* Sparkly Purgatory *

(TW this chapter contains light gore (st*bbing so that bit will be marked with the first and final world in red text)

London, 1939

Aziraphale, Principality and Angel of the Eastern Gate of the Garden of Eden, loved humans.

He had lived amongst humans since his assignment on Eden had ended, and he quite enjoyed his role as Heaven’s official ambassador to humanity. It had been a shock to receive such a coveted position (as much as Angels could covet, anyway).

The job had its downsides, like any, but for the most part, Aziraphale could overlook these. The books, food, wine and art made it worth it.

Humans were amazingly clever creatures, with a knack for imagining purposeful, advanced creations to Angel in Heaven could have ever dreamed of, if they did dream. They were masterful artists, poets, writers, inventors. Aziraphale, nearly six thousand years into this extended assignment, stood in awe at the inventions of the human race.

The motorcar, however, was an exception.

On a Saturday evening in Soho, Aziraphale was particularly bothered. He had plans to attend an Opera at the West End. These plans were interrupted when the driver had stopped him miles from the theatre. It was drizzling, as it often did in London lately, and Aziraphale crowded himself underneath a canopy to avoid getting soaked.

Aziraphale could have miracled the driver to take him to the right language, but with the state of England and the war going on, he felt it was best to cut down on miracle usage just in case he needed them for something important, which he probably would. And he didn’t want to risk Heaven the memo from heaven about too many frivolous miracles.

“Are you going in?” a voice spoke beside him. Aziraphale turned, ready to offer his apologises

He hadn’t realised he had been standing in the entrance way to a storefront.

But he was stuck on the words as he came face to face with the man.

He was perhaps the most beautiful person Aziraphale had ever laid eyes on.

Aziraphale was still staring when the stranger cleared his throat.

“Oh, my apologies.” Aziraphale said too loudly. The gentlemen was dressed in black and grey, which would have struck Aziraphale as unusual if, immediately after, Aziraphale noticed his striking copper hair. He wore it longer than was the fashion. He was also very tall, and slender. He held a black umbrella that he seemed to be in the process of wringing out his umbrella before he’d noticed Aziraphale.

“Are you alright?” the gentlemen said with concern. Aziraphale was still staring, so he tore his gaze from the gentlemen’s face.

“No. Yes. I mean.” Aziraphale stuttered. “I just got caught in the rain.”

The man nodded, the small smile still on his face, then he held out his umbrella.

“Would you like to borrow mine?” he said without hesitation.  Aziraphale looked up him again ready to insist he was fine, but stopped when he noticed his eyes.

They were the colour of liquid gold, except for the ring of green surrounding his pupils. It was deep, Earthy green Aziraphale last recalled seeing in the Garden back when he’d first received this assignment.

“No. No thank you.” Aziraphale said softly. “I think I should like to stay here.”

*

My Dear Anthony,

I hope by the time this letter reaches you in England that you and Anathema will be quite settled in, with Annie at university and you doing your things (I must confess, I don’t quite recall the word you used to describe your profession. It may come to me one day.)

I must admit, dear brother, that although you grumble when I express sentiments to you, that I will miss you terrible when you return to England. There shall be a Crowley-shaped hole in my heart, I should think, for a long time till come. Please do come back and visit us in California.

Thank you for taking care of Anathema. It has always been her dream to attend Oxford. Do you remember when she was a little girl, with her book on magic and fairytales? She’d take it with her everywhere.

She can be quite stubborn at times, but she is a remarkable young woman, and I know that, under your guidance, my dear Annie will be something great. Please give her my love.

Take care of yourself.

Your Loving Sister,

Lucy

-

Crowley smiled down at the letter from his sister. He would never admit it, of course, but he missed his sister terribly. California, too, with its bright, sunny weather. The rain and fog of London coloured the world bleak in comparison.

Crowley had been back in London for a month. Anathema, his niece, was due to start at Oxford, once she got her acceptance, in three months.

She was a standout in stuffy old England, with her American wardrobe, accent, and mannerisms. She stood out in LA, too. She’d spent the days

Crowley had an apartment in Soho that he’d rented out in the year he’d been in America. The death of Lucy’s husband and Anathema’s father had hit their family hard. With their pieces stitched haphazardously back together, Anathema had decided that Oxford was her calling. England was a fresh start, and Crowley had to return at some point. Her mother had, after some convincing, agreed.

He was meant to meet Anathema for dinner that evening at the pub they frequented later on. With nothing else to do, Crowley decided a walk and some fresh air would do him some good, and stepped out into the English rain.

*

The Drooping Donkey had all the grace of a typical Soho bar on a Saturday evening. There was a group of soldiers crowded around a pretty young woman playing the piano, a lively war-tune Aziraphale recalled hearing over the radio on the BBC earlier that morning when he was rearranging his Atlas collection. They nursed warming bears. Chatty patrons took up the tables. There was luckily one spare (Aziraphale may have the ability to have any table he wished to, however he believed in ethical use of miracles) and, after ordering a glass of the house red, Aziraphale made his way over to it and took a seat, content to wait out the storm before going home.

When Aziraphale looked up, he made eye contact with the red-haired gentlemen from earlier. He was alone at the bar, and when Aziraphale looked at him, he did something completely surprising. He smiled.

An hour later, Aziraphale was still recounting the event in self-pity. He could leave now, as the handsome stranger had left. In truth, he’d been too shocked by the gentlemen (who had, upon meeting him, offered him his own umbrella?) and had been unable to use his brain. He had no choice but to enter the bar after the gentlemen, who had held the door out for Aziraphale. Even now, Aziraphale replayed the memory of that brief, awkward interaction over and over in his head. It was pointless. It wasn’t like Aziraphale would ever see him again. He was a human. A handsome, kind human. Still, he had appreciated that small show of kindness. It left a warm feeling in Aziraphale’s chest. The war was getting to him.  

It was dark outside by the time Aziraphale exited The Drooping Donkey. The rain had cleared and, while the street maintained most of the business of a typical Soho Saturday, the sidewalk was mostly deserted. That’s why, when Aziraphale heard a noise like a group of hushed voices and a loud banging sound, he immediately rushed to the source.

The redhead man from the bar laid crumbled against the wall of a deserted alley. He was bundled behind bags of rubbish. Aziraphale hurried over to him, kneeling down to see better and miracleing a source of light. Aziraphale’s checked that the man was still breathing first, which he was, but was barely conscious. In the light, Aziraphale could see immediately that he had multiple injuries. His face was bruised, and his knuckles and hands were red. Then, Aziraphale spotted the spreading red across his stomach. Just below it, there was a knife.

It lay discarded in the wet, tossed carelessly, as though it had not just killed a man.

The stranger groaned as Aziraphale lifted the fabric away from the knife wound to locate the stab wound. It didn’t take long to find it. Blood gushed down the man’s abdomen from the puncture, and bile threatened to rise in Aziraphale’s throat as he realised that the kind stranger likely wouldn’t survive it. He had lost too much blood. Aziraphale had no idea how long he had been here, left like this. There was no time to take him to a hospital. He hadn’t been with a wife or friends at the bar. He would likely die here, cold, and alone.

Aziraphale reached down, pressing a hand against the wound, and healing it. It was overkill, to heal it completely, but the man looked in enough pain that Aziraphale couldn’t help but want to help him as best as he could. He spluttered at the motion, coughing harshly. Aziraphale stood up quickly, miracleing his trousers clean from where they had been stained by water and blood. He also miracled the stranger unconscious.

Aziraphale would have liked to have stayed with the stranger to make sure he got better, but he couldn’t answer the questions the man would obviously have. With any luck, the gentleman would wake up with a nasty hangover, with little recollection of what had occurred the night before. He’d likely interpret the black eye as being the result of a minor drunken scuffle. He would not remember Aziraphale, and Aziraphale would never see him again.

just a drabble, had thoughts. smut, angst,

He found him inside of the library this time, which was new. The Crowley he knew didn’t care for books.

He was pale, colourless skin and red lips and he looked at him wanting.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, standing up from his seat and shutting the book he was barely paying attention to.

The demon moved across the room, across the stands covered with melting candles and the piles of books, read and abandoned. He performed this dance with a practiced ease that always seemed to surprise Aziraphale. Aziraphale had known he was coming. He had sent a letter.

He stalked across the room looking for all anything was worth like he was burning. Aziraphale met him in the middle of the room with his lips on his. Hot, harsh. That was how Crowley kissed him now.

Aziraphale led Crowley over to the lounge over in the corner, near the large window where Aziraphale liked to sit and read sometimes. Crowley laid him across the familiar seat with care, cradling him against the red velvet. Their lips met again and Crowley bit down. Aziraphale winced as sharp nails dug into his clothes, into his form. Crowley undressed him with care, knowing Aziraphale was particular about his clothing. Crowley tended to just manifest them as he needed them, but Aziraphale preferred the gentle weight of proper, hand-selected fabrics to the mirage of black Crowley adorned himself in when the two of them met.

After, when they lay there, Aziraphale would ask Crowley not to go immediately, and he would oblige. Aziraphale hoped that it wasn’t just to humour him. It was nice, seeing Crowley. Having him like this, and then the silent moments after before reality would close in around them and then they wouldn’t know when they would see each other next.

Good omens ballet fic - Aziraphale as a noble and Crowley as a ballerina and their strange little friendship. Read tags for more.

Being a man of good status, wealth, and shy demeanor, Aziraphale was abundantly aware of his own flaws. He had learnt them young, and spent his time masking those inadequacies.

