to be in so much trouble. Beelzebub will string me up by my beard as an example to the others. I wasn't even supposed to be up here, but..."
He shot a nervous look at the two angels across the carriage, and leaned in to whisper conspiratorially,
"Crowley, it's been a mess down there ever since Armageddon didn't happen. Beelzebub's changed our departmental goals three times this year, Dagon keeps demanding copies of paperwork from centuries ago, Hastur kicks at least one person per day into the boiling sulphur for looking at him funny, and Himself hasn't come out of his throne room for months."
Crowley smothered his smirk, no matter how gratifying he found this information. Mephistopheles had clearly had a rough time of it and needed a sympathetic ear.
"Sounds like— well, Hell."
"Oh, it's worse than that. At least we always knew where we were with the Great Plan, you know?" Mephistopheles shuddered. "Now I never have any idea whether I'm supposed to be fetching the red-hot poker or filling out form 77b, and let me tell you, that sulphur's not a bit less boiling than it was the first time around. It quite ruined my favourite coat."
"How awful!" Aziraphale put in. Crowley shot him a sharp look, but Aziraphale was completely sincere, because of course he was. "Although the one you're wearing now is rather stylish, I must say."
Mephistopheles brightened.
"Do you think? I wasn't quite sure about the lace trim, but—"
"If you two start swapping fashion advice, I'm going to throw myself into the boiling sulphur," Crowley interrupted with a grimace. "The warlock, Meph, get back to the whole warlock thing."
"Oh. Yes." Mephistopheles fiddled nervously with the aforementioned lace trim at his cuffs. "The point is, I just wanted to get away from it all for a bit. So a few months ago, I found an excuse for a trip up top and then I sort of... didn't get around to going back. Nobody seemed to notice."
"I'll bet," Crowley muttered, thinking of all the other demons who'd been doing the same thing. Mephistopheles had always been a quiet sort... "Go on."
"Everything was going fine until my curses started getting hijacked by frogs—"
"Sorry, what?"
"Well, you know I don't really go in for..." Mephistopheles made a finicky gesture with his fingers. "For the torment and so on. But some humans are so rude, I can't be expected to just let that slide... anyway, every time I tried to curse someone with a bit of bad luck, they turned into a frog instead. Very unusual."
"That would be my staff," Raphael put in. He'd mostly been listening silently with his arms folded, which was probably for the best, since every time he spoke, Mephistopheles cowered noticeably in his seat. "Once it's in plague mode it's a bit insistent. Julia must have messed up the settings when she was opening that pit of hers."
"Thank heaven it was only the flies and the frogs and so on," Aziraphale murmured, a shadow passing over his face. "Good lord, if it had been the final plague—"
"No," Raphael said with certainty, his eyes the colour of sea ice. "Not that one. That one will never happen again. I tore it out of the staff myself."
There was a moment of awkward silence before Crowley nudged Mephistopheles pointedly. Mephistopheles cast one more nervous glance at the Archangel, then turned back to Crowley.
"Yes, so, it started with the frogs... and then I realised someone was messing with a lot of infernal power nearby, doing such original things with it." Mephistopheles looked sheepish. "You know how I've always liked the clever ones, Crowley. I went to have a look at what was going on and it turned out to be her, setting up all that business with the circle and the staff. I'd never seen anything like it, and obviously I didn't realise she was trying to free Azazel, I was interested in the mechanics of it, tapping into the ley line like that..."
"So you helped," Crowley said with a sigh.
"Just with the details! And the spellwork for the defence system, the shifting rooms and so on... it was such a clever idea, I never would have thought of it." Mephistopheles frowned. "I don't know how you got through it so quickly."
Crowley pointed at Wist, who thumped his tail once smugly.
"I suppose it's a good thing you did," Mephistopheles conceded. "It turned out she needed a demon to sacrifice to complete the ritual. The harbinger, she called it. She came rushing back earlier today in such a rage. She spilled my blood before I could stop her, and then of course she could bind me completely..." He sniffed. "And the whole time she was telling me I was barely usable and she'd wanted a much more powerful demon. It was insulting."
Crowley supposed he should be flattered to be considered a much more powerful demon. He wasn't, particularly, especially not when he glanced at Aziraphale and saw the horrified realisation in his eyes.
"Anyway she explained her whole plan while she was binding me. At some length." Mephistopheles rolled his eyes. "You know how they get, warlocks. Can't shut up once they've started a good monologue. I thought I was done for, until you all turned up."
