#l4ttdd

“Ahh, a mystery trip! Those are always fun! Well, Ezrafell-from-heaven, why don’t we have our meeting outside? This family takes their sleep veeeeery seriously, and trust me, you don’t want to incur the wrath of DoctorDonna. Chat in the Gazebo?”

“That would be very nice, but it’s late and it’s rather far away.”

“It’s just there,” the Doctor directed him toward the kitchen and pointed to the yard. Aziraphale squinted through the doors' glass panes and could see a shadowed outline.

“Oh! Oh, yes!” Aziraphale exclaimed.

There was a knock on the wall.

“Oi, spaceman! People are trying to sleep here!”

“Sorry!” The Doctor called, hurrying Aziraphale out the door. “Shhhhh. C’mon.”

Once outside, Aziraphale looked around, fascinated, as he followed the Doctor to the patio.

“Oh, this is adorable and I...” The Doctor held up a finger, interrupting him, then reached behind one of the Gazebo’s supports. With a quiet click, what seemed like a multitude of white lights instantly twinkled above them.

“Beautiful,” Aziraphale gasped.

“You’re easy to please,” the Doctor said, grinning.

“These were always my favorite. In fact, one year, we had….” his voice suddenly trailed off.

“You have family here, too, then?”

“No.” Aziraphale’s face fell. “I don’t.”

The Doctor examined the angel’s ever-shifting expression, then gestured toward a white wicker chair. Aziraphale forced a weary smile and stiffly settled in as the Doctor spilled into the seat across from him, his long plaid-clad legs struggling to find their space. Aziraphale watched in awe as he tried to get a handle on his emotions.

“How is it possible?” Aziraphale whispered to himself. The Doctor stalled as he caught the glossy gleam in Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

Aziraphale’s lips quivered, then he forced them still. 

“You’re not. In fact, I’d say, you’re grieving. I’d say, something, or someone, has broken your heart.”

“Are you always this forward?” Aziraphale hastily wiped his tears with his sleeve.

“Ehmm, yeah.” The Doctor leapt up from his chair. “How about some tea? I find tea fixes just about anything.”

“Oh yes, please. I mean, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Naaaah. She’s got everything in there...somewhere.” He glanced at the house. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, send for reinforcements.”

Aziraphale smiled weakly, then watched him disappear into the dark. He blinked, then struggled to focus.

Michael, I need a word.

What?

This assignment! Is this some kind of cruel initiation? What am I doing here?

It didn’t come from me.

Then get the Metatron.

He’s busy.

Michael, I am trying to be civil. Ninety days or not, I am still your superior. Get the Metatron!

Aziraphale rubbed his ears as they filled with an odd kind of static.

What is it, Aziraphale?

About this assignment...

It wasn’t me.

Who was it then??? Aziraphale began to lose his composure.

Process of elimination, dear boy.

Process of...you mean Her?

Direct and confidential. I couldn’t tell you anything more about it.

“BLAST!” He slammed his fist down on his armrest as the Doctor hovered above him.

“Seems like I got back just in time.” He lowered a cup into Aziraphale’s trembling hand, pulled a short stool-like table between them, and set the loaded tea tray down.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“I don’t believe you. In fact, I think you need to talk about it, and just haven’t found the right person.”

“The right person...isn’t a person.”

“Well, I’m an alien. Time Lord, to be precise, so you can start chatting away, any time. Oh, and help yourself to the cake and biscuits.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“You’re not. With either. She’ll blame him for the cakes, and I have - well, I have all the time in the world.”

The Doctor leaned back in his chair and, with a cocky grin, crossed his spider-like legs. Aziraphale blinked, tears threatening to fall once again.

“...It was my fault. My choice.”

“Ahh, I see. I know this part well. It’s alright," the Doctor assured with a sudden tenderness.

“It doesn’t feel alright,” Aziraphale snuffled angrily.

“It never does,” he whispered, leaning forward and looking Aziraphale in the eye. “But it does get better.”

—--

The Almighty looked sadly down on the tiny gazebo with her hand over her heart.

Your Grace, he wants to know what he’s doing there.

A private moment, if you don’t mind?

I’m sorry, but he…

Tell him there’s a reason. And to trust me.

And what if he asks why?

“Normal?”

“Yessss.”

Normal. In other words, act like what happened before they arrived didn’t. Not normal as in calm, even though a bomb could fall around, or on, them any second, not normal despite huge sections of the city being on fire while they sat comfortably in the Ritz’s main dining hall, but normal as in pretend – again - that what was there, in the space between himself and that bloody menu obscuring his best friend’s face, wasn’t. (Or, couldn’t be.)

“What would you like?” Crowley had quickly leapt over the moment and landed with a softer tone, but refused to look at Aziraphale again. Aziraphale glanced over and noted the inverted wine list in the demon’s hands. He softened, his eyes twinkling with amusement and compassion, as he gingerly reached for the menu, righted it, and gently slid it back between Crowley’s fingers.

“Better?” Aziraphale smiled brighter as he watched the demon’s cheeks flush.

The sky was dark. Dark in a way only days of rising smoke and layers of scattered cinder could create. The streets were barren, and rightly so, except for the Bentley, which had sped into its space in front of the bookshop about an hour earlier. Two boxes with a shiny gold “R” embossed on the corners of each sat next to Aziraphale and Crowley as they rested on their elbows over two small plates full of remnants of rich baked goods.

“These are delightful, hmm?” The angel tried not to get crumbs on his jacket as he had the last bite of a frosted biscuit.

“Yes,” Crowley said absently, supporting himself on one arm. He wasn’t eating, he was gazing, while he could, at the brilliant platinum curls atop the angel’s head as Aziraphale was distracted with the last of the desserts.