Particularly, Aziraphale was all too aware of the sin of greed.

It was the story of the first woman Eve that Aziraphale had become fascinated with this. His governess had reacted harshly to Aziraphale's questions, and had had to threaten him with taking away his literature lessons if he didn't stop. Aziraphale had sorrowfully accepted this. But it did not stop his want to know.

He quite liked books, and his collection had grown substantially as he'd gotten older. He was the only child of wealthy parents. He didn't mind this, as it gave him plenty of times to read. The irony of having no choice but to seek companionship in the people he read about

Apart from this, Aziraphale had all the strappings of a fine Englishmen of quality lineage. He had developed a taste for fine foods and wines, and was known to indulge in these pleasures. He was a decent enough conversationalist on the occasions where he chose to venture out into society. He was well liked amongst his staff, extended family and social circle. He was, overall, quite content with his position in life.

There was a knock at the door of his study. Aziraphale gently set the book he was reading down. His housekeeper, Mrs Williams, entered the study and curtsied.

"Sir, your carriage is out front as you have requested."

"Very good." Aziraphale nodded, checking his timepiece. It was a quarter to six, and the ballet was set to start at 7:30pm. Aziraphale pondered this for a moment. He had not yet had dinner, but it would have to wait until after the show. Mrs Williams left the room, her quiet footsteps tapping down the hall. Aziraphale took that moment to once over his appearance, flattening out the cuff of his shirtsleeve before heading out the door.

The resounding thunk echoed against the stage walls. Crowley gasped as the floor punched against his bare feet. Freezing, Crowley listened for any sign of footsteps.

He would be punished if they found him here, practicing, when he was supposed to be asleep. But the risk was worth it for the rest aching, used muscles would bring him once he returned to bed.

He'd been doing this almost as long as he'd been apart of the company. In the beginning, it had been a way of getting a little extra practice in. He never danced more than two hours of those nights. Eventually, however, he had started coming because he couldn't sleep. It was his routine now. But tonight, it brought him no comfort.

Crowley slid on his sweater and tugged on a pair of tattered socks and stood up. He climbed the stairs to his room, carefully, avoiding all the ones that creaked. He opened the door to his small room slowly. Returning to his bed, he shut his eyes, knowing he wouldn't sleep.

Beatrice, their company manager, had broken the noise exactly a month ago, deliberately having waited until their morning rehearsal had ended, to make the announcement.

Crowley hadn't heard it, but he had known what she was saying even as a siren blared in Crowley's head upon her condemnation. That evening, he had thrown up. The next day, Bea had sent him out of rehearsal upon his arrival. Crowley slept that day, and rehearsed that night.

The last month had been the only time in years that Crowley had managed to sleep decently at night. The combination of extra rehearsals for their final performance, and the pressure that accompanied auditions for every ballet company he could reasonably aspire to join left his worn down. But the alternative was poverty.

As a male ballerino approaching physical decline, Crowley was all too aware that he had run out of time. It would take a miracle to find another position after Solar completed their last show. Crowley had only ever danced. He was nothing else.

La Sylphide's opening night approached fast. The ritual the dancers observed on concert days was undertaken slowly. It remained unspoken, the shared fate of the dancers. Crowley had known most of them his whole life.

The noise of the audience claiming their seats echoed through the small rehearsal room behind the stage. While they had a month of shows planned, a sense of finality claimed him.

As a performer, he knew what to expect when he stood in position on the stage. Someone was counting beside him. He breathed in. The curtains rose.

There were roses in his room. There was always roses in his room. Luckily, Eric had decided to sit them out of the way after the sharp word Crowley had had with him last time after petals had fallen all over his writing desk.

It was a success, earning a four minute standing ovation. Bea had told him afterwards. Crowley couldn't say he cared exactly. While he had underdoubtedly danced well, the years spent in this same, familiar routine of practice, fittings, show, crowds had dampened the effect a successful show had had on him when he was young. He had skipped out on celebratory drinks with the other dancers. What he wanted now was to crawl into bed and hibernate. His limbs shook with exhaustion, and he was tired too.

If he had expected some grand revelation by the end of the second act, he would be disappointed. He shut his eyes, and tried to sleep.

Applause followed the finale of the ballet. Aziraphale watched as the dancers took to the stage once more to bow. When he exited the auditorium, he removed his coat. It was a warm night. His servant waited for him with the carriage, and he climbed in.

-

It was the strange way James - or the ballerino playing him - approached each step of the dance with a miserable foreknowledge of his own tragic fate.

Aziraphale could admit he was one for these indulgences. It wasn't unusual for Aziraphale to reserve a box at a particular opera or concerto he liked several nights in a row. But it was this uncanny dancer that was the reason Aziraphale found himself at the theatre again the next night. It wasn't as though he intended to try and speak with the dancer, or even the head of the company. He just wanted to see it again.

When he left the theatre, he immediately regretted sending his carriage back to his house. The weather had changed dramatically in the few hours since he had arrived. Aziraphale was fond of walking, however, and it would give him time to think. He wasn't sure whether he was upset, angry, or vindicated when the ballet ended again that evening with jubilant applause. Indeed, he spent the entire evening locked on to the lead, watching for any change from his debut. Yet there was nothing but the same melancholic sadness that shadowed each move. Aziraphale found in infuriating.

A loud thumping noise to his right spooked him out of his post-show haze. Aziraphale realised he had ventured past the stage doors, where a small group of people had gathered.

At the forefront of the group was James.

Aziraphale had intended to hurry past the group, not wanting his silent, unaccompanied walk to be interrupted by people he would undoubtedly be unable to escape speaking with if they approached him to speak. He had also become well used to silent escapes. It was easier to merge in to the background of finely dressed nobles when nobody was there to speak to you. Aziraphale had gone unnoticed until the death of his parents. But years of evasion had served him well. Nobody questioned you excusing yourself when they don't even know why you're there.

There was a commotion, and Aziraphale watched as a young brunette girl he immediately recognized as the love interest to the protagonist suddenly shot forward before falling to the floor. Without realising it, he had stepped forward.

"Excuse me."

Crowley turned his head quickly. A well-dressed gentlemen, likely a theatregoer trying to speak to the dancers at the stage door, was frowning at them. Crowley snarled. This was the last thing he needed. The nonsense with Anna's lover's appearance, demanding to speak to her as she tried to get away, was already making his head hurt. Now, some fancy guy appearing suddenly, likely trying to speak to one of the girls. He didn't want to deal with this.

"What is the meaning of this?" the gentlemen demanded. Crowley stared at him. The gentleman stood patiently, one hand resting in the other. Suddenly, Anathema broke free of - Christopher, that was probably his name - and latched on to Crowley's arm, which caused him to scowl.

"Nothing's the matter here." Crowley stated firmly when it became apparent that no one else was going to speak. While Crowley immediately hated the posh prick, daring to interject himself in their personal manners because none of them could reasonably say anything about it. But, to his credit, it seemed to work on Anna's worthless ex. Until he lunged forward and hit the man.

Crowley pulled him off and shoved him away. He slid to the ground and reached for the gentleman's hand to pull him up. The man made a noise as he brushed the dirt off his back with one hand, frowning and saying something under his breath at the same time.

Crowley turned at the sound of yelling. There was a scrambling as the observers, the other dancers, moved to inform the police of what had happened. Anathema had moved to stand beside Crowley and the gentlemen, who had finally finished swiping the dirt away, and was now looking pensively at Crowley. It was then that Crowley realised that their arms were still joined together, and quickly let go.

"My, that looks terrible," announced Anathema as she reached up to graze the bruise forming on the gentlemen's cheek. Crowley looked at the man, who watched Anathema hesitantly.

"Oh dear. That's not good," the gentlemen responded. He turned his eyes to Crowley and, when they briefly met, Crowley felt an uncomfortable tug in his gut.

"Let's get you upstairs and treat it. You can't go out like this." Anathema stated, tugging the gentleman in the direction of the stage door before he had time to object.

-

Aziraphale had insisted the entire way up to what he expected was Anathema's room that he was fine, but Anathema wasn't hearing it. Anathema opened the door at the end of a short hallway lined with identical doors to a small room covered in roses.

Aziraphale was told to sit at the desk before Anathema left the room. The male, who Aziraphale had not yet learnt the name of, was reaching above a tall closet for a box. Aziraphale watched, wanting to help, but knowing he had no idea what he was doing, he remained where he was and waited.

The man rummaged through the box as Aziraphale watched. Neither of them said anything. After a moment, he found a short piece of gauze. Nodding, he shoved it into his pocket and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Aziraphale said worriedly.

The man turned, and looked at Aziraphale with confusion.

"Going to get ice." he finally said. Aziraphale realised it was the first time he'd heard the gentlemen speak.

"You don't need to." Aziraphale stood up. Then, realising he had stood up for basically no reason, fiddled with his hands.

"I mean." he inhaled. "I'm honestly fine."

"You're not." he pointed to his own head. "You've got a bruise."

"Umm." Aziraphale took a step forward. "Genuinely, I'm fine. Thank you for your help, umm."

"Crowley." the man stated blandly.

"Crowley." Aziraphale repeated. "I'm, umm, Aziraphale. And really, it's no bother. I wouldn't want to burden you."

Crowley sighed, which surprised Aziraphale until he realised that this was a normal reaction by people who dealt with Aziraphale long enough.

"Look, just let me get the ice. Wait there." and then he was out of the door before Aziraphale could object.

When Crowley returned some five minutes later, he was both the gauze-wrapped ice and a large coat.