He paused.
"I suppose I should... er... I mean... I should probably say..."
Crowley waved him off, no more comfortable with hearing Mephistopheles thank him than Mephistopheles was with saying it.
"You owe us one," he said, falling back on the familiar language of demons, bartering and bargaining and trading favours. "Right?"
"Of course," Mephistopheles replied, looking gloomy but relieved at the same time.
They were interrupted by the arrival of the refreshments trolley, its contents suspiciously epicurean. Crowley raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale; Aziraphale pretended not to notice, or possibly really didn't notice, given how excited he was over the improbable selection of sushi on offer.
"Not for me," Raphael said with a shudder. "Never really felt the same about fish after that whole business with Tobias."
"Oh, yes, I quite understand..." Aziraphale smiled at the bewildered attendant. "I'm sure there are sandwiches as well."
(There were. They were on china plates with the crusts cut off. Crowley asked for tomato soup, which he got, piping hot with a sprig of fresh parsley on top. Wist received his ham sandwich.)
Several minutes of contented silence followed, interrupted by Aziraphale's phone ringing. Aziraphale dropped his chopsticks in dismay.
"Goodness! I completely forgot about Anathema and the others, they must be so worried..."
He jumped out of his seat and hurried away to the end of the carriage, which wasn't far enough to disguise the torrent of frantic questions that poured out of the phone as soon as he answered it. Crowley listened to Aziraphale start to explain what had happened, rolled his eyes as the angel immediately made a hash of it, and decided that right now it was not his problem.
Raphael was the sort of person who normally walked up the escalator, but on this occasion, he simply leaned on the handrail and let it carry him back up to Heaven. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so utterly spent. He was practically using his staff as a walking stick at this point, though he was trying not to let it show.
There was a lot to think about, and a lot to be concerned about, but right now he was enjoying a feeling of profound relief. The staff hummed quietly in his hand, and Raphael was going to take a lot better care of it after this (although he had in fact almost left it in the luggage rack when they got off the train; Crowley had spotted it and given him such a look). He wondered absently if he could rearrange its structure to make it smaller and easier to keep with him, or change its appearance entirely, but the logical conclusion of that train of thought was a wand of some sort, and he wasn't a fairy, damn it...
He'd rather intended to slip quietly off and rest before talking to any of the other Archangels. Just his luck, then, that he ran straight into Michael three steps from the top of the escalator.
"What happened to you?" Michael asked, eyebrows shooting for the ceiling. "And what's all that in your hair?"
Raphael had been trying not to think about his hair. He shrugged.
"Plaster, brick dust, bits of chandelier, I really don't know. It's been a long day."
Michael's eyes narrowed.
"Doing what, exactly? Did you have anything to do with whatever just happened in Norwich?"
Raphael managed a grin and clapped her on the shoulder in the way he knew that would annoy her most.
"Took care of a small problem for you. Don't worry, it'll all be in my report. Did you really fight enough dragons in the south of England to form a whole ley line, by the way?"
"It was one dragon," Michael snapped. "Why do people always fixate on the dragon?" She paused, realising he'd distracted her, and fixed him with an icy glare. "What problem?"
Dangerous ground, here. Raphael definitely wanted a chance to think about exactly which parts of today's exploits he was going to share with the others. There was one thing he fully intended to rub her nose in right now, however. He flourished his staff theatrically.
"Heard you were looking for this. Thought I'd save you the trouble."
Michael glanced at the staff, frowned, and looked back at him with polite incomprehension, and Raphael was suddenly off-balance in a way that even the earlier earthquakes hadn't managed..
Michael had invented the concept of the poker face. Michael had never played a card she didn't have to. Michael hated to admit when she'd been outmanoeuvred. But Raphael had also known her since the creation of the universe. There had even been a time when he would have called them close.
And he was absolutely sure that she had no idea what he was talking about.
"You weren't," he blurted out. "It wasn't the staff you were looking for. What, then?"
Michael drew in on herself, face a mask.
"Looking for? What makes you think I'm looking for anything?"
"Come off it, Michael, you think I buy that bullshit about general reconnaissance on Earth? That all this cosy collaboration with the other side is just in the name of better understanding?" His voice rose, fury and outrage seizing him as Michael's expression remained impassive. "You think I don't know what really happened after Armageddon? What you tried to do to Aziraphale?"