“Bit of a contrast to…” Aziraphale’s voice saddened a bit as he looked up at the sky through the window pane and sighed. Crowley startled and awkwardly straightened up. “What will they think of next?”

“Humans?”

“Yes. Appalling. Or is this your side?”

“A mix, really. But, some humans are more demonically inspired than others, I can say that.”

They sat silently as Aziraphale patted his mouth with a napkin when Crowley piped up, taking an extraordinarily deep and shaky breath.

“I think...you wanted...to say something earlier?”

“Did I?” the angel looked up blankly from his plate, some crumbs still stuck to his lips. Crowley smirked and tried to stifle a snort.

“What?”

“I think...you wanted to talk about...”

Aziraphale paused. “Oh...are...are you sure you want to talk about it? I shouldn’t have goaded you...”

“It’s alright, angel, I just...” Crowley frowned, confused. “I don’t know, really. I do know it’s not safe. And I know I’ve given you so many reasons already...so many things that if they ever knew, we’d both be gone. Forevah.” Crowley made an explosion sound, then a few quiet little shrieks with his mouth, and gestured into the air with his hands. “I’ve done enough to put you at risk, and that while supposedly trying to protect you. What sense does that make?”

“Well, I’ve done the same, haven’t I?” Aziraphale said regretfully.

“We both have. But this…this is asking for it. I don’t know that it’s something we really want out of the box.”

Aziraphale nodded, sad and sober.

“I understand…”

“I don’t want to lose you, angel. There’d be no coming back. That can’t happen...not to you. To us. As much as I …as much as we...may want…” Crowley was growing increasingly flustered, almost panicked. “I mean maybe someday...I don’t know...maybe…?”

Aziraphale reached across the table and stopped him, covering the demon’s hand with his.

“I understand.” Aziraphale tightened his hand around Crowley’s, and the demon quieted.

“Might not seem like it, looking out there," the angel glanced toward the street again. "But we still have today. We have now. And that will have to be enough. I would rather have you forever, in some form, than never again.”

“I don’t want to lose you, Aziraphale,” Crowley hissed, almost desperate with increasing fear.

“I beg to differ,” The Metatron said as he studied, unfazed, the hovering holographic globe of Earth that defined Heaven’s main hall. “It’s in the fine print. Fine print, I believe, you helped to write.” 

“It wasn’t me,” Aziraphale insisted. “It was probably…”

“It’s neither here nor there, really.” The Metatron cut him off, and zeroed–in on a section of land as he looked more closely at the globe. Aziraphale strained to see over the Metatron’s shoulder, quickly shrinking back as he turned.

“Well, I suppose we should get on with it,” the Metatron said looking at his watch, a prop that remained from his earthly attire. He tugged his white shirt cuffs neatly out of his coat sleeves. 

Aziraphale pinched his lips together and cast his eyes over the Metatron’s head. Somewhere down that hall, he knew, was the Office of God. He wondered how many steps closer to it he could get before being apprehended by Sandalphon and his goons or being otherwise sanctioned. He cleared his throat and straightened his bowtie as he tried to salvage his waning self-respect. 

“Yes, I suppose we should get to it.” The angel’s tone soured. “It’s not as if we have all of eternity, after all.” The Metatron raised an eyebrow, challenging the angel’s attitude with a glance. 

“You know, Aziraphale, I didn’t think you’d make it out of there without smelling at least a bit of smoke. Seems I was correct. You’re even sounding like him.” 

Aziraphale bristled. 

“Him” indeed. How dare you speak of him, you condescending bas…

The angel put his hand over his heart and forced himself to soften the glare that had flashed into his eyes too fast to catch. He tightened his lips, tipped his nose in the air, and echoed the Metatron’s earlier dismissal.  

“Well, that’s neither here nor there." Aziraphale tugged his lapels. The Metatron marveled at the angel’s gall. “What’s my title?” the angel continued.

“Angel On Call.”

“WHAT?” Aziraphale exclaimed, wide eyed. “That is the most ridiculous…what are my duties?” The angel was appalled at how simple and unnecessary it all sounded. 

“It’s a bit of a new twist. Humanity, you know…rather attached to their technology. People used to pray. Now they text. You’re the go between.”

“I don’t understand.” Aziraphale looked lost. None of this made sense. The Metatron fished around in his trenchcoat pockets, pulled out a phone, and tapped it a few times. He then handed it to Aziraphale. 

Meta Man: 777-Angel.

AOC: Angel On Call - Can I help you?

“What is this? It sounds awful! I am fairly certain, having lived among them for quite some time, that people will be very confused regarding… regarding the nature of the service or worse, the nature of the help!”

“Well, we can reel them in that way, too. It’ll just be a happy accident.”

“This is ABSURD! Who in the heavens approved this?” The Metatron shot the angel a sideways glance. “Oh... “ Aziraphale quieted and the Metatron moved on.

“Muriel is manning the line while buzzing around the bookshop. It’s quite simple. You can do it anywhere. Humans have a need, they text the number, you come to their aid. Similar to prayer, just less formal and using a more reliable network.” Aziraphale looked confused. “Less interference,” the Metatron clarified.

“I see. And um…just how many Angels On Call are there?”

“Just one.”

“Just one angel?”

“For now. It’s still in its experimental stages. Better that way, don’t you think? You can run things however you see fit.”

That’s the thinking that got me here in the first place, the angel recalled. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. 

“When do I begin?”

“We’ll just need a day or so to take care of some administrative details and then it’ll be all yours.” Aziraphale forced an appeasing grin and murmured under his breath.  

“Wonderful.”

Aziraphale sat forlornly on the bench in Saint James’ Park. On their bench. It was already dusk, and a little nagging voice warned of the park’s no patrons after dark rule. He ignored it.