"What's this?" Aziraphale asked.

"Coat. From costume. It's cold outside. Here, ice."

Aziraphale held it against his cheek, wincing at the contact.

"I've sent for a carriage. It should be here within the other."

Aziraphale hummed., and took the coat, resting it on his lap. Crowley, meanwhile, took a seat on the bed, not saying anything.

"Anathema, umm. has a lot of admirers."

Crowley looked up at him. He was, to Aziraphale's surprise, wearing sunglasses. But Aziraphale had manners, and didn't ask why.

"These? They're mine. This is my room."

Crowley watched as Aziraphale's eyes widened at this. He couldn't help but find humor in the mans bashfulness. It had been the last thing he had been expected from the nicely dressed gentlemen. Really, he had pinned Aziraphale all wrong.

"Well, they're all quite lovely." Aziraphale stated awkwardly. "And well deserved, I mean. I didn't mean to imply I didn't think you're worthy of roses."

Crowley wanted to pry, but the other man likely wouldn't appreciate it. Luckily, he didn't have to. Before Crowley could say anything in response, Aziraphale cleared his throat silently.

"It's just that, I noticed the way you dance for, for James, is so melancholic. I wondered why, but I didn't have the opportunity to ask."

Crowley blinked at the statement. It was no question, Crowley was well aware Aziraphale believed his own statement, and didn't require the validation. Crowley looked at the man, silent for a few moments.

"I suppose you're right." Crowley stated. Aziraphale did not say anything for a moment, and Crowley didn't either.

"My apologies." Aziraphale said after a long moment of silence. "I didn't mean to overstep."

Crowley nodded at him absently. To his credit, Aziraphale didn't say anything after, which was just fine with him. Crowley was not in the mood to argue whether or not Aziraphale was right or not. He had had enough of chattering elites with too much to say for a lifetime. He would agree if it made the time go by quicker.

The carriage pulled up outside their building and Aziraphale stood up slowly, still looking at Crowley but not saying anything. Crowley supposed he felt bad for what he had said earlier, or at least awkward about the silence that had come after. Before Crowley had the chance to offer to walk him down to the carriage, Aziraphale was saying something. Crowley blinked up at him.

To Miss A.Z Fell,

We have received your letter 

And we have fortunately managed to track the location of Mr Anthony J. Crowley to a St. Mary’s Military Hospital in 

Good luck,

Sgt. Shadwell

*

War was something humans did

Aziraphale had never had stakes in it before, and certainly never had somebody to lose. 

He was conscious every minute of it. 

Crowley had introduced him to the

that was sleep

Anathema was to follow him soon after, as she had affairs in London to see through before she crossed the channel. 

She felt incredibly guilty about this, but Aziraphale had assured her that he was more than capable of locating Crowley

Crowley opened his eyes as Aziraphale entered the small, makeshift room.

There sunlight that crept through the crack in the grey fabric curtains was just enough for Aziraphale to see the full state he was in.

“Angel.” He said when he saw Aziraphale. Aziraphale watched as Crowley began to smile.

“Crowley.” His voice broke. “My love.”

Aziraphale crossed the room and knelt beside Crowley. Weak, Crowley angled his head slowly, just enough to face Aziraphale. “Angel, you’re here.”

“I went looking for you.” Aziraphale was shaking. Crowley was tired. His skin was worn. It was too much. “I went looking. I’ve found you.”

Crowley reached out and took Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale tried not to let it show how his heart broke at the weak grip of Crowley’s hand.

They sat like that for some time. Aziraphale didn’t know how long. They were silent for a while, Crowley just watching Aziraphale. Crowley started to cough, his whole body seizing at the table. Aziraphale let go of Crowley’s hand and raised his own.

“Aziraphale, I’m okay.” His voice was weak but his eyes were wide in alarm. Aziraphale still had his hands raised.

It would take no effort to heal Crowley. He would. He would.

Another round of coughing seized Crowley. Before Aziraphale could move, Crowley used his strength to seize Aziraphale’s hands. When he spoke, his words shook with the effort Crowley had to put into speaking. He spoke fast and, when he stopped, Aziraphale shook his head. But Crowley wouldn’t listen.

“Let me. Aziraphale.”

“No. I will not let this happen.” Aziraphale twisted out of Crowley’s grip. His heart was racing now but Crowley just looked calm. That was when Aziraphale realised that Crowley had known this would happen. That he would die,

“Angel.” He breathed out hoarsely. He clenched Aziraphale’s hand tight in his own again. Aziraphale’s heart shattered.

It was a long stretch of time in which Aziraphale stayed at Crowley’s bedside. Neither argued, though Aziraphale wanted to. He wanted to more than anything. At least then Crowley would be speaking, doing anything. But Crowley wouldn’t let them argue.

It was a long stretch of time, and then it wasn’t long enough. The light had faded and then disappeared. Crowley was smiling at him, peacefully. Aziraphale was still angry, furious. Aziraphale smiled back.

He noticed some time after that his face was wet. For the first time ever, Aziraphale cried.

He didn’t stop crying as the grip of Crowley’s hand grew weaker. He didn’t stop, even, as the polite nurse who had brought him to his dying lover entered the too small room to check on him. He didn’t stop, even, as he collapsed against the Crowley’s unbreathing chest, tears staining the thin bedsheets.

He didn’t stop crying for a long time after. When he did, unlocking the door to his London bookshop, he felt hollow.

Aziraphale had watched on for centuries as humanity had grown, but it was different when you experience it. He had little perspective on how humans actually lived, until now. He had witnessed the birth of societies and their falls, been to more funerals than anyone and watched the loved ones of the deceased sink into their grief. But he had not known.

There were books that needed sorting and he had a report to finish before the week ended. He closed the door behind him. The bookshop would be closed for a week, maybe two. He would give himself that, at least.

Messages form head office had come in varied forms throughout Aziraphale’s assignment on Earth. The messenger pigeon had gone out of fashion long before Heaven had taken notice of its existence, which had made for a rather bothersome few hundred years. These days, since the luxuries Aziraphale had become accustomed to were out of fashion in the wartime era, and stamps, papers, quills, and the likes were scarcer than before, to maintain appearances, they simple chose to appear in person.

The supreme archangel Gabriel appeared in the centre of Aziraphale’s bookshop while he had been stocktaking the biography section.

It wasn’t a flash, or anything as dramatic as that, thought it would seem in style for Gabriel, who, despite his post, rarely took the opportunity to check in on how Earth and the humans were going. There was, however, a shift, though he couldn’t really explain it. Aziraphale turned around and was met with the strained smile of his boss.

“Hello, Gabriel.” Aziraphale said too loudly. Luckily, it was too late for the bookshop to be open.

“Aziraphale. I’d like to have a word with you.” Gabriel stated. He stepped forward.

It was only a matter of time until his activities on Earth would catch the attention of the higher ups. His only hope was to minimise the fallout of it.

His thoughts went immediately to Crowley, and the miracle that he had not been here. It was stupid, Aziraphale knew. He always knew. It had affected Aziraphale too much, and foolishly, he had known this. Something had happened since that night they spent talking at Crowley’s kitchen table. It had been almost a month since, but the pressure of it did not let out with space.

He thought about Crowley every moment, and his worry had multiplied. The best thing for them would be distance, whereby Crowley would not suffer at the hands of hell or heaven if Aziraphale disappeared. But then, humans were unpredictable and unplannable, and Crowley was headstrong. No matter what Aziraphale said, he couldn’t change his decision.

He had spent each moment running through the possibilities. Heaven intervened little in the conflicts of humanity, and were generally lenient with the little ways Aziraphale tried to make life a little better for the humans that he could.

Anything to the scale of what he wanted, however, was not possible. The best case was the end of the war, which was not possible. He had pondered making an appeal to Heaven, or the Almighty herself, but a case like that would take time.

There was the option of removing Crowley from the equation entirely, by making sure he was unable to enlist. Then, he would be safe. But actions like that quickly caught the attention of head office, he assumed, and so he was stuck.

There was a knock at the door to the bookshop which startled Aziraphale out of his thought. Flicking his hand, he unlocked the door by habit. Then, he realised what he had done, and moved to the front door to open in manually.

Crowley was holding a bottle of wine and a box of croissants. Aziraphale smiled at him, and Crowley nodded in return.

-

Crowley had stretched his long legs across the sofa, casually refilling his glass as he talked about something. Aziraphale had not been paying attention for at least ten minutes, and looked up at Crowley when he realised the human had stopped talking.

A companionable silence washed over them as Aziraphale let his eyes flicker over to Crowley’s face. The warm candlelight Aziraphale had fashioned cast a soft light over the human, who had removed his sunglasses. It was a gesture that, while Aziraphale knew it wasn’t for him, he could appreciate. This, too, was something they had discussed at length.

Aziraphale found himself smiling at this, and, in return, Crowley smiled softly.

“Angel, what are you thinking about?”

That was another strange, enduring thing about the human. Aziraphale hardly remember when Crowley started calling him that, let alone why. He had begun dropped the nickname casually in conversation now, and each time it felt like being struck by lightning. Aziraphale now had to put conscious effort into a response each time Crowley would use it.

“Nothing, my dear.” Aziraphale responded, drinking from his nearly empty glass of wine.

They had seen each other less in the past month than they had in their entire acquaintance, which Aziraphale was aware was his own doing.

