Before long, he began to wonder if Crowley had been right all along. The idea that he could make a difference felt more and more naïf as time went by. Being 'in charge' of Heaven was more of a technicality than an actuality. Little more than a year had passed, and aside from not being able to make any meaningful changes, the orchestration of The Second Coming was well on its way despite the angel's best attempts at steering Heaven towards a different course. If he didn't find a way to gain the upper hand soon, within a year - two, at most - the Earth would once more be on the line.

On top of that, back in Heaven was more lonely than he could ever have imagined. Aziraphale had been gone for such a long time that, no matter what he tried, he stuck out like a sore thumb. It was that loneliness, more than anything else, that had Aziraphale - against direct instructions - going down the elevator leading to Whickber Street.

He didn't know whether or not Crowley would be anywhere near London. In fact, he rather suspected that he wouldn't, but it was as good a spot to start as any. He could check in on the bookstore, ask around. Perhaps Crowley had left a note, or told someone - anyone - where he was headed before he left.

His heart was hammering in his chest as he stepped into the street and took a deep breath. While Whickber street wasn't necessarily known for it's fragrant smell - and things seemed to have gone slightly downhill since he'd left - it was grounding to smell anything at all. After so many years on Earth, the clinical feeling of Heaven was alienating.

As he looked around, his eye fell first on his old bookshop across the street. It looked a little unloved, but by no means abandoned. Then, he noticed Nina clearing off tables on the sidewalk of Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death and a small smile graced his face, as his heartbeat steadied slightly. Almost of their own accord, his eyes next slide to the side of the street, where the Bentley used to be parked. Empty.

Just as he was about to cross the street towards his bookshop, looking left and right to avoid oncoming traffic, he spotted it. The Bentley. Him! Or well, he can't actually see Crowley, but if he wasn't currently inside the vehicle, it was only a matter of time before he showed up. He was still here!

Without looking this time, Aziraphale hurried towards the car, eyes straining to see whether or not it was occupied. When he found it was, he was nearly running , scarcely avoiding a woman on a bycicle. He had the irrational - or perhaps perfectly justified - fear that Crowley would hit the gas the moment he saw him approaching. If he had known what running in a dream felt like, he might have used it to described what it felt like to cross the short distance separating him from Crowley. As it was, he had nothing to compare the sensation of his body not quite operating at the proper speed to.

Eventually, his hand closed around the doorhandle, and the next moment, he was sitting next to Crowley, slightly red in the face and out of breath, which could not fully be explained away by his short burst of activity. Eyes focussed on his hands, he stammered the first thing that came to mind.

"I - I need your help."

his head may have been low to the papers he held, but that didn't mean that dark spectacled gaze couldn't see over the top. to say that he was continuing to get anything done was a lie. hand had stilled and the only thing that remained in motion was his ribs as they begun to heave a little under black attire.

crowley had watched the emotions come over the figure he knew all too well : fondness of the coffee shop, disappointment at the bentley not being in it's usual spot, and a moment of defeat before finally perking up. the demon's heart swelled to three sizes larger within his chest cavity. momentary love turned to panic quickly. what was he doing here? why was he running at the fastest pace he'd ever seen towards him? he felt as the urge to flee began in his body. all of his muscles tensed up and he pressed himself as hard against the seat as possible.

before all of the pent up motion could release, aziraphale's hand was on the car door. he felt it. the bentley, against his warning, purred. traitor. a deft motion had the door open, the angel within his personal bubble, and door shut all in one go. crowley had shifted now so his back was nearly against the door on his side. somewhat pale in the face other than where red had begun to bloom under his collar. it was spreading quickly up his neck. many reasons could be given, but the truth was that they had been apart for the longest that they had in decades. his corporeal form didn't know how to react to his current feelings. he was cursing it for that.

AFTER AN ABUNDANCE of pestering and reassurance from the serpent, the battle of Heaven and Hell was finally won at long last, and Aziraphale yielded his position.

Yes, @blindsite may bring a form of musical device into the bookshop. It is Crowley's home too now, after all. And after the entirely of the shop remained almost EXACTLY THE SAME as it had been for the past few decades ( and few decades before that ), Aziraphale could no longer deny such an earnest ( and persistent ) plea.

The machine would be arriving today. He was told it would be something they could both use. No, they wouldn't need to dispose of the gramophone. Call it an addition. Everything will remain exactly the same, except different. The same but different!

crowley was damn near giddy. as close it could be for him, that is. certainly a spring in his sauntering step. he'd been very carefully arranging a spot for his stereo to go all morning : each stack of books kept in perfect order just moved ever so slightly ... a couple of feet away from where they were originally. there was a black feather duster in his hand ( used to be yellow, but anything of the angel's that is that color turns black for his use until picked up by the other again ) furiously cleaning the space when aziraphale addresses him.

He was quick to jump to his own defense, even though - or perhaps because - there are precious few beings he would adress in such terms.

"- and what alternative do you propose? I don't exactly find comfort in the idea that it's all random, and that's - well we know better. There is no point pretending the plan doesn't exist, just because I,..." he quickly corrects himself, "you don't agree with it."