His phone rang, emitting an annoying little trickling sound instead of his usual ringtone. He guessed it was likely intended to sound light and ethereal but reminded him more of someone tinkling in a toilet. “I see the tech department is working late,” he commented as he watched notifications flash across his screen, alerting him to remote modifications being made. He set the phone down beside him and closed his eyes when it rang again. He huffed and raised the phone to his lips. 

“Set after hours message.” 

The phone clicked and an automated voice could be heard.

“Speak your message after the tone.”

BEEP!

“Hello, this is Mr. Fell, Your Angel on Call…oh, no, no, no.” He fiddled nervously with the buttons.

CLICK.

“Speak your message after the tone.” 

BEEP!

“Hello, this is Mr. Fell, of Angel on Call. You have reached me after hours, but please leave a message and kindly…”

“Fuck off!” 

“CROWLEY!” Aziraphale spun around and dropped the cell phone on the pavement, his eyes wide and wild. Crowley was sitting next to him, the silver rims of his sunglasses glinting in the street lamp's light. Aziraphale couldn’t speak. Relieved, grateful, and afraid, he blinked away the mist coming to his eyes. 

“Fancy seeing you here, your majesty.”

Aziraphale’s face fell. 

“How was that?” the demon asked, nodding toward the cell phone as the angel picked it up and checked it for damage. “Thought it got right to the point. And where’s the new suit? Shouldn’t you be neck-high in Gabriel Gray by now? Meh, best you're not. It's very last year. Daffodil Yellow is the current trend now, innit?”

Crowley’s hurt was easily siphoned through mockery. The angel was silent. Humiliated. He dusted off his phone. Crowley craned his neck in Aziraphale’s direction, egging him on for a response.  

“I didn’t get a suit,” the angel mumbled. 

“No?” 

"No.” Aziraphale wouldn’t look at the demon and instead simply stared at his knees.

“Hmm. That’s different. New policies?”

“New department.” The angel still didn’t lift his eyes. 

“They gave you your own department? So how many archangels will there be, then?” Crowley looked appalled at the thought. “Really don’t need more than one. Really."

“Still just one, I believe.”

Crowley eyed Aziraphale and noticed his increasing discomfort. He wanted to ask. He wanted to know. He wanted to let him know that regardless of the matter, it would be alright. Instead, a bitter wall of abandonment tainted his words.

“I’m not the Archangel anymore,” Aziraphale said, embarrassed. “I’m not sure I ever was.” Crowley suddenly sat up straight. 

“What do you mean you’re not the Archangel anymore?”

Aziraphale looked ashamed. Crowley squelched a rush of hope that maybe the angel's connection to heaven, and separation from him, was over.

“It’s really none of your concern,” the angel said quietly.

You are my concern, Crowley thought. Why you can't see that is...is.... His heart ached. It ached more as he continued to hold up his usual mask.

“Tell me,” he said somberly. 

“It’s really not -”

“I want to know. And you want to tell, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“I didn’t know you were coming.” 

“But you hoped?”

Aziraphale lowered his head. “I did.”

Crowley breathed in deeply. His soul felt like it was being punched into pulp. “Then tell me.”

“They gave me a new department…and a new title.”

“What’s bad about that?”

“I’m…the Angel On Call.”

“The what? Angel On Call? Now that’s new.” Crowley thought for a moment. “Not as impressive sounding, is it?”

“Oh…” Aziraphale dropped his head into his hands. “It’s…it’s…humiliating.”

“I thought pride was a sin.”

“It is!” the angel snapped back, then dropped his face into his palms again. 

“So this Angel On Call is…?”

“A demotion!”

“Any perks at all?” Crowley was grasping at straws. Aziraphale sighed. 

“Well, I can work from anywhere. It’s just me, at least for now. I can wear what I like. Can even do it in my pajamas, I suppose.”

Crowley’s thoughts drifted away as he gazed at the angel sadly and wave after wave of loss and longing crashed inside of him. He wanted to hold him, to touch him, to tell him everything before he walked away again. He wanted to drop the facade and stop holding back. The demon began to tremble and blinked helplessly. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley’s voice cracked. “Come home.” He fought to pull away from the tears welling in his eyes. “Come home to me. To us .” 

The angel was jolted out of his self-defeating stupor by the demon's words and looked him in the eyes, then quickly looked away. The angel's lips quivered. He sat silently, uncertain.

“I..I couldn’t possibly,” he finally said. 

“Why not?” Crowley desperately wanted to reach for him but held himself back. 

“Because…I left you.”

Hearing those words, Crowley froze. The pain stung like being bitten by a thousand murder hornets. 

“That you did,” he reluctantly admitted.

“How can I ever expect you to forgive me for that? It was…utterly… inappropriate .”

“Inappropriate?” Crowley echoed, questioning his choice of words. 

“Of course. Outside of the moment, that is very, very clear.”

“And I suppose from the perspective of a heavenly singing telegram it might be even clearer?”

“Not a telegram. An Angel On Call.”

Crowley snorted.

“It’s not funny!” Aziraphale whined.

“Oh, it is. Maybe fitting, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, maybe you deserved it? Just a little?”

“Mmm. Just desserts,” The angel agreed with a sigh. 

“You like desserts,” Crowley offered. Aziraphale turned away, a bit hot under the collar over his own foolishness as well as the situation, and drew his lips up in displeasure.

“...I don't think you can.”

“Can what?”

“I don't think you can forgive me. You’re a demon. I’m not even sure it's possible.”

“Oh I can. Wasn’t always a demon. I mean, there are a few things I remember.” 

Aziraphale shot a surprised and hopeful glance at Crowley and watched his eyes as they slowly softened and shifted to a familiar, easy-going gaze.