Aziraphale had been delighted to receive an invitation to Anathema and Newt’s wedding, which was a quiet, intimate occasion that took place in a garden belonging to one of Newt’s aunt. Despite the rather short ceremony and makeshift reception, Aziraphale had found he had rather enjoyed himself. He had sat beside Crowley for the ceremony, and they had spoken as usual and everything had been okay. At the reception, Crowley had slipped to a quiet corner for a cigarette, which was a habit he seemed to take up lately. Aziraphale had gone with him, and though they didn’t speak, Aziraphale felt a tiny bit of the gap between them fill. That evening, Crowley walked Aziraphale back to the bookshop and, before he turned to leave, he embraced Aziraphale.

They said nothing of it the next time they met, but they didn’t need to. If human beings were an enigma, Anthony Crowley were the well-worn pages of a novel Aziraphale loved.

Crowley was still watching him. Aziraphale had emptied his glass. Crowley shifted his legs, and for a moment Aziraphale was sure that he was preparing to leave. He checked his timepiece, and, when he looked up, Crowley was before him, looking at him.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale stated.

“Aziraphale.”

Six Months Later…

There was a letter on his bed. When he saw it, Aziraphale’s heart stopped.

He sprang to the bed, grabbing the letter and tearing it open with a wildness that, on any other occasion, he would have scolded himself for. He tore off the wax seal, pulled out the letter, read. And read. Again and again and again till his eyes burned and he could no longer breathe.

He had to read it again, anyway. The words made little sense the first time he read them. Foolishly, he thought that if he could just read between the lines of the words Crowley had written (his awful, awful penmanship, but Aziraphale found no humour in it now) he’d see something new, something that assured him that this was not happening

This couldn’t be happening.

Aziraphale’s knees gave and he sunk onto the mattress of his too-small, grubby Soho apartment.

He tried not to think about how he had only tolerated it for so long because Crowley had been there. His presence had made the room less bleak, empty.

The hours dragged slowly as Aziraphale sat. He thought of nothing but the letter. He would not read it again, less he tear it apart in anger. Then, the last words of his dear Crowley to him would be gone forever.

Then, restlessly, he stood.

Aziraphale refused to accept this. The cruel fate bestowed upon them.

He did not fear falling. He only feared losing Crowley. It had taken him too long to realise what mattered, but he knew now, and he would be damned only to accept it. He would find Crowley. Crowley would not die. On his soul.

Aziraphale folded the letter with shaking hands, and tucket it into his pocket. He would read it again later, but for now, he had a train to catch.

s

Present

“Anathema’s asleep so we’ll have to be quiet.” Crowley warned as he reached to unlock his door.

Aziraphale had hardly said a thing in the small stretch of time in which they made their way up the stairwell to Crowley’s apartment. It had been on a whim he had come here tonight. Though he hardly ever slept, and thus was used to the long silence of the night, this evening it had dragged heavier than usual. He needed to leave the bookshop. He needed to see Crowley.

Crowley shrugged off his coat, and it was only then that Aziraphale realised he had probably been heading somewhere before he saw Aziraphale. Crowley moved to the stove to set the hot water on. Aziraphale waited at the table.

He had on occasion been here, even if, more often than not, they were in the bookshop. Anathema was clearly not here, and he was aware Crowley did not know this, but Aziraphale wasn’t about to tell the man his niece had left. Also, telling would mean admitting he knew, and that would require a long explanation he wasn’t quite capable of doing.

Crowley set a mug in front of Aziraphale, and sat down across from him.

It was strange, sitting again where he was sitting hours before. This time, he wouldn’t be facing the wrath of his niece, but the heartbreak of his best friend.

Aziraphale hadn’t touched the tea. Crowley briefly considered asking him if it was alright or if he wanted milk or sugar or something, but he was too trapped by the weight of what was about to happen to move. Aziraphale, meanwhile, watched him, his expression unusually unreadable. It was like he was staring right through Crowley, knowing already what he was about to confess.

Anathema was making tea. The echo of her footsteps in the kitchen repeated through Crowley’s closed door. He hastily put his things away. He wished he could sleep before this. Better yet, he wished Anathema had never found that letter.

She placed the steaming mug wordlessly in front of Crowley, and then her own across from him. The class clipped against the table, spilling tea over the rim. Crowley thought he heard Anathema swear below her breath, but he didn’t say anything.

“I have something to tell you.” She said, cradling her mug of tea. Crowley had taken a drink from his own, more out of polite curtesy than anything. He needed something stronger.

“Newt proposed to me Crowley.”

“He… what?”

“Don’t say it like that.” Anathema exclaimed. She was turned away from Crowley, clearly still annoyed. Crowley looked down at Anathema’s hand across the table and frowned when he noticed she wasn’t wearing a ring.”

“I turned him down.” She said before Crowley could ask. “I just thought you should know.”

“That’s why you were at Aziraphale’s.” Crowley nodded in realisation. Anathema raised her head, and watched him with a frown.”

“Yes.” She said strongly. “That’s why I was at Aziraphale’s.”

Crowley made a noise and took another sip of tea, and Anathema mirrored him. She didn’t say anything while Crowley pondered this.

Anathema had shown no obvious interest in finding a husband, which Crowley hadn’t thought to much about. He’d met Newt on two occasions when he walked Anathema home. Regardless of Crowley’s opinions of him (of which there were, admittedly, very few), he was polite, and didn’t overstep Anathema. While Crowley couldn’t speak much for his niece’s opinions, it was clear she was fond of him. Frankly, he was surprised, to say the least.

“Crowley.” She said measuredly. “I am going to marry Newt.”

Crowley froze. Anathema was watching him, waiting.

“Okay.” Crowley replied. Anathema bristled.

“Okay?” she repeated back at him, seemingly annoyed. Crowley looked at her, frowning, which seemed to be the wrong thing to do.

“I can’t stop you.”

“Ugh.” She stood up, pushing her chair in to the table with a loud groan.

“You are impossible.” She started, tipping her tea down the sink.”

“Annie.”

“Stop.” She stated, and Crowley obliged. Anathema, sighing, sat back at the table. Then, she told him everything.

It took two bottles of wine and three hours. Anathema, upon seeing the time, yawned, and excused herself to her room. Crowley finished his coffee, and followed.

Sleep didn’t come despite his exhausted state, and there was no helping it. Anathema’s words bounced through her head, but, unable to find purchase, loitered there.

She had been angry, then, she had cried. Then, she had told him not to go.

“Crowley. You’re all I have.” She sobbed, clasping his hands. Crowley thought to himself that maybe introducing alcohol into the situation had been a bad idea.

“I’m not.” Crowley admitted at last. Anathema blinked up at him. Crowley had never been in the habit of comforting people, but he reached out her hand. “It’ll be okay.” He told her as she took his hand.

Crowley shuffled quietly through the house, trying to find his keys and coat without possibly disturbing Anathema. The task was not as easy as he’d hoped in the low light of their apartment. Eventually, he found the coat bundled up on the floor. He shrugged it on, brisking briefly at the chill of it. Unlocking his door, he pocketed the key, and made his way downstairs two at a time. But just as he came out onto the street, a voice behind him called out his name.

He turned his head, thinking he’d probably imagined it. But there was no mistaking the sound of the voice.

Before the fourth war of the Planets of the Tiberius Belt, and before the collapse of the Roplinsky empire, there had been a legend. And this legend was about a diner.

Henry had heard all the rumours. The travelling diner. The old, immortal diner that never seemed to host anyone. Henry knew everything. She knew that, once, the coffee had been really bad, but it was decent now. That if you played a song, the workers let you eat free of charge. That the diner had remained standing, undamaged, in the middle of a war, and when it had ended, they found a camp of refugees waiting for the war to be over.

Henry was eleven years old when she first went to the diner. She had begged and pleaded her Pa to take her since it had arrived. It had taken up residence far side of the park they used to go to play frisbee. Henry had fond memories of the park. The trees were tall, adorned with orange, auburn, ever-falling leaves. There was a story there, that an evil witch had cursed their planet with eternal autumn out of jealously for its brights suns and blue sky. It had meant to scare the children into modesty, but, as it was, young children found a different message in their dying world, that one day, there would be a spring so beautiful it would make the centuries of autumn worth every moment.

Nobody knew why the diner was there, or indeed when it had gotten there. Despite the mystery it was enshrouded in, the diner was rarely visited. This made Henry all the more determined to see it for herself.

When her father swung open the glass diner doors, Henry was immediately hit with a strange sense of familiarity.

Henry hadn’t expected there to be anyone in the diner, but the sight of the empty bar and red, leather seats still seemed strange. Tourists from other planets often frequented the old-Earth themed attractions.

Henry sat on the cool, hard leather and looked at the posters on the wall. Despite its lack of popularity, the diner seemed well kept and neat. The jukebox by the door, a colourful antique thing that probably shouldn’t still work played a soft guitar melody, before a male and female duet began.

The clacking of heels against tile caught her attention. She turned her head and a waitress was there. “Hello there.” the waitress chirped. Henry turned her head and watched as a broad smile graced the lady’s face. “My name is Me, and I will be your server in today. What can I get you?” Her father gave her a lurk, and Henry pointed to the pancakes on the menu. The waitress, giving her Pa a knowing smile, scribbled the order, along with a black coffee and a full English, into a small, discrete notepad.

“Won’t be a minute.” She smiled, before turning away and going to the kitchen.

“So.” Her dad said over a bite of black pudding and egg. “What do you think?”

And Henry smiled at him over half eaten pancakes. When they tried to settle the check, the waitress, Me, insisted it was on the house. They left the diner with their bellies and their hearts full.

Four years later, they came.