Finally, he got what he wanted, a crack in the mask, a flicker of something in her eyes.
"You've been talking to him."
"It's not like any of you were giving me a straight answer. Whose idea was it, exactly, to unilaterally destroy an unFallen angel of the Lord without so much as waiting for Her approval?"
Michael hissed at him for silence, eyes darting to a passing cherub.
"Not here," she said.
"Fine, you want to take this to the boardroom, let's go, I'm done with the games, I'm done with this rank hypocrisy—"
Michael grabbed his arm and the words died as if strangled. Michael never touched him. Michael never touched anyone. She'd kept an invisible, impenetrable wall around her at all times since the moment she'd struck Lucifer down. Her fingers were like iron bars, digging into his forearm.
"No, Raphael," she said. "Not here."
Her eyes slipped sideways, to the broad glass window showing the skylines of the world, to the glittering fountain just visible through a nearby arch, to the white walls and gleaming tiles of Heaven itself. Raphael didn't need to breathe, especially not here, but his breath caught anyway. Michael met his eyes again, and her head moved in the most fractional of nods, before she released his arm and stepped back.
"I have business on Earth," she went on coolly. "I'll be in New York for a few days, so we won't be seeing each other around."
"No," Raphael said carefully, mind racing. "I don't suppose we will. You usually stay at that place on Times Square, don't you? The one with the martinis."
"I like the view," Michael replied, deadpan. "I look forward to reading your report when I get back."
She turned to go. Raphael didn't try to stop her.
"Good luck with your hair," Michael added over her shoulder. "Perhaps a pair of scissors might help. Or a razor."
Crowley hadn't really wanted to go back to the office, but Aziraphale had insisted. Apparently none of the humans were content with a quick explanation over the phone, which Crowley supposed wasn't particularly surprising, especially since one of the humans was Anathema.
Raphael and Mephistopheles had headed for the main entrance to Heaven and Hell, both trying very hard to look like they had no idea the other was going the same way. Wist had stuck with Aziraphale and Crowley, and was now dozing contentedly in a newly-conjured luxury dog bed under Crowley's desk while Anathema and Lily took turns running the interrogation. Crowley was starting to think they'd be stuck here all night. His contribution to proceedings had been to make coffee and then lean against Aziraphale's desk, just close enough to Aziraphale that he could occasionally nudge his chair into swivelling slightly before he could brace his feet to stop it. Aziraphale had given up on glaring at him at this point.
"What about the pit?" Anathema was asking. "Even if Julia didn't free Azazel, there's still a way down—"
"Raphael will be able to close it as soon as he's had a chance to regain his strength," Aziraphale replied gamely. He seemed to feel they owed it to humans to keep answering questions until the next Armageddon, but his enthusiasm was flagging. "He'll sort out all the flies and so on as well. We're going to take Wist back in a day or two and meet him there."
Lily was staring intently at Wist.
"Are you sure that's a hellhound?" she demanded. "He doesn't look very—"
"He's feeing a bit under the weather," Aziraphale said. "I'm sure he'll be right as rain once he's had a chance to rest up, and get back to Dartmoor."
"So he's not going back to Hell?"
At that, Wist cracked open one eye and gazed at her levelly.
Hell is not my home, Wist said. Not anymore.
Lily was still focused on him with an intensity that Crowley found slightly alarming.
"And you can just decide that?" she said. "I thought the whole point of Hell was that once you ended up there, that was it. Kind of messes up the system if people can just leave, doesn't it?"
"Well, that is the, er, the traditional approach," Aziraphale said cautiously. "And obviously it wouldn't do to spread it around—"
Lily's gaze snapped to Aziraphale with a force that made him stop mid-sentence.
"Why not?" she demanded. "Why not give people something to hope for?"
"Er, I mean, they're— they're supposed to hope for Heaven—"
"And Heaven's worth hoping for, is it?"
Aziraphale flinched like he'd been struck, a terrible guilt spreading over his face, his hands clenching tight in the fabric of his trousers.
"All right, that's enough theological debate for the day," Crowley interrupted, glaring at Lily. Lily glared right back. It was surprisingly intimidating. Crowley made sure to smirk like he didn't care, glad he'd grabbed a backup pair of sunglasses from the Bentley on the way in. "Trust me, we've been having this argument for six thousand years, you're not going to catch up in one evening."