“Come home, Angel,” Crowley whispered. Much to Crowley’s surprise, the angel lunged forward and pressed his lips against the demon’s, wrapping his arms clumsily around Crowley's neck. The demon stiffened, then settled smoothly and firmly into the embrace. 

“I guess this is a yes?” Crowley gasped, parting from the angel’s lips just long enough to speak. Aziraphale looked as if he would burst with joy.

“Yes,” the angel breathed. Crowley smiled a tiny smile, his eyes tracing every inch of the angel’s features, then sobered.

“Wait a minute. If you’re not the archangel, then who is?”

Muriel waited nervously in the hall. Michael dropped her finger in the air as if she was pushing an invisible button. The former Scrivener looked down and examined the new light gray suit, noticing the trousers had been overestimated a bit. 

“Mmm,” Michael grimaced. “That’ll have to do for now.” 

“Nooo!” Crowley’s jaw hung open.

“Yeeeess…” Aziraphale said regretfully. His eyebrows seemed to etch new lines on his forehead as they spoke.

“Well I suppose there's one good thing that will come of it,” Crowley suggested. “No one will be hovering around your bookshop anymore.” Aziraphale’s eyes lit up.

“No, they won’t!”  Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s hand and pulled him forward. The last time Crowley saw that kind of spark in the angel’s eyes he was dragging him to dance. Now, he was pulling him through Saint James’ Park.

“Hey, can't we go back to that last bit? I was enjoying that!” Crowley objected. “Where are we going?”

“Home.” Aziraphale paused to get a better look at the demon.  “I trust you will… enjoy that, too.”

“Oooh…” Crowley raised his eyebrows curiously as he continued to stumble down the path behind the angel.

Aziraphale wandered curiously around the shop, taking it in as if he was experiencing it for the first time. He smoothed a layer of dust off of some books with his fingertips and smiled as if he was seeing old friends. He ran his finger around the rim of his mug, still where he had left it, then slowly lifted a shade. Dust motes floated in the sunlight as he opened the window and shuffled off to retrieve the tea from the whistling kettle. He settled at his desk, lifted his teacup, and bounced lightly on his chair. For a moment, he thought he might have missed his chair almost as much as he missed Crowley. The angel looked down at his pajamas. 

Hmm. I guess it is a perk…

Crowley lay knotted up in a pile of sheets and blankets as he slithered a hand over to the bedside table where his sunglasses and other bits and bobs had landed the night before. He tried to come to terms with the daylight that came too soon and grasped his cell phone, squinting at the time.

The antique grandfather clock struck seven, and the angel’s cell phone buzzed. Aziraphale rolled his eyes and sighed. 

Well, here we go... 

Anonymous: 777-Angel

AOC Mr. Fell : Angel On Call - Can I help you?

Anonymous: Yeah, hi. I need an angel. Stat. 

AOC Mr. Fell: What’s the nature of your need, please?

Anonymous: I need an angel right NOW. I have a terrible urge to … cuddle.

AOC Mr. Fell: I’m sorry, but that is not the intended use of this service.

Anonymous: …

Anonymous: …

AOC Mr. Fell: Is there anything else I might be able to help you with?

Anonymous: …

Anonymous: Come back to bed, Angel. I have a lissss-t. 

Really, Crowley, you could just ask! The last time you helped yourself to my things my aftershave went missing. I happened to have a meeting with the town council that same evening and – well let’s just say it was a lot less pleasant than usual.

....

...You’re absolutely not coming downstairs in those, they don’t fit you properly! The trousers will be around your ankles the moment you stand up!

....

What do you mean she’d like it? Who? Mizwhat?

....

Yes, never mind indeed. Anyway, you’re not coming down in those, so if you stay here, you stay here, in this room, or you get dressed in your own clothes and rejoin civil society.

....

Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop growling. What? Please move your mouth away from the pillow, I can’t understand what you're saying.

What? You’ll stop growling when I stop grousing?

Really???

….

Hmm…

….

Ahem...

….

...T-to think that I just came up here to offer you some tea. I-I just thought - you might like - well maybe I’ll just have my tea alone this morning.

....

Don’t be ridiculous, Crowley, you can’t hear someone pout. I’m not pouting!

....

Well, you’d know if I was if you’d stop talking into that damned pillow, wouldn’t you?

….

….

….

I’m sorry. I think, perhaps...some other things may have gotten involved here. I really did just come to offer you some tea. You’re a grown demon...you can do what you like. I’ll go now. Sleep well or - whatever you decide.

….

….

….

What? Oh...thank you. Thank you. Apology accepted.

....

No, you don't have to do the little dance. Frankly, I don’t think those trousers would survive it.

....

What’s that? Six sugars? Yes. I remember.

....

Aziraphale examined him from afar, calculating how true Crowley’s dismissal might be.

“It’s fine, Angel. Really. Jus' tired.”

“But you don’t need sleep,” Aziraphale countered.

“Ahhh, but I quite like it. Takes the edge off.” Crowley dropped onto the couch and stretched—oblivious, as usual, to the value of the piece or its ornate fabrics and prioritizing a slouchy, spider-like sprawl. Aziraphale winced a bit (for the furnishing’s sake) as he watched Crowley fight to find a comfortable position.

“If it truly helps you, then...”

“It does.” Crowley cut him off. Aziraphale thought for a moment. His eyes widened.

“Erm, can we try something?” the angel offered.

“Really?” Crowley perked up and blinked curiously. He began to sit up, his eyes brightening with expectation. Aziraphale turned to a small crate beside his desk and flipped through several thin spines. Crowley’s eyes followed the angel as he pulled a small volume from the crate and sat on the couch at the demon’s feet.

“Are you going to read that?” Crowley asked incredulously.

Aziraphale opened the book and licked his finger, flipping to the section he needed.

“Out loud? Oh, please—please don’t.” Put off, Crowley dropped his head back onto the couch.