It had been on the local news every night for a week, and everyone was terrified, even if they never knew quite why. The diner stood, accompanied by a ship. They all waited to see what would happen.

People had started gathering outside of the diner to see. The crowds grew and grew, and eventually the authorities had gotten involved to crowd manage.

Henry went to the park one afternoon to see. Though it had been years since she had eaten there, she felt strangely protective over the place, like that morning with pancakes and orange juice and her Pa’s bitter coffee had lodged in her a desire to protect the place if she could, in the same way an injured bird attracted human salvation.

It was busier than usual, and it soon became apparent why. Though Henry could not have made her way through the crowds if she fought.  She heard two ladies talking. The sign at the door had switched to closed.

The protest lasted four months. Every day, from morning to dusk people gathered at the edge of the park outside the strange, foreign diner to watch. Waiting, for motion, for the owner of the diner or the owner of the ship to act. Henry was there whenever she could be. Time wore on but the numbers didn’t dwindle.

And then, the next day, the mysterious spaceship had left. Some had said the police had gotten involved, and those who bought it said it was the Silence. But what everyone agreed on was that they were glad to be rid of it.

Then, months later, the diner was gone too. The grass patch where it once was looked unbothered. Like the diner, the strange, old diner, had never been there at all.

It was years later, on the planet Tiberius, when Henry saw the diner again. The new settlement, with its glossy, bright lights and translucent glass contrasted that old diner completely. Henry couldn’t believe it when she saw it. She hardly slept that night. She went the next day.

It was the same as it was before, unchanged. Henry stepped hesitantly through the front door. It was overwhelming, and the same sugary syrup smell of the air stopped her in her tracks.

A door swung open and Henry stared. The woman, black hair done in vintage roles, wearing the same blue waitress uniform smiled at her. Henry watched herself from afar as her legs took her to the booth that she had sat at all that time ago.

“Henry, wasn’t it?” the waitress asked. Her voice sounded the same. “You seem well.”

“Yes.” Henry nodded. Me, that’s what her name was, the namebadge was the same. “I’m well.”

Two cups of black coffee in mismatched mugs were poared. Henry clutched the warm ceramic but didn’t drink.

“You must have a lot of questions.” Me said, smirking. It felt impossible that she looked so relaxed. So young. Henry was barely twelve when she last saw her.

A voice sounded suddenly from behind the door, and Henry watched as Me turned her head and yelled something back. Suddenly, another waitress emerged. In one hand, she held a plate loaded with pacakes, whipped cream and syrup, and in the other, a jug or orange juice.

“Hello Henry.” She said, stopping aside Me. Henry looked down at the stack of pancakes in front of her. Unable to say a thing, she picked up a fork and took a bite.

They were exactly as she remembered.

“I’m sure you have a lot of questions.” The woman said softly, a small smile on her face. Across from her, Me made a noise.

“Let her eat first.” Me scolded gently. Henry watched as Me looked at the other woman fondly. The other woman, in turn, slipped beside Me, and quickly plucked a cherry off Henry’s plate. Before Henry could say anything, the woman laughed a, bright, kind sound, and twiddled the stem between her fingers. Me frowned at her without menace.

“You’ve been waiting for us.” It was then that Henry noticed her name badge. The name was also familiar. She had never met this woman in her life, but the inevitability in which this encounter felt steeped in was not at the back of Henry’s mind.

Crowley was exhausted after the train ride to Edinburgh, ready to collapse on a hotel mattress and sleep for a week. There wouldn’t be time, however, as Crowley looked at the address on the envelop.

After walking two blocks in the opposite direction from where he was supposed to be going, Crowley gave up and stopped an old lady for directions, which she gave so excitedly.

“My son is in France, dearie.” She clasped his arm. Crowley swallowed and nodded. He didn’t really have time for the old lady’s life story. “Doing the nation proud.”

She sent him in the right direction, a four-mile walk which Crowley made in short time despite the chill of the air. It was pleasant enough when he left the busy part of Edinburgh. It gave him time to think.

It was twenty to four when Crowley turned the corner to the council office. With any luck, they’ll let Crowley do his intake interview. He’d written ahead to make sure he got a slot that afternoon, and Anathema wasn’t expecting him home that night. He was supposed to have lunch with Aziraphale tomorrow, but he would be back before then if it all went according to plan. Crowley had his fingers crossed.

Crowley swept through the doors. It was nearly empty, and the receptionist was walking out the door as he entered. Looking around the reception, Crowley spotted a flyer pointing him into the intake room. Crowley suddenly wished he had time to freshen up before he did his interview. He quickly combed a hand through his hair in an attempt to looks presentable, and, straightening his tie, took a deep breath.

“Anthony Crowley?” the man looked up from the sheet of paper, watching Crowley expressionlessly.

“This is he.” Crowley let out dryly. He pondered taking the documents out of his briefcase, but it would be awkward to now. There had been two men in front of him in the line, and Crowley had doubted he would make it through before they closed for the day. Luck of the devil that he had. He tried his best to ignore the emptiness of the room.

The clerk made a noise, reading over a note beside is name, presumably. Crowley swallowed dryly. This was the part where they’ll turn him away. They’d take one peek at his frame, his face, and the rejections beside his name. He’d have to go somewhere else.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to come back tomorrow, lad.” The man reached over the desk, holding out a sheet of paper for Crowley to take. Crowley did so wordlessly, stunned to silence. “Physical eval is assessed by the duty sarg who went home just as you arrived.”

Crowley nodded in response. The man spun away, seemingly done with the interaction. Crowley looked down at the piece of paper, with the time for his evaluation. He’d have to book a hotel for the night.

Crowley had been rejected by the military four times before. Twice in London, and once in America. That had been the harshest. He hadn’t travelled to the states to enlist but it was convenient. When Anathema had said she wanted to attend Oxford, it hadn’t mattered anyway. Crowley had argued with Lily about it. She hadn’t wanted him to enlist, and Crowley didn’t want to listen. It was a sore subject to bring up, so they’d eventually stopped. Crowley didn’t care if Lily was relieved by the rejections, because he’d try again.

Anathema was a separate issue, but one he was prepared to face when the occasion arose.

The taxi stopped on the street across from Aziraphale’s bookshop. He was only an hour late, and Aziraphale wasn’t the type to hold a grudge. Once, he had completely forgotten they had plans and had gotten to the bookshop three hours late. Aziraphale had simply smiled at him and insisted it was okay.

When Crowley approached the door, his heart stopped. It wasn’t unusual for Azirphale to have company, though he was a self-proclaimed recluse. Anathema, too, was friends with the bookseller, close enough to stop in for tea.

He entered the bookshop and the pair turned almost immediately at the sound of the traffic. Crowley admittedly cringed at the sight of Anathema. She was tear-stricken, and her face twisted into an annoyed sneer at Crowley’s arrival.

“Crowley, dear, hello.” Aziraphale stood.

Anathema was looking at him, and before Crowley had the chance to say hello, or ask what she was doing here when she was supposedly meeting with Newton that day, Anathema quickly brushed past him. She was out of the door before Crowley could ask her what was wrong. Crowley looked at Aziraphale, wanting to ask. But one look at Aziraphale’s calm, rational smile, and Crowley knew that Anathema had gone to Aziraphale for a reason.

“Where have you been?”

Crowley startled, the door slamming shut behind him. Crowley had hardly slept, and was drained by the physical evaluation and the late lunch with Aziraphale. He had barely been conscious throughout it. Aziraphale had asked him questions about Edinburgh that he answered with vague details. He hadn’t meant to be dismissive, but Aziraphale had understood. Of course he had.

Crowley was otherwise occupied, and the walk to his apartments had given him a much-needed moment to clear his racing mind. Though he had done well enough, he had worried himself constantly on the train ride to London. If he was rejected, it would just be harder to get in. He’d have to try all over again.

Anathema crossed her arms, and she was watching Crowley with annoyance. Crowley glanced at her, not saying anything.

“Fine, well.” Anathema held up a piece of paper for Crowley to seem, but Crowley couldn’t make out the words from where he was standing next to bureau. All he could see was the army seal.

He vaguely recalled the duty sergeant who oversaw his evaluation mentioning his letter being sent swiftly to his home address, but he’d been distracted by the tests. He had planned to collect the mail before Anathema to avoid just this.

“It says you’ve been accepted into the infantry, Crowley.”

When Anathema had accepted Newt’s invitation to a walk that afternoon, she hadn’t expected him to propose.

He was acting unusually coy about the day. Newt had been a surprising but welcome addition to the study group Anathema had informally joined in her first week at Oxford. At first, they had barely spoken to each other, not by Anathema’s own inhibition. Newt had been shy, and slow to open up to the others. But he was quite nice, and clever, and Anathema had found she quite liked speaking to him, even more so than the others.

The others seemed to pick up on the gradual shift in Newt’s demeanour, and had started to tease Anathema about her involvement in it. Agatha, particularly, had a habit of trying to fluster Newt with this when they walked between lectures.

But it was all harmless nonsense. Anathema had extended an invitation to Newt to a party two months after they had met that they were all attending. Anathema and Newt had both been dateless, and thus made a natural pair. Newt had accepted begrudgingly, insisting he hated dances, but Anathema, desperate to not be forced to suffer the occasion alone, had bribed him with the study notes she had on a class he knew he was having trouble in. They had danced leaving the party to get air, and Newt had thrown up on her shoes.