He had a horrible moment of thinking that Lily was going to carry on anyway, and Anathema had a certain gleam in her eye that suggested she had some thoughts on the subject, but thankfully Newt appeared to be both capable of picking up on social cues and as ready to end the conversation as Crowley was.
"You know, we should really think about heading home," he said to Anathema. "Aren't you hungry?"
Aziraphale opened his mouth, and Crowley knew, just knew, that he was about to dutifully offer up Crowley and the Bentley to drive them back to Tadfield. It was a difficult angle to stomp on his foot, but Crowley managed it. Aziraphale gave a little yelp and shot him a reproachful look.
"I guess so," Anathema replied reluctantly. Then she brightened. "We could all go out to dinner together—"
"Not tonight," Crowley replied immediately. "Long day, we're going home. Maybe some other time."
He was going to regret that, he suspected, from the way both Lily and Anathema looked like they were scribbling it down on a mental IOU sheet, but oh well, never do today what you can put off 'til tomorrow and all that. Maybe they'd forget about it. Or another warlock would come along to distract them.
"How are you getting back to Tadfield?" Lily asked. It was probably an innocent question, but Crowley glared at her again anyway. She didn't seem to notice. That was the one drawback of the sunglasses, he supposed.
"We're not," Newt said. "We're going to stay at my mum's for the night. I called her earlier."
"Want to get something to eat with us?" Anathema asked Lily.
"Sounds good to me." Lily glanced questioningly at Crowley and Aziraphale. "And do I just turn up at nine on Monday, then?"
Crowley blinked. Aziraphale made a surprised noise.
"You still want to work here?" Crowley managed. "After all this? Thought you'd be running for the hills after the workday from hell."
Lily snorted.
"From hell? Please, compared to some days I've had, this is barely purgatory. Besides—" She narrowed her eyes. "I've got more questions."
Crowley barely held back a groan.
"Fine, yes, see you on Monday then," he muttered.
The humans fussed around gathering their belongings and getting ready to leave. As Aziraphale was escorting them to the door, Anathema paused with a frown.
"Did you ever figure out that third prophecy?" she asked. "The one with the gecko?"
Aziraphale shook his head. "It didn't seem to come up."
"It was about revenge," Crowley mused aloud. "Maybe something to do with Julia. Maybe she had a lizard tattoo we didn't see."
"Hmm. Maybe." Aziraphale shook his head and then smiled at Anathema. "We must talk more about this gift of yours, my dear, when we have a moment."
"That reminds me, don't put any money on a horse called Bouncing Betty, she's about to have a very bad month," Anathema replied absently. "We'll see you later, then."
Aziraphale closed the door behind them and Crowley let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. Aziraphale gave him one of those looks that said I am chastising you for your rudeness but also, yes, exactly.
Fondness warred with a sudden clench of anxiety in his chest. Much as he wanted to go home and rest, the thought of parting from Aziraphale was even more terrifying than it normally was. In the course of one day the angel had managed to almost burn to death, get lost in an interdimensional maze, and concuss himself with a falling chandelier. Crowley was seriously considering never letting him out of his sight again.
He opened his mouth to find some excuse to draw things out - anything would do, just a few more hours - but Aziraphale spoke before he could.
"Shall we go home then, my dear? I'd very much like to put my feet up. We could open one of those exquisite bottles of single malt you brought back from Islay."
Crowley forced himself to give this more than 0.005 seconds of consideration, just for the look of the thing.
"Yeah, sure, sounds good," he said nonchalantly.
Aziraphale smiled with such obvious relief that it took Crowley aback for a moment. Then he seemed to remember something. He bent to peer under Crowley's desk.
"Er— Wist? You're also very welcome—"
I am quite comfortable here, thank you, Wist replied. And I have no interest in whatever a single malt is.
"Right, well then, we'll— we'll be on our way."
Aziraphale looked hopefully at Crowley. Crowley peeled himself off the desk, grabbed his jacket, and sauntered towards the door. To his surprise, as soon as he got there, Aziraphale took his arm, as if to assist him in stepping over the threshold. Before Crowley could even summon up a sarcastic remark, Aziraphale had linked their arms together, easy as anything, as if it was something they always did, and the resulting confusion struck Crowley mute.