“This works wonders for children,” Aziraphale beamed.

“Do I look like a child to you?" the demon objected. Aziraphale cleared his throat, put his shoulders back, and sat up straighter.

“Ohhh!” Crowley whined. He threw his arm over his eyes, turned away, and sighed. Aziraphale side-eyed the demon and cleared his throat once more.

“Many years ago…”

“Aren’t you going to read the title?” Crowley peeked at the angel from under his arm.

“Hush,” the angel condescended, patting Crowley’s ankle. Crowley covered his eyes again and huffed.

“Many years ago there was an Emperor who was so very fond of new clothes that he spent all his money on them. He did not trouble about his soldiers. He did not care to go to the theatre. He only went out when he had the chance to show off his new clothes. He had a different suit for each hour of the day. Most kings could be found sitting in council. It was said of the Emperor, ‘He is sitting in his wardrobe.”

“What does this have to do with anything?” Crowley griped, then hastily covered his face again.

“Shhh, give it a chance. Try and calm yourself and think of... well, whatever it is you think of.” Crowley popped an eyelid open and peered at Aziraphale, slightly insulted by his last comment. He breathed deeply and settled some. The angel resumed.

“One day, two fellows calling themselves weavers came to town. They said that they knew how to weave cloth of the most beautiful colors and patterns. The clothes made from this wonderful cloth would be invisible to everyone who was unfit for the job he held or who was very simple in character.”

Crowley looked down at himself, then around the room. It was small, circular, with uneven stone walls. A stairway arch was across from the two. He rolled on his side, and his nose met Aziraphale’s shoes. Bits of straw stuck to his clothes and littered the floor. The angel looked down at him and patiently waited.

“Where are we?” Crowley groaned as he stood up and brushed himself off. “And why are we dressed…" Crowley noted the rich fabrics with gold trim Aziraphale was wearing, weirdly similar to the couch upholstery. “...why am I dressed like a peasant?” Crowley sniffed and wrinkled his nose. The air smelled of horse manure. Aziraphale waved him off.

“Let the story be told, dear.”

“‘These must, indeed, be splendid clothes!” thought the Emperor. “If I had such a suit, I might at once find out what men in my kingdom are unfit for their job. I would be able to tell the wise men from the foolish!'"

Crowley’s eyes scanned the atmosphere. He looked at Aziraphale, who was looking back contentedly.

“How are you doing that?” Aziraphale turned to him, unmoved.

“Doing what?” The angel asked innocently.

“This stuff must be woven for me immediately.’ He gave large sums of money to both the weavers in order that they might begin their work at once.”

“That.” Crowley pointed above his head.

“Oh, that’s the narrator.”

“That’s your voice.”

“Well, I’m the narrator. May I continue?”

“But your mouth isn’t moving.”

Aziraphale turned to him, eyebrows raised. A rat ran over Crowley’s shoe. He gasped and leapt backwards.

“May I?” Aziraphale cocked his head.

“Fine! Fine! Yes, continue!”

“So the two pretend weavers set up two looms. They worked very busily, though in reality they did nothing at all. They asked for the finest silk and the purest gold thread. They put both into their own knapsacks. Then they pretended to work at the empty looms until late at night.”

The two turned together toward what sounded like a scuffle coming from the stone steps. Two figures fumbled up the corridor, dragging a rickety pile of wood and rope.

“What’s this thing gonna’ do? It’s falling apart!” one insisted.

“Quiet! It just needs to look like it’s working,” the other hissed back.

“Well, what’s the point of that?” one argued, his hair dusty and almost shoulder length.

“Quiet!” the other snapped. She appeared to be a woman, complete with bright red lipstick, but dressed as a man.

“Shax?” Crowley exclaimed in disbelief.

“Who? No, that’s a weaver, dear,” Aziraphale corrected, pointing toward the arch.

"…and Furfur?” Crowley’s mouth hung open.

“Weavers, dear."

“Are we looking at the same thing?”

“Probably not. I’m reading.”

Crowley heard the voice take a deep breath. He turned again to Aziraphale, who smiled awkwardly and pointed up. Shax and Furfur harassed each other, fighting to erect their looms as the voice continued.

“'I should like to know how the weavers are getting on with my cloth,' said the Emperor to himself one day. When he remembered that a simpleton, or one unfit for his job, would be unable to see the cloth, he began to worry. To be sure, he thought he was safe. However, he would prefer sending somebody else to bring him news about the weavers and their work. All the people in the kingdom had heard of the wonderful cloth. All were eager to learn how wise or foolish their neighbors might be.

“‘I will send my faithful old wise man to the weavers,’ said the Emperor at last. ‘He will be best able to see how the cloth looks. He is a man of sense. No one can be better for his job than he is.’"

“So the faithful old wise man went into the hall where the thieves were working with all their might at their empty looms.”

Suddenly, a thin man tripped up the last few steps and through the archway. A white beard hung crookedly from his smooth chin, tied around the back of his head with string. An equally poor white wig sat askew on top of his head, while two pointy plumes of hair stood straight up like fuzzy horns. Crowley gawked.

"‘What can be the meaning of this?’ thought the old man, opening his eyes very wide."

"I cannot find the least bit of thread on the looms!” the young-old man exclaimed, tugging at the beard that was getting caught in his mouth. The voice continued.

“However, he did not say his thoughts aloud.”

“Oh,” the young-old man said stupidly.

“Really...” Crowley tried not to snicker.

“The thieves asked him very kindly to be so good as to come nearer their looms.”

“Look closer, you idiot!” Shax barked at the young-old man.

“Very kindly, hmm?” Crowley raised an eyebrow.