❝ not supposed to mean anything — right. ❞ sometimes when crowley gets this way, it's a symptom of his own anger at himself as much as it is the other person. not that he would admit to that easily. he hated how he would dig his heels and claws in, hanging onto the feeling until the whole conversation was nearly pointless in his stubbornness.

a low, growling grumble was all he emitted in response for a moment. ❝ maybe i would be more content in it being random! ❞ he voice was rising in volume, ❝ because then the whole thing wouldn't be so, so, so deliberately cruel! ❞ angels being good, demons being evil, humans living and working and suffering and dying and then going to one place or the other. heaven is white and stuffy and boring, hell is torture and more suffering and more waiting. ❝ the whole lot of them — us. cruel, cruel, cruel. we and humans serve some greater purpose and then one of us is banished at the end?? likely us demons cease to exist on earth with the second coming? bollocking bollocks, if you ask me. ❞ his ranting had let off some of the steam and the demon was settling into a tired, no, exhausted state. ❝ so if there's no changing the ineffable plan, fine. maybe pretending is stupid. actually, i know it is. but the humans say ignorance is bliss. i think it can be up until a point. what do you say we just ... ignore it for a while longer? i'm tired. ❞

ALARM STRIKES THE ANGEL as eyebrows shoot upward, but he must finish chew, chew, chew, swallow. The silverware finds its place resting upon the table.

❝ And what problem could that boy POSSIBLY HAVE WITH—! ❞ Aziraphale's gaze darts to the side as cheeks dust over with a bashful pink. After a quick sip of wine, he regains his composure, shoulders rolling back as his straightens his spine once again. ❝ I think you've done a rather fine job of... ❞

He blinks a few times as he reaches for the, er, appropriate words.

❝ And the hair is... and... um... ❞ A quick point up and down Crowley's current form further demonstrates his clearly articulated argument. ❝ Yes! ❞

Smiling, he nods.

at aziraphale's voice raising ever so slightly in volume, the demon's head tilts downward and eyebrows raise upon his forehead. his mouth remained in it's usual straight line with the corners turned down only through sheer willpower. the floundering for an answer was amusing. ❝ perhaps my eyebrows were left too thick or something. ❞ he trails off and ponders what he could do if the occasion ever called for female form again. wine glass swirls in his hand, nearly spilling over the edge. crowley was in perfect control of it and not a drop dared to flow over. chin raised and lowered in time with the point of the other's finger. ❝ though, i'm not sure of the point you're making, angel. you seemed to have skipped a couple of words in there. ❞

THE BOY WAS SHAPING UP TO BE TERRIBLE: but terrible in the way children ought to be. Demanding. Expectant. Eager. Oh, and quite unbecomingly rude at times. Warlock had received many a lecture from Brother Francis regarding the proper manner in which to speak to Mrs Dowling! All of which often culminated in an unflattering insult toward the gardener.

But no matter how many times Aziraphale had to tell the young antichrist "look, don't touch!" about the tender petals of the garden, so far, as it seems: he's far from evil. MERELY SPOILED. Which, to some, might be considered the same thing. But in the context of the impending apocalypse, it was as good as one could expect.

The waiter had just placed a delectable shank of braised lamb upon the table, and Aziraphale flattens the cloth napkin upon his lap in preparation of such a worthy meal.

Fork and knife in hand, he nods in agreement. ❝ All things considered, he appears to be quite normal for his age and... um, size. ❞

Blade meets meat as he carves out a perfectly portioned bite.

❝ Though, I do wish he would be kinder to his mother. She, is, well... ❞ He stares off for a moment, mind grappling for the right words in which to encapsulate his employer. ❝ Well, SHE'S HIS MOTHER! Why, just the other day, he asked if she was wearing makeup, and upon her confirmation, he replied: You need more. ❞

concealed behind glasses, dark pupils watch the angel perform the ritual of consuming his food. always the same : napkin in its place, utensils held correctly and delicately, and approaching whatever item it was with tact. in this case, something that looked quite mouth-watering.

he averts his gaze to the bottle of wine which he uses to top off their glasses. his own far more drained than the other. ❝ normal, yes. do you know what? sometimes i wonder if not — if not too normal. don't you? ❞ the question with hesitation revealed that he only dared to ask only because of his present company. the switcheroo with the chattering order had seemingly gone off without a hitch, but the one nun hadn't come off as too bright.

instead,  she  found  rico  standing  with  his  ears  forward  and  his  expression  suspiciously  pleased  with  himself.  and  near  him,  a  man  in  the  green  and  loam.  HONEY  EYES  SURVEY.  the  picture  assembled  all  on  its  own—the  open  gate,  the  stranger,  four-legged  asshole  tapping  his  hoof  and  snorting  like  he's  howling  in  laughter.  her  mouth  twitched,  parted,  and  scoffed.   ❛  yeah,  well,  i  think  he  got  you  this  far  just  to  do  that.  ❜ 

he huffed at the animal and woman's combined laughter at his expense. the sun shone brilliantly behind the woman as it was beginning to set and he'd yet to clearly see her face. eyes were too busy flickering between the end of the barrel and the trigger. sweeney had been shot at enough recently that he knew no luck would save him if she aimed true and had the safety off. ❝ aye, right he did. havin' the time of his fuckin' life over there. ❞ olive eyes rolled as he laid back in the grass and accepted his fate.

but, as luck would have it, something he thought didn't exist around him anymore, the gun lowered. as though a string was attached from his head to the barrel, he rose up to sitting position at the same time. ❝ yeah, i'm about the worst anythin' right now, so i'm not surprised. ❞ the tanned palm extended to him and he eyed it warily before accepting it. using his other arm as leverage to push up off his knee, the both of them got him standing. he dusted the ass of his jeans off and then looked down at her as she stood closer to him now. ❝ yer bein' awfully nice. is it pity because of my failed thievery? ❞