Alarm bells began to sound in the back of his mind as Aziraphale turned off the lights and locked the door behind them, then guided him down the stairs to the Bentley, all without a single explanation for his unexpected, affectionate gesture. Crowley remembered with a flash of mortification how he'd had that little... moment in the bookshop earlier. How Aziraphale had looked at him afterwards.
Oh no, he thought with the kind of dismay normally reserved for getting stuck in one of his own traffic jams, we're going to have a conversation, aren't we?
The whisky was truly excellent, and Aziraphale found nothing in the world as comforting as his favourite chair in the bookshop, except perhaps the sight of Crowley sprawled over the sofa with his sunglasses discarded on the end table. He looked as relaxed as he ever was on these occasions - Aziraphale wasn't sure he'd ever seen Crowley relax completely while awake, he was like a spring that always held some tension - but there was a certain sense of wriggliness about him, particularly in the way he kept trying to steer the conversation onto more and more abstract tangents.
Aziraphale let him wriggle, for now. He needed a bit of time to work out what it was he wanted to say - and that Crowley clearly didn't want him to say - and it really had been a long day. The temptation was to put it off until tomorrow.
But he'd been doing that since Armageddon, hadn't he? Old habits. Old instincts. Falling back into the way things had always been. Staying within the boundaries carved out over six thousand years.
He hadn't really considered that anything else needed to change. Not even with those odd currents he'd been picking up from Crowley, that sense of agitation, that growing discontent. Not until Crowley had fallen apart for those few minutes earlier in the day, and Aziraphale had realised how very badly he needed reassurance, and comfort, and... and friendship, no matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise. And oh, Aziraphale had been slow to offer it, hadn't he? Not because he didn't want to, but because he'd trained himself far too well to take what Crowley said at face value, rather than torment himself with wondering what was really going on behind his golden eyes. And Crowley always, always wanted Aziraphale to think that he was fine.
Aziraphale was secretly unsure that Crowley had ever been truly fine since his Fall, but he couldn't think about that. It was too close to looking directly into the storm.
"My dear," he said, and then realised he'd broken into the middle of whatever Crowley had been saying about windmills. Oh well, too late to take it back; Crowley had immediately shut his mouth and was staring at the ceiling with the vaguely pained look of one about to endure a dentist visit. Aziraphale would have been offended if he didn't know him so well. "I rather think we need to talk."
"We are talking," Crowley immediately protested. "Lots of talking going on here."
"Yes," Aziraphale persisted, "but not much being said, I think."
Crowley shot him an outraged look, then swung himself suddenly upright, placing his half-empty glass down on the table and grabbing his sunglasses.
"If you're bored of me you just have to say, angel," he groused, sliding the glasses onto his face and leaping to his feet in the same movement. "I can push off."
Aziraphale sighed, got to his feet, and intercepted him before he could start towards the door. Crowley froze.
"Actually, I was thinking perhaps you could stay here tonight," he said quietly, studying Crowley's jacket buttons rather than trying to read his eyes behind the sunglasses. "I don't... want you to go off by yourself."
"You know how I feel about your bed—"
At that, Aziraphale looked up, took in the rebellious set to Crowley's jaw, and snapped his fingers.
"There," he said. "You'll find it much improved. I'm not sure what a memory foam mattress is but I read in the paper that they're very comfortable."
Crowley opened his mouth, shut it again, then made one of his incomprehensible, frustrated noises in the back of his throat.
"Where are you going with this, Aziraphale?" he asked finally.
Aziraphale bit his lip. There was so much, was the problem. Six thousand years of it. Where did they even start?
Perhaps with something small, he thought. He reached up for Crowley's sunglasses. He paused before he took hold of them, giving Crowley a moment to consent or rebuff. Crowley swallowed and leaned fractionally towards him. His eyes were rather wild when Aziraphale slid the glasses off and put them aside.
"You worry about me, don't you?" Aziraphale said. "You worry something will happen to me when you're not around."
A flush crept over Crowley's cheekbones. He looked away, trying to summon up the same bad-tempered response he always gave when Aziraphale called him good or nice or kind.
"You get yourself into enough trouble. Hardly a moment's peace—"
"Crowley." Aziraphale reached out again, and this time laid his hand lightly on Crowley's chest. He could feel how fast his heart was beating. It made him ache, how terrified Crowley was of admitting vulnerability, even here, even now. "I worry about you too. All the time. Especially after a day like this. When I saw that spell grab you..."