"Then they asked him whether the cloth pleased him. They asked whether the colors were not very beautiful. All the time they were pointing to the empty frames. The poor old wise man looked and looked. He could not see anything on the looms for a very good reason. There was nothing there.

“‘What!’ thought he again. ‘Is it possible that I am a fool? I have never thought so myself. No one must know it now if I am so. Can it be that I am unfit for my job? No, the Emperor must not know that either. I will never tell that I could not see the stuff.’”

“Eric!” Furfur announced grandly. “I mean, sir! You do not say whether the cloth pleases you!” He shouted as if he were addressing an amphitheater.

"Overacting." Shax covered her ears, scowled, and muttered to herself.

“Oh,” said Eric flatly. “Yeah, it’s great! Yeah, the uh—the whole uh, color, and all. It’s uh…yeah. I’ll tell him. The Emperor.” Eric smiled behind the drooping beard and tried to align its mouth opening with his own. Shax looked away with disgust. Furfur smiled with amusement.

“Well, um, I’ll be off then. To tell him how great it is and all. Bye!” Eric hopped toward the stairwell and bounced down the stairs. Shax and Furfur turned toward the empty looms.

“The Emperor soon sent another man from his court to see how the weavers were getting on. Now he wanted to know if the cloth would soon be ready. It was just the same with this gentleman as with the wise man. First he looked closely at the looms on all sides. He could see nothing at all but the empty frames.”

“Hello!” Shax and Furfur jumped and spun around at the sound of Eric’s voice behind them. They looked confused.

“Weren’t you just here?” Furfur asked.

“No,” Eric said. The white beard was gone, as was the white hair. Furfur tried to clear his thoughts and blinked.

“Just get on with it!” Shax said, rolling her eyes.

"Yes, do get on with it,” Crowley said, cocking his head in Aziraphale’s direction.

“Of - of course.” Aziraphale straightened up and breathed in.

“‘I certainly am not stupid!’ thought the man. ‘It must be that I am not fit for my good job! That is very odd. However, no one shall know anything about it.’ And so he praised the stuff he could not see."

“Oh yeah, it’s great,” said Eric flatly. “I’ll tell him - the Emperor. Bye!” Eric skipped down the stairs. Shax shifted her eyes toward Furfur, who was enjoying himself too much for her taste.

“Finally, the Emperor himself wished to see the costly material while it was still in the loom. He took many officers of the court and the two honest men who had already admired the cloth. As soon as the weavers saw the Emperor approach, they went on working faster than ever, although they still did not pass even one thread through the looms.”

Shax and Furfur hurriedly began “weaving” on the looms as a conglomeration of clumsy demons spilled up the stairwell, fighting for space to enter, followed by two Erics, one with a beard, one without, and the Emperor.

“Nooo…” Crowley’s eyes widened as he fought away a giggle. “Well, that explains the smell.”

“Is not the work absolutely magnificent?” said the two officers of the crown. “If your Majesty will only be pleased to look at it! What a splendid design! What glorious colors!”

“I don’t see anything.” The Emperor’s matted white hair stuck out in all directions, and his beady black eyes darted around nervously. “Am I a simpleton?”

“Does he really want us to answer that?” Furfur muttered to Shax. Eric elbowed Hastur, who shifted his black eyes back to where the cloth should have been.

“Oh! The cloth is charming,” Hastur said mechanically. “I approve of it completely.” He tried to smile. His lips trembled instead, a bit of each corner of his mouth lifting quickly before they descended into a scowl. The conglomeration of demons behind him strained to see the cloth he was referring to. Crowley cackled with glee.

“It’s getting good now, innit?” The demon said and snorted.

“The Emperor was pleased. He presented the weavers with the emblem of an order of knighthood.

Hastur, the Erics, and the group of demons filed out of the room.

“The thieves sat up the whole of the night before the day on which the parade was to take place. They pretended to roll the cloth off the looms. They cut the air with their scissors and sewed with needles without any thread in them.”

Shax and Furfur did as the narrator described, then waited for a cue. When none came, Shax stood up with a huff.

“The Emperor’s new clothes are ready!” she shouted.

Hastur, the Erics, and the demons filed awkwardly back in.

“The Emperor, with all the grandees of his court, came to the weavers. The thieves raised their arms, as if in the act of holding something up. 'Here are your Majesty’s trousers! Here is the scarf! Here is the mantle! The whole suit is as light as a cobweb; one might fancy one has nothing at all on when dressed in it.'"

“The Emperor was undressed for a fitting.”

“What?” said Shax.

“What?” said Hastur.

“What?” said Crowley.

“Nooo…” Furfur squinted and covered his mouth.

Crowley looked to Aziraphale, shaking his head anxiously. Aziraphale’s gaze darted around, then toward the ceiling.

"No,” Crowley instructed.

“Uhh…ehh… I uhhh…” Aziraphale looked up again, as if trying to connect with “the voice”. He seemed at a loss.

“The Emperor was undressed for a fitting.”

Shax looked at Hastur with wide eyes. Furfur lowered his gaze further, holding his hand to his forehead. The rest of the demons looked toward Hastur with morbid curiosity.

Hastur’s eyes searched all the odd looks and faces that stood waiting and staring.

“The Emperor was undressed for a fitting…”

“All right!” Hastur shouted at the ceiling. He sighed, and slowly, ever so slowly, raised his hand in the air, closed his eyes, and snapped his fingers.

Shax screamed. Furfur covered her mouth and looked away. The demons recoiled in waves, and a chorus of grunts, gasps, and other odd noises filled the air.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale whispered. Crowley grimaced and slapped his hand over his mouth before lurching forward and making a horrible retching sound.

Aziraphale gazed lovingly at the sleeping demon. His legs jerked, as did his arms, and he uttered an indiscernible word here and there. The angel closed the book and smiled.