So they had become friends. Anathema considered him a close friend, and he did her. Now, Newt was on his knee and Anathema was staring at him. He was watching Anathema, but not impatiently. Anathema blinked down at Newt. They were still looking at each other.

*

Ana,

Thank you for your letter. It truly meant a lot to me to hear from you.

I am writing this in a rush as I am packed to leave for Brighton for the next two weeks. I do not expect a response, and will understand if you do not wish to speak to me.

I care for you a lot, Anathema. I hope that you are well.

Yours,

Newton Pulsifer

*

Breaking the news to Crowley would be the hard part, so Anathema hadn’t told him. She had wanted to, he was the closest thing she had to a father.

Newt had written, and Anathema had sent a short response in return.

“Crowley said he’d be here?” Anathema looked behind Aziraphale but the bookshop appeared empty.

“He did?” Aziraphale said in a tone that implied he hadn’t known about this plan.

It was a lucky break though. If Anathema could talk to Aziraphale first and get his advice, she’d work up the courage to talk to Crowley. Aziraphale shook his head, and held the door open for her.

“I didn’t know what to say. I just stood there. Why did I just stand there?”

Aziraphale poured another cup of coffee for Anathema. He had been in the middle of rereading Persuasion because of something Crowley had said offhandedly about Jane Austen, but seeing Anathema was always a treat.

“My dear, don’t be so harsh on yourself.” Aziraphale shook his head. She had seemed to calm down once she had had some tea and some sandwiches. She had then told Aziraphale what had happened.

“But it’s Newt. He was just there and I panicked.”

Aziraphale hummed wistfully, and took another sip of his now tepid earl grey. Aziraphale had tried to give all his attention to the bereaved Anathema, but his thoughts had wondered to the circumstances of her arrival. Crowley had told her he would be with Aziraphale that afternoon but he had not. It hung heavy like a stone in his stomach.

“Newt will understand. I’m sure he will.”

“Even so.” Anathema sighed. “To stand there..”

They were interrupted by a knocking at the door to the bookshop. Aziraphale glanced over to Anathema, who seemed to crumble in to herself on the old vintage armchair. The noise of the door opening and the Soho traffic signalled Crowley’s arrival.

*

Newt,

I am sorry. Give me a chance and I will explain everything. I promise.

Ana

Newt and Anathema are strangers forced together to save Agnes from a strange curse.

Newton Patrick John Anthony Pulsifer was bad at magik.

This came as quite the disappointment to his family, in particular, his grandfather scorned his grandson's lack of talent. Newt had come from a line of pretty decent magik users. Not spectacular or anything, but good enough. His mother was a sweet, caring woman who had long accepted Newton Pulsifer was no great magician, and had defended her son against her father's more severe comments about his lack of ability. That didn't make the sting of his inability to make a quill levitate for more than two seconds any easier to bear.

Newt had been taking weekly lessons from Agnes Nutter, a friend of his grandfathers, for quite some time, ever since he accidentally set his grandfather on fire instead of lighting a candle. He had been very intimidated of the old witch at first. She had an aura of wisdow and knowledge (Newt could read auras. But those were easy) that filled every room she was in.

But she was very clever, and nice enough. They had tea and scones and chatted, for the most part, about history, science and whatever was in the news that week. When it had become clear that Newt was not improving, she hadn't booted him out. Agnes jut shrugged, and their 'lessons' continued.

So Newt grew up, and his sorcery did not improve. He had accepted this by this point. His grandfather had passed away three years ago, and Newt had gone to university for chemistry.

He still visited Agnes every week on Tuesday. On this particular afternoon, Newt knocked on the door to her cottage, cradling a tray of scones his mother had baked for the old woman.

A young woman answer the door, and Newt froze.

She was beautiful. Stunning.

'Uhhh."

"I'm looking for Agnes Nutter?"

A sound echoed from down the hall. The woman, who still hadn't said a word, turned her head to here better.

"You'd better come in." she said. Her voice was low, husky, and slightly accented. Newt nodded in respond, and she gave him a look that seemed to indicate that, just because he was a friend of the woman she was visiting, she didn't have to care the least about him.

Fair enough, Newt thought to himself. Women tended to have that reaction to him.

He followed the woman down the familiar hallway to the parlor room. This was where Agnes could usually be found.

Agnes was in her armchair, knitting what appeared to be a very long and not at all symmetrical scarf. It was lopsided at one end, appearing almost triangular.

"Ahh, Newton, dear, hello!" the old woman looked up from her knitting as he entered. Newt, unaccustomed to the presence of others during his lessons with Agnes, and not knowing how to act accordingly in this situation, and offered the woman a small wave. The girl, meanwhile, had made her way over to the woman, and was in the process of gathering up Agnes's used teacup and saucer.

"Shall I make tea, Agnes?" she asked politely,

"That would be delightful Anathema, dear."

So her name was Anathema. Anathema.

"How do you take it?"

"Huh?" Newt blinked. When he registered what she'd said, he silently cursed himself for his rudeness.

"I said, 'How do you take your tea?'" her tone was slightly annoyed, and she, seemingly unconsciously, tapped her foot on the floor impatiently. Newt swallowed.

"Ah, um. Milk and no sugar. Thank you." he said somewhat awkwardly. Anathema nodded in response, and walked past him.

Newt turned to Agnes, humiliated. She was watching him calmly. Newt went to say something, didn't, and, realising he was still standing, took a seat.

"That's Anathema, my granddaughter." Agnes said, returning to her knitting.

"Ah." Newt responded lamely. She had mentioned her granddaughter on rare occasions. She must have been visiting from America, from her accent. Newt suddenly felt like he was intruding. He was only half paying attention as Agnes started talking about a herb she was hunting for, when Anthema returned with tea.

An hour later, Newt was saying his goodbyes. Despite Agnes's insistence that he was welcome to stay longer. as they had not yet finished their lesson to a satisfactory extent amidst the conversations between the women, punctuated in-occasionally by Newt's comments. He was wildly out of his depths amidst the two witches. That, plus Anathema, who was intimidating and clever and beautiful all at once, and whom made Newt's skin itch.

He walked home to clear his head. He was embarrassed by the interaction.

While he doubted he would ever see Anathema again, his stunted attempts at engaging her in conversation weighed heavy on his. Even so, he regretted that he wouldn't see her again. He was beyond wishing for this. He was lousy at magik, and his life wasn't full of miracles.

*

Newt had not heard from Agnes before the afternoon of their lesson to confirm that they were to meet. This was unusual, as the old lady was in the habit of being very particular about these things. Once, when Newt had been late by a quarter of an hour, Agnes had punished him by making him drink the tea she had prepared cold, not allowing him to waste it.

That afternoon, Newt was debating whether he make the journey to Agnes regardless of her lack of contact when there was a knock at the door. He was due to leave in half an hour, he had developed the habit of being early since the cold-tea incident, when he heard a knock on the door.

Newt froze in surprise when he saw Anathema. Newt had not laid eyes on her in almost a year, not since the awkward afternoon at Agnes's which had been the first and last time they had met.

(Newt hadn't asked after her, though he had wanted to, and aside from the off-comment Agnes made about her granddaughter, she had all but faded from Newt's reality.)

Anathema wore a concerned look on her face. She looked dishevelled, or about as dishevelled as a woman such as herself could look. She worried her lip between her teeth. She was clutching a book.

1941

Angel,

I would like to apologise for not writing sooner. If things went according to plan, which, they rarely do, I shall like to compose a note to you each day. Nothing grim, of course. I would fill pages of sonnets for you on the most mundane things.

For instance, today I was completing a task and I stopped for a moment two miles north of the camp to watch the sun set. My first thought was of how beautiful it was. My second thought was of you. I confess, I think of the night you told me you loved me often, and how the next morning you stirred beside me. I thought how there was no sky to match the beauty of the blue in your eyes in the early morning sun.

I wish you had seen it, angel. It brings me comfort to know you may now be looking at the same sky as me, and in the miles and miles between us, we are still connected underneath the sky.

I hope that you think of me too

Yours,

A.J. Crowley

 -

Angel,

It has been too long since I last heard from you. Longer since I saw you or held you in my arms. Do not believe for a second that the time has made me forget your touch. Or your face. Or your scent. You are as clear in my mind as they day we met. I do not believe I could forget you if I tried.

I will not go into detail about the front, as I have limited time and space to tell you everything I wish to say. And, I do not think you would like it. So instead I should tell you now that I am well, angel.

Please write me. I love you. I ache for you.

A.J. Crowley

-

Aziraphale,

I am sure by now that you have heard news of what is happening on the front. I made quick to write you this, trading duties with the Staff Sergeant for pen and paper. I hope this letter finds you even if you do not reply. I do not expect anything of you, angel, and I suspect there is a good reason you cannot return my letters. Nonetheless, I write to you because I want to. Because I love you. I love you.

I hope you are well. We hear news of England in pieces. I will not begin to lecture you on your safety because I do not believe you would find it funny, but I do hope you are staying safe. Are safe.

I have hesitated writing this because I did not want to fill you with empty promises. But we have been apart for too long and the weight of not giving you a promise to hold on to weighs to heavy on me. This war will end, sooner or later, and I will come back to you, angel. I will come back to you.

Your Crowley

*

1939

Angels were. as a rule, quite adept at sensing positive intentions. Crowley had sent Aziraphale a note asking him to meet for dinner at the pub they regularly patronized that evening. When he entered in, slightly out of breath from the walk, he could tell almost immediately that something was off.

Anathema and Crowley were engaged in what seemed to be a heated debate. Aziraphale decided to wait near the bar, hoping he hadn't been spotted yet. But as he sat down, Anathema appeared beside him.