"Angel—"
"And I just thought," Aziraphale plunged on, "that if we're going to worry about each other, we might as well do it together, mightn't we? Rather than... off in our own corners. Pretending that's not what we're doing. And it's not that I don't like your flat—"
Crowley snorted with sudden amusement, shaking his head.
"It is," he said with a grin. "It is that you don't like my flat."
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.
"Well, all right, maybe a little..."
Crowley laughed, and then abruptly reached out, pulling him close in a hug. Aziraphale tensed instinctively, and then relaxed again at once, arms going tentatively around Crowley and hugging back. It didn't have the desperation of the way Crowley had clung to him earlier. It felt like an anchor line drawing tight, putting a stop to the drifting and bobbing of a small boat in a large sea. It felt like shelter from the storm.
"Thought we didn't have anything to worry about anymore," Crowley said quietly. "Thought we were free agents now."
Aziraphale sighed, long and low, letting his cheek rest on Crowley's shoulder.
"It was nice while it lasted," he replied. "If it hadn't been Raphael, it would have been someone else. They were never going to leave us alone for long, not for all the holy water and hellfire in the world."
"No," Crowley said, reluctantly, but like someone letting go of a weight they'd carried for too long. "No, they never were."
Crowley's arms tightened on him for a moment, fingers finding a better hold on the worn satin back of his waistcoat, as if determined not to risk him slipping through. Then he let go and stepped back. Aziraphale found himself regretting the loss of him, but he wasn't sure how to say that, or what to ask for in its place. Crowley hesitated, then suddenly whirled and flung himself back onto the sofa.
"You think Raphael will tell them?" he asked, eyes darting away from Aziraphale until they lighted on his abandoned whisky glass. He snatched it up and took a long drink. "The truth about what we did to survive our trials?"
"I don't think so," Aziraphale replied, absently straightening his collar. "I really don't. I think Raphael is— I think he's still what Heaven ought to be. He wouldn't put us in danger. But that doesn't mean someone else won't figure it out eventually. Or decide to try some other means of... well, removing us from the equation, I suppose."
"You know, Alpha Centauri's still an option."
Aziraphale laughed. He took a step towards his chair, then paused, turned, and broke a habit of decades by sitting down on the sofa with Crowley instead. Crowley shifted to make room for him with a little sideways glance of surprise.
"My dear, you'd be so bored. Even at the time I did wonder what your long-term plan was."
"Didn't really have one," Crowley admitted. "Just wanted to get you as far away from it all as possible."
"My dear Crowley," Aziraphale murmured, smoothing his hands over non-existent creases in his trousers to contain the surge of feeling that went through him. "You know, I don't think I ever... I don't think I ever apologised. For saying we weren't friends—"
"No need, angel, you never needed to. It wasn't anything you hadn't said before, anyway—"
"But it was different, wasn't it? It was different, that time. And I'm sorry for it, because we are friends. You are my dearest friend."
Crowley made another of those strangled noises, turning his head away, which didn't at all hide the way the tips of his ears were turning red.
"I'm not drunk enough for this sort of mush," he complained unconvincingly. "My head's gonna catch on fire if you don't shut up."
"I believe that's more generally referred to as blushing."
"Demons don't blush!"
"Mm-hmm." Aziraphale retrieved his own glass with a wave of his hand, and brought the bottle while he was at it. "Must be the whisky then."
The rooftop bar was packed, but there was a bubble of space around Michael where she sat in one corner. Raphael made his way over to her without using his powers to clear a path. He'd always rather liked the way humans behaved in social crowds, the way they tried to make space for each other even when there wasn't much to go around, the way they bumped up against each other like warm, laughing pebbles on a beach.
"Nice place," he said as he took his seat. "You were right about the view."
Michael glanced out over the lights of New York, but didn't comment. A waiter approached with a tray. Michael raised an eyebrow when he placed two identical yellow cocktails on the table.
"I didn't order," she said.
"I did." Raphael picked up one of the glasses and sipped the cloudy, cold drink. Gin, lime, bitters, creme de menthe: just on the right side of sour. "You'll like it."
Michael appropriated the other glass and took a wary sip.
"Hmm," she said. "Yes, all right. What is it?"
Raphael grinned and leaned back in his seat.
"They call it a Fallen Angel."
The look she gave him was so venomous it could have taken down an elephant. Raphael grinned wider, and drank defiantly from his own glass.
"So," he went on. "What exactly do you want to talk about that can't be said within the bounds of Heaven?"