“Mission accomplished,” Aziraphale whispered. Crowley shifted, his body jumped slightly, and he sighed.

“Must be a very good dream. I’ll leave you to it.” The angel gently patted Crowley’s foot, then quietly stood and slipped out of sight.

“No!” Crowley snorted and jerked hard, grabbing the edges of the couch. Exasperated, he pressed his face into the upholstery, muffling his words. “Azirppplallle…it d’nnnt wooork.”

He flipped onto his back.

“Aziraphale? Can we try something else? Please? I have some ideas—lots of ideas. Angel? Hellooo?”

Reference: The Emperor’s New Clothes by Hans Christian Andersen, 1837.

“I beg to differ,” The Metatron said as he studied, unfazed, the hovering holographic globe of Earth that defined Heaven’s main hall. “It’s in the fine print. Fine print, I believe, you helped to write.” 

“It wasn’t me,” Aziraphale insisted. “It was probably…”

“It’s neither here nor there, really.” The Metatron cut him off, and zeroed–in on a section of land as he looked more closely at the globe. Aziraphale strained to see over the Metatron’s shoulder, quickly shrinking back as he turned.

“Well, I suppose we should get on with it,” the Metatron said looking at his watch, a prop that remained from his earthly attire. He tugged his white shirt cuffs neatly out of his coat sleeves. 

Aziraphale pinched his lips together and cast his eyes over the Metatron’s head. Somewhere down that hall, he knew, was the Office of God. He wondered how many steps closer to it he could get before being apprehended by Sandalphon and his goons or being otherwise sanctioned. He cleared his throat and straightened his bowtie as he tried to salvage his waning self-respect. 

“Yes, I suppose we should get to it.” The angel’s tone soured. “It’s not as if we have all of eternity, after all.” The Metatron raised an eyebrow, challenging the angel’s attitude with a glance. 

“You know, Aziraphale, I didn’t think you’d make it out of there without smelling at least a bit of smoke. Seems I was correct. You’re even sounding like him.” 

Aziraphale bristled. 

“Him” indeed. How dare you speak of him, you condescending…

The angel put his hand over his heart and forced himself to soften the glare that had flashed into his eyes too fast to catch. He tightened his lips, tipped his nose in the air, and echoed the Metatron’s earlier dismissal.  

“Well, that’s neither here nor there." Aziraphale tugged his lapels. The Metatron marveled at the angel’s gall. 

“What’s my title?” the angel continued.

“Angel On Call.”

“WHAT?” Aziraphale exclaimed, wide eyed. “That is the most ridiculous…what are my duties?” The angel was appalled at how simple and unnecessary it all sounded. 

“It’s a bit of a new twist. Humanity, you know…rather attached to their technology. People used to pray. Now they text. You’re the go between.”

“I don’t understand.” Aziraphale looked lost. None of this made sense. The Metatron fished around in his trenchcoat pockets, pulled out a phone, tapped it a few times, then handed it to Aziraphale. 

Meta Man: 777-Angel.

AOC: Angel On Call - Can I help you?

“This is ABSURD! Who in the heavens approved of this?” The Metatron shot the angel a sideways glance. “Oh... “ Aziraphale quieted and the Metatron moved on.

“Muriel is manning the line while buzzing around the bookshop. It’s quite simple. You can do it anywhere. Humans have a need, they text the number, you come to their aid. Similar to prayer, just less formal and using a more reliable network.” Aziraphale looked confused. “Less interference,” the Metatron clarified.

“I see. And um…just how many Angels On Call are there?”

“Just one.”

“Just one angel?”

“For now. It’s still in its experimental stages. Better that way, don’t you think? You can run things however you see fit.”

That’s the thinking that got me here in the first place, the angel recalled. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. 

“When do I begin?”

“We’ll just need a day or so to take care of some administrative details and then it’ll be all yours.” Aziraphale forced an appeasing grin and murmured under his breath.  

“Wonderful.”

Aziraphale sat forlornly on the bench in Saint James’ Park. On their bench. It was already dusk, and a little nagging voice warned of the park’s no patrons after dark rule. He ignored it.

His phone rang, emitting an annoying little trickling sound instead of his usual ringtone. He guessed it was likely intended to sound light and ethereal but reminded him more of someone tinkling in a toilet. “I see the tech department is working late,” he commented as he watched notifications flash across his screen, alerting him to remote modifications being made. He set the phone down beside him and closed his eyes when it rang again. He huffed and raised the phone to his lips. 

“Set after hours message.” 

The phone clicked and an automated voice could be heard.

“Speak your message after the tone.”

BEEP!

“Hello, this is Mr. Fell, Archangel…oh....” Aziraphale did not appreciate the accidental reminder of his status. He stabbed at the screen with a pudgy finger.

CLICK.

“Speak your message after the tone.” 

BEEP!

“Hello, this is Mr. Fell of Angel on Call.” He winced at the words. “You have reached me after hours, but please leave a message and kindly…”

“Angel on Call?” 

“CROWLEY!” Aziraphale spun around and dropped the cell phone on the pavement, his eyes wide and wild. Crowley was sitting next to him, the silver rims of his sunglasses glinting in the street lamp's light. Aziraphale couldn’t speak. Relieved, grateful, and afraid, he blinked away the mist coming to his eyes. 

“Fancy seeing you here, your majesty.”

Aziraphale’s face fell. 

“Where’s the suit? Shouldn’t you be neck-high in Gabriel Gray by now? Meh, best you're not. It's very last year. Daffodil Yellow is the current trend now, innit?”

Crowley’s hurt was easily siphoned through mockery. The angel was silent. Humiliated. He dusted off his phone. Crowley craned his neck in Aziraphale’s direction, egging him on for a response.  

“I didn’t get a suit,” the angel mumbled. 

“No?” 