"Hello Aziraphale." she said politely. Aziraphale noticed that her cheeks were flushed.

"Anathema, hello." Aziraphale tried to say cheerfully. Anathema just nodded in response, which was unlike her. Then, she spun on her wall and walked out of the bar.

Crowley was still seated at the table. Aziraphale took a seat hesitantly, not quite sure if he was welcome to. Crowley looked up at him then, tiredly. He didn't say anything, but smiled slightly at Aziraphale. Aziraphale knew Crowley would talk about what happened in his own time, so he didn't say anything.

There was a knock on the door of the bookshop.

Azirphale looked up from his novel, sighing, and rose from his comfortable chair to answer it. Through the small window in the door, Aziraphale spotted a young, bespectacled woman frowning as she raised her fist to rap on the door again. Aziraphale hastily opened it. Aziraphale was about to tell her that the bookshop was not open, and to come again another time, before she pushed the door open, crowding Aziraphale, and marched uninvited into the bookshop.

Aziraphale watched in shock as the young woman crossed her arms.

“What are you?” she said in an American accent. She was looking at Aziraphale with a cross expression on her face and Aziraphale, who had no idea what was happening or why this strange, bossy, brightly dressed American was in his closed bookshop, just stared at her. Azirphale would have laughed if he wasn’t so confused. Out of all the things she had been expecting him to say, it wasn’t that. She was a human.

“I’m sorry.” Aziraphale said in his politest customer-service tone. The young girl looked like she was having none of it. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I can sense it.” She scrunched up her nose, and gestured around the place with her hands. ”You don’t feel human.”

The gravity of the situation finally seemed to set in. It was possible for the girl to have minor psychic capabilities. Possible, and highly, highly inconvenient. “My, dear,” Aziraphale tried to interrupt her. This was not how he had expected his day to go.

“I saw you. You healed my uncle and then you left. I saw the entire thing.”

Aziraphale froze.

“Don’t even think about it.” She stated firmly. Aziraphale, who had been thinking about erasing this whole encounter and the events before (especially that part) from her mind and setting her on her way, immediately stopped considering the possibility of getting out of this easily.

He also, admittedly, was slightly impressed. The human was bold, demanding Aziraphale to pay attention. She stood in her bright red dress, frowning, looking wholly out of place in Aziraphale’s beige and brown bookshop.

“So are you going to explain?”

Aziraphale sighed.

Her name was Anathema Device. Annie, she had insisted, for short. She wanted to know everything. This strange human girl had somehow managed not only to figure out that her uncle’s recovery was… divinely inspired. Not only that, but she had also somehow tracked Aziraphale back to his bookshop, despite the numerous miracles in place that should have made that impossible. Should have.

“It wasn’t easy.” She admitted over a second cup of tea. “I almost had trouble trying to re-locate it again today.”

Aziraphale nodded with understanding. Annie was indeed a human, and a self-proclaimed ‘occultist’. She was definitely a character.

She seemed to understand that the half-explanations Aziraphale offered were all she could reasonably expect to get out of the bookseller. What she really wanted to know was if there would be any lasting effects on her uncle – whose name was Crowley – and seemed pleased to know that he would be fine.

Aziraphale smiled as the young woman shrugged on her coat. By now, he figured erasing her mind would be a pointless endeavour. She waved at him as she exited the bookshop, and Aziraphale’s heart stopped when he saw a flash of red-hair on the pavement outside his bookshop.

*

Anathema watched as the white-haired man crouched down. It was hard to miss it, he stuck out like a sore thumb.

She had been running late to meet Crowley. Her conversation with Newt had drawn out. They had been arguing about the affluence of the Bronte sisters in America, in which Newt had insisted that, in his semester abroad in America (New York), he had heard not one person mention the famous literary sisters. Anathema had argued that Newt likely wasn’t hanging around interesting enough people, which seemed to shut him up about the whole thing.

She had hurried to The Dirty Donkey, which had fortunately not been too far from where she’d met Newt. She hoped Crowley hadn’t been waiting too long for her.

The stranger was crouched over a body. He seemed to flutter his hands suddenly, which Anathema found strange. Then, she felt it.

When he left, walking quickly, quietly down the not-empty street, Anathema hurried over to where the man had been. Her heart nearly stopped when she saw an unconscious Crowley,

*

Aziraphale couldn’t help the need that seized over him to make sure Crowley was alright. He was an angel, and it was his duty to guide and to help humankind. Checking in on the gentlemen from the alley was only polite. His duty, it was his duty.

Aziraphale decided to walk the mile to the bar he knew the human frequented from his conversation with his niece. Turns out, they lived near the bar, and were meant to have dinner the night Crowley was attacked.

As Aziraphale approached the bar, he paused, suddenly embarrassed with what he was doing. In all likelihood, he wasn’t even there and Aziraphale was just being foolish for hoping he’d see him there. 

Aziraphale willed his legs to work, and entered the bar

His long legs crowded below the low and worn bar table. He seemed to be waiting for someone, probably Anathema.

“Hello.” Aziraphale greeted him nervously. He had stopped a foot short of the table, not wanting to intrude just in case suspected person suddenly showed up.

Crowley looked up at the sound of a voice. The glimmer of recognition clear in his eyes.

“It’s you.” He stated. Aziraphale nodded. So much for the checking up on him, he could barely formulate a sentence.

“Please, sit.” Crowley announced. Aziraphale’s eyes widened at him, but the human man gestured to the seat opposite him. Wordlessly, Aziraphale obliged.

He was back to wearing his glasses, and they did well to hiding some of the deep purple bruise Crowley was sporting. He looked, for the most part, unaffected by what had occurred the night before. This was good, excellent. Aziraphale had come here. He had done what he had meant to do.

Crowley was watching him. Aziraphale suddenly wished for the privacy sunglasses would afford him. Crowley made a gesture to the worker, and, after asking what Aziraphale wanted (“Wine. Red.” Aziraphale had finally given in when Crowley insisted he buy his companion a drink.) ordered. When the barmaid left, he turned back to Aziraphale, and spoke.

*

Crowley had woken at midday to what was possibly the worst hangover he had ever had the misfortune to experience.

There was a noise from beside him. Crowley pulled himself up slowly, his arms weak with sleep. Anathema was there in a moment. She was saying something, but his head was pounding relentlessly. A cold glass of water was thrust in his hand. Crowley drank from it.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked softly. Crowley made a sound, and handed her back the empty glass. She was still watching him nervously. He would ask later what happened, but he needed to sleep.

*

Crowley heard the whole strange tale, trying his best not to interrupts. Anathema was almost bouncing with excitement.

But when she had told her uncle in no uncertain terms to expect the blond gentlemen at the bar that evening (her intuition, she told him), he argued. It was ridiculous, all of it. Crowley had known Anathema had a power of sorts, though he did not fully understand the scope of it, and she was desperate to have the answers. Crowley was her unwilling accomplice.

(Though it wasn’t a small part of him that was curious. Besides, it was only good manners to thank the man who had saved your life.)

 So Anathema had insisted on it, and Crowley found himself that evening sitting across from the most intriguing gentlemen he had ever seen.

*

“I was telling Anathema about this book of prophecies I’ve been trying to locate for the best part of fifteen years, and Anathema looks me straight in the eye and tells me she has a copy!”

Crowley snorted out a laugh that was probably too loud, as Aziraphale chuckled at the tale.

They had been sitting at the table for a while, by this point, and were multiple wine bottles deep into their discussion. Crowley had learnt that the man, whose name was Aziraphale, loved books. Crowley admittedly knew little about books, or prophecies, but found himself rapt by Aziraphale’s musings.

He had done this for Anathema, meeting with the gentlemen. But Crowley found himself actually enjoying the conversation, and Aziraphale hardly seemed deterred by Crowley’s stoic manner. It was nice, having a conversation with someone who made it feel like talking to him was the most natural thing in the world. Even if Aziraphale lead the conversation, Crowley hardly wanted to leave the conversation. He couldn’t remember the last time talking was nice.  

“Oh dear, I’ve held you too long.” Aziraphale suddenly exclaimed. It was true. Crowley looked around, just noticing the empty chairs and tables. Aziraphale moved to stand clumsily. Crowley suddenly felt the urge to ask him to stay.

“Thank you, again.” Was what he said instead. Aziraphale looked at him anxiously, and gave him a small smile before hurrying out the door.

It was strange, but Crowley had done his duty and thanked the man. He picked up his hat, and stood up to go.

Anathema had never even dreamed of getting married. It never really bothered her, as she had always understood that the course of her life was already set. It was quite literally planned in a book that had finally ended.

But the world hadn’t, like it was supposed to, and Newt, who she had known all her life but had only now known, had given her the courage to decide for herself what her life would be, well, everything was different.

The world was literally new.

So when Newton Pulsifer, her nerdy, non-witchfinder, world-saving boyfriend proposed one afternoon in their shared garden in Jasmine Cottage, Tadfield, Oxfordshire, England – far from the life she had always known – Anathema, for the first time in her life, felt alive.

Crowley parked the Bentley outside Jasmine Cottage and climbed out. He was leaning over the top of the car, head rested in his hands, as he waited for Aziraphale to get out. To his surprise, Aziraphale emerged from the Bentley with his arm full of wrapped gifts that Crowley hadn’t even seen him pack. Crowley frowned at the angel without menace, and Aziraphale returned the look fondly.