"You tell me," Michael snapped. "You're the one suddenly asking questions. And what exactly did happen today?"
"Nothing much. Fought a warlock, knocked down a house, saw a dog about a ley line."
"A warlock?"
"Long story." Raphael leaned forward abruptly, grin dropping off his face. "Couldn't have done it without Aziraphale, though."
Michael's eyes narrowed and she pointedly took another sip of her cocktail before speaking.
"You weren't here," she said. "You don't know what it was like."
"Go on, then. Enlighten me." It was a struggle not to raise his voice. "Explain to me the holy righteousness of putting Aziraphale in the fire, the sanctity of collaborating with Hell to destroy Crowley. Tell me what made you think you knew better than the Almighty."
Michael flinched, so subtly it was almost undetectable. She stared at her drink. Raphael suddenly regretted the choice of cocktail. He waved his hand and turned it into one of the dry martinis she preferred.
"Thank you," Michael said quietly.
And then she looked at him, and Raphael froze, because he couldn't remember the last time Michael had really looked at him like that, without the mirrors in her eyes. It reminded him all at once that although they were both Archangels, she was the warrior, and he was the healer, and she'd struck down Lucifer, her own twin soul, who'd had more power than all of them...
"You can see it too, can't you?" she said with simple, devastating honesty. "That we've gone wrong, somewhere."
Raphael swallowed, and nodded.
"He would have Fallen, if he'd truly defied Her will," Michael went on. "We took matters into our own hands when he didn't. And the demon... is it possible for one of them to be redeemed? What are they now, the two of them?"
"I don't know. They..." Raphael paused. "What do you see when you look at them?"
Michael grimaced.
"A pair of idiots," she muttered. "I pulled the surveillance files, you wouldn't believe how long they'd been brazenly meeting up in public..."
"And yet you never noticed," Raphael pointed out with a faint smirk.
"I can't be expected to comb through every single—"
"All right, all right," Raphael interrupted before she could build up steam. "My point is..."
He thought back to that moment when the two had so... easily exchanged their corporeal forms. As if they hadn't just broken a law of the universe as immutable as the speed of light.
"When I look at the angels of the Lord," he went on slowly, "I see the sun at noon, blazing and bright. And when I look at the Fallen, I see blackest night, no stars, no moon. But when I look at them... really look, Michael, the way we always used to look at each other, back in the beginning..."
He cast his eyes out over the crowded rooftop, seeing the deeper ethereal threadwork of the mortals as they laughed and chattered, seeing the patterns of souls and the intricate bonds between them: subtle, shimmering, complex. He looked back at Michael: she shone like a beacon, white and blazing light with edges like cut diamond, uncompromising and unwavering and unchanged in six thousand years.
"When I look at Aziraphale and Crowley," Raphael said, "I see dawn and dusk, and I can't tell which is which."
"What does that mean?" Michael demanded.
"I have no idea. But it can't be outside of Her plan, can it? So it must be part of it. A part we've never known about."
He expected her to protest, but instead, her shoulders sagged minutely, like her strings had been cut. Like her heart had given a single solitary beat, for the first time since the Fall.
"Maybe that's why—" she began, then stopped, and he saw her reaching for the mask again, fingers tightening on her glass.
"Why what?"
Michael looked at him one last time, and seemed to reach a decision.
"I've kept lines of communication open since last year," she said. "It seemed... prudent, after everything, to share information."
"With Hell, you mean?"
Michael nodded.
"That's why Beelzebub informed me when she discovered that... things are not as they should be."
"What do you mean?"
"Hell's numbers don't add up," Michael said. "The total of damned souls should be higher than it currently is."
Raphael stared at her.
"You mean— we're winning? Collecting more souls?"
"No. When I checked our records, I found that Heaven's total population is also lower than it should be, according to how many humans have lived and died since Adam and Eve. I had Uriel run the numbers to confirm. She found the same thing."
"But that's— how can that be possible?"
"I don't know. None of us do." Michael paused. "There's another thing. Beelzebub's keeping it quiet, down there, and I'm keeping it quiet... at home. Even Gabriel and the others don't know..."
"Know what?"
Michael took a long drink from her martini, set her eyes on some point far in the distance.
"You asked me what I'm looking for," she said. Her voice was tight. "It's not a what, it's a who. Lucifer has departed from Hell. And no-one knows where he is."