Anathema answered the door immediately. She had been waiting for the past twenty minutes by the door. Crowley drove fast, but he was always late.

Newt was busy in the kitchen preparing cocktails as Anathema greeted their guests. Aziraphale beamed at is friend, unable to hug her with his arms full.

“Anathema, dear.” He said fondly. “Thank you so much for inviting us.”

Crowley, not a speaker, nodded silently at Aziraphale, who nodded in return. This was good enough for the both of them. Crowley followed Aziraphale into the lounge. Anathema shut the door to the cottage behind them.

“Cards?” Crowley questioned. They were in the living room. Newt hadn’t finished the drinks yet. Anathema was shuffling the deck.

“Isn’t this your engagement party?” Crowley grumbled. Anathema shot him a look and he shot up.

“How lovely.” Aziraphale exclaimed. “I’m very good at cards.”

“No you’re not.” Crowley responded almost immediately. Aziraphale made a face at the demon, who did not back down.

“There is cocktails.” Newt announced when he entered. He was balancing a tray of cocktails precariously. Anathema, sensing danger, immediately stood up to help him. Newt greeted Aziraphale and Crowley and sat down in an armchair beside Anathema. The cards were shuffled, and Anathema began to deal.

An hour in, and Newt was tipsy.

Aziraphale had somehow managed to win several rounds, and Anathema had accused him of foul play despite the fact that he, on numerous occasions, insisted he would do no such thing.

“How did you get another ace?” Anathema shouted. Aziraphale just giggled. Crowley was staring at Aziraphale murderously. Crowley was losing, followed in third by Newt. When they were both out, Newt left to fetch another round of cocktails.  

When he returned, it was to find a distraught Anathema had lost another round. Aziraphale was laughing victoriously. Newt smiled at his fiancée, and consoled her.

He had been worried about this. Anathema knew Newt was a worrier, it was his nature. He wanted the engagement party to go smoothly, for Anathema’s sake. They’d talked about it extensively. Eventually, they decided a quiet night in with some friends was exactly what they both wanted.

Anathema didn’t have many close friends in Tadfield, and Newt’s mother was coming down from London down the next day to formally meet Anathema and help with the wedding planning. The Them had already popped by to offer their congratulations. Pepper had announced that she wanted to be the maid of honour. Anathema immediately agreed.

The topic of Aziraphale and Crowley had come up one morning as Newt prepared breakfast. He suggested it offhandedly, and, after considering it, Anathema suggested they invite the pair for some drinks soon. It was an excuse, at best, to check in on the state of the world after Doomsday. Newt knew this, because he always knew.

Anathema had confided in Newt that sometimes she had the sense that she was being watched, like when she was younger, but with less potency. It had been nearly a year since the world had almost ended, and the final instalment of Agnes Nutter’s prophecies had been burnt to ash. She hated this feeling. It was a reminder of what had happened, and how close it had all come to ending. It made her feel powerless.

Newt was, for the most part, an excellent comfort in this. He had been a pawn in this celestial game as long as she had, though he had not found out till much later. When she felt like this, Newt was there. She loved him.

The cards were abandoned and Newt was now fully gone. It seemed that, in an effort to steady his nerves, he had drunk way more than the others. This, combined with his, quite frankly, shit alcohol tolerance, and he was trying to dance with Anathema.

Anathema managed to escape from two clumsy waltzes (somewhere, Billie Holiday was screaming) with her two feet barely intact. She sat beside Aziraphale, who was nursing a glass of wine Anathema didn’t remember any of them pouring. Newt was smiling at Anathema, and she tentatively smiled back.

“So, Crowley.” Newt had recovered from the abandonment by Anathema by deciding to bother the demon, who also had a glass of wine. Crowley watched him as he plopped himself beside him.

“Anathema tells me you and Aziraphale are like.” he leaned forward conspiratorially at the demon.

 paused, seemingly for dramatic effect. “Magic.” He managed to both over-pronounce the final consonant while whispering, seemingly for dramatic effect. Crowley tilted his head at the human, and raised his eyebrows.

Anathema was still talking to Aziraphale. She was laughing at something the angel had said.

“Can you please.” He was almost pleading. Anathema and Aziraphale had now looked over to them. Aziraphale was beaming, and Anathema was doing a very good impression of a tomato.

“Magic me to be deserving of this beautiful, beautiful lady.”

Aziraphale laughed, and Anathema managed to look even more embarrassed.

“Oh, shut up Newt.” Anathema laughed.

They were saying their goodbyes. Anathema had insisted that they had enough space to accommodate their friends, but Crowley said that they would be alright.

When the door shut behind them, Newt turned to look at Anathema with blind adoration.

“Seriously though.” Newt was solemn now. “How is it possible for one single person to be so wonderful. I love you so much Anathema.”

“Calm down Newt.” Anathema said, laughing. Newt then proceeded to wrap his arms around the witch in an effort, it seemed, to become attached to her permanently.

They were baking.

Aziraphale had somehow gotten it in his head that Crowley using miracles to bring him pastries was unethical. In fact, he'd started to think that miracling any object, food or otherwise, that they themselves had not paid for seemed to be unethical, if it came from someone else's hand unpaid. Nevermind that money was no object to them, just so long as someone was paid.

(Crowley did not mention that the pastries he brough Aziraphale were not, in fact, stolen, because he did not want to spoil the angel's fun.)

Despite being half-covered in flour, and looking like he was doing a bad dandelion impression, Aziraphale looked very pleased with how the batter for his chocolate-earl grey cake had turned out.

"Just try a bite, please?" Aziraphale pleaded. Crowley, who had no particular affinity for food, took the spoon from the angel's hand and tasted it. It was good, of course it was. Aziraphale was already a masterful baker. This was just showing off.

"It's good." Crowley said. Aziraphale smiled radiantly.

Just then, a knock sounded from the door to the bookshop. Aziraphale frowned at Crowley, who returned the expression. A customer was already unforgivable, but a customer interrupting Aziraphale's kitchen time was a cardinal sin.

He untied his apron wordlessly. Either of them could have miracled the visitor away, but for some reason, they silently decided not to.

Aziraphale quickly tucked the cake into the over and nodded to Crowley to watch over it. He left the kitchen to check the door.

While he was gone, Crowley took the time to survey Aziraphale's ring. Aziraphale was in the habit of handing him the small pinkie ring he wore. *"I don't want to get it covered in batter."). Crowley swept his thumb across the golden wings.

Crowley liked it. He would never admit to this. It reminded him of Aziraphale. The angel had worn it almost as long as Crowley had known him, and this was not the first time he had entrusted it to Crowley to take care of. Crowley liked that he was trusted to care for it.

There were muffled noises of conversation. Aziraphale had, for some reason, let the visitor in the shop. Crowley performed a quick miracle to make sure that the cake was okay and went to check. When he entered the bookstore, his gaze was immediately drawn to a huge bunch of red roses.

Aziraphale turned around as Crowley entered, looking completely frazzled. Crowley gave him a look as a head popped out to the side of the roses. A short, mustached man with flat brown hair looked rather startled by the sudden appearence of the demon.

"Crowley," Aziraphale cleared his throat awkwardly. "This is Mr O'Connell. Mr O'Connell, Crowley."

"Book club man." Crowley exclaimed in understanding. Aziraphale often recounted the antics of his new bookclub. This human didn't particularly stand out, except he had recommended a truly "heinous choice" a month ago, and Aziraphale had grumbled and suffered through all seven hundred pages of "the best novel ever" - which Aziraphale disagreed with vehemently.

There was a noise from behind the garden, and then the flowers were placed on a table to the side. A short, bearded man was revealed. He looked painfully embarrassed. He was looking at Aziraphale. Then, he silently returned his gaze back to Crowley, and his eyes noticeably widened.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realise you were..." his eyes darted furtively between Crowley and Aziraphale, an understanding neither the angel or the demon knew what to do with washing over him suddenly. He had somehow turned a deeper shade of red. Crowley looked over to Aziraphale, who looked equally puzzled.

"I'll just be going. I am so sorry." he apologised again. Aziraphale turned his head back to the man, who, after a moment of stunned pause, hauled the heavy bundle of roses into his arms and, as quickly as someone could hold that many roses.

"I'm so sorry to interrupt you and your husband's Sunday." he called as he fit himself through he door Crowley, who pitied the man, had miracled to help him through the struggle, The door shut behind him and he was gone, rushing down the street away from the bookshop.

Crowley looked over to Aziraphale who was already looking at him.

They burst out laughing.

They were sitting beside each other on the couch in Aziraphale's office, drinking wine with the cake Aziraphale had baked. Crowley had his arm slung lazing across the back of the couch, and Aziraphale had leaned in close to him. They weren't quite touching, but it was still nice.

Aziraphale was again recounting his awkward conversation with his potential suitor before Crowley had arrived.

"Poor gentlemen." Aziraphale said with pity, smiling. "Those must have been expensive roses."

Crowley smiled into his wine glass. He was still wearing the ring, as Aziraphale had not yet asked for it back.

"Is that what it takes, angel?" Crowley teased. "two dozen roses?"

"At least three." Aziraphale joked in a serious tone. Crowley nodded, and responded by promising to remember that.

Aziraphale traced his thumb across the wings as Crowley had done earlier.

"It looks nice on you." Aziraphale admitted in a soft voice. His hands were cupping Crowley's. They were soft. Crowley loved holding hands with Aziraphale, more than he would ever admit to the angel.

"Maybe I'll get a similar one." Crowley tried to joke, but the words got stuck in his throat as Aziraphale looked up at him.