"No.” Aziraphale wouldn’t look at the demon and instead simply stared at his knees.

“Hmm. That’s different. New policies?”

“New department.” The angel still didn’t lift his eyes. 

“They gave you your own department? So how many archangels will there be, then?” Crowley looked appalled at the thought. “Really don’t need more than one. Really."

“Still just one, I believe.”

Crowley eyed Aziraphale and noticed his increasing discomfort. He wanted to ask. He wanted to know. He wanted to let him know that regardless of the matter, it would be alright. Instead, a bitter wall of abandonment tainted his words.

“I’m not the Archangel anymore,” Aziraphale said, embarrassed. “I’m not sure I ever was.” Crowley suddenly sat up straight. 

“What do you mean you’re not the Archangel anymore?”

Aziraphale looked ashamed. Crowley squelched a rush of hope that maybe the angel's connection to heaven, and separation from him, was over.

“It’s really none of your concern,” the angel said quietly.

Crowley’s heart ached. It ached more as he continued to hold up his usual mask.

“Tell me,” he said as casually and as cooly as he could. 

“It’s really not -”

“I want to know. And you want to tell, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“I didn’t know you were coming.” 

“But you hoped?”

Aziraphale lowered his head. “I did.”

Crowley breathed in deeply. His soul felt like it was being punched into pulp. “Then tell me.” The wall was breaking. Crowley missed his friend, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep up the act of being untouched by his willful absence, or deny that part of him had been completely lost since he left. He wasn’t sure how much longer he wanted to.

“They gave me a new department…and a new title.”

“What’s bad about that?”

“I’m…the Angel On Call.”

“That’s new.” Crowley thought for a moment. “Not very impressive sounding, is it?”

“Oh…” Aziraphale dropped his head into his hands. “It’s…it’s…humiliating.”

“I thought pride was a sin.”

“It is!” the angel snapped back, then dropped his face into his palms again. 

“So this Angel On Call is…?”

“A demotion!”

“Any perks at all?” Crowley was grasping at straws. Aziraphale sighed. 

“Well, I can work from anywhere. It’s just me, at least for now. I can wear what I like. Can even do it in my pajamas, I suppose.”

Crowley’s thoughts drifted away as he gazed at the angel sadly and wave after wave of loss and longing crashed inside of him. The demon began to tremble and blinked helplessly. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley’s voice cracked. “Leave them. Come back here. You belong here.” He fought to pull away from the tears welling in his eyes. “We can…we can get sushi.” Crowley breathed out deeply, disappointed in himself. “That’s not…that last part…not what I meant. I mean, we can if you want, but…ugh…” 

“I think I know what you meant.” Aziraphale smiled softly and looked at his lap before his guilty tears broke through. “I..I can’t come back. I can’t possibly…” he wiped his face with his sleeve and looked away. 

“Why not?” Crowley tried to withhold the desperation which was stubbornly bleeding into his tone.

“Because…I left you.”

Hearing those words, Crowley froze. The pain stung like being bitten by a thousand murder hornets. 

“That you did,” he reluctantly admitted.

“How can I ever expect you to forgive me for that? It was…utterly… inappropriate .”

“Inappropriate?” Crowley echoed, questioning the angel’s choice of words. 

“Of course. Outside of the moment, that is very, very clear.”

“And I suppose from the perspective of a heavenly singing telegram it might be even clearer?”

“Not a telegram. An Angel On Call.”

Crowley snorted.

“It’s not funny!” Aziraphale whined.

“Oh, it is. Maybe fitting, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, maybe you deserved it? Just a little?”

“Mmm. Just desserts,” The angel agreed with a sigh. 

“You like desserts,” Crowley offered. Aziraphale turned away and drew his lips up with displeasure, then sighed.

“...I don't think you can.”

“Don’t think I can what?”

“I don't think you can forgive me. You’re a demon. I’m not even sure it's possible.”

“Oh I can. Wasn’t always a demon. I mean, there are a few things I remember.” 

Aziraphale shot a surprised and hopeful glance at Crowley, then watched the demon’s eyes slowly soften, shifting to a familiar, easy-going gaze.

“Come back, Angel,” Crowley whispered. “I n- I nee... and I…mi- I mmmi...” Much to Crowley's surprise, the angel lunged forward and wrapped his arms clumsily around Crowley's neck. The demon stiffened. 

“I've missed you, too!” Aziraphale’s grip got tighter. "So much!"

Crowley croaked, almost questioning which of them was the snake. Aziraphale pulled away and looked as if he would burst with joy. Crowley gasped for breath while he had the chance. He managed a tiny smile before Aziraphale suddenly put him in another vice-like hug. “I'm so sorry, Crowley. So very sorry. You have no idea.” 

“Okay, angel, it's okay, but, can’t breathe now.” 

Aziraphale quickly loosened his grip. Crowley coughed and recovered.  

“Wait a minute. If you’re not the archangel, then who is?”

Muriel waited nervously in the hall. Michael dropped her finger in the air as if she was pushing an invisible button. The former Scrivener looked down and examined the new light gray suit, noticing the trousers had been overestimated a bit. 

“Mmm,” Michael grimaced. “That’ll have to do for now.” 

“Nooo!” Crowley’s jaw hung open.

“Yeeeess…” Aziraphale said regretfully. His eyebrows seemed to etch new lines on his forehead as they spoke.

“Well I suppose there's one good thing that will come of it,” Crowley suggested. “No one will be hovering around your bookshop anymore.” Aziraphale’s eyes lit up.

“No, they won’t!”  Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s hand and pulled him forward. The last time Crowley saw that kind of spark in the angel’s eyes he was dragging him to dance. Now, he was pulling him through Saint James’ Park.

“Where are we going?”

“Home.” 

Crowley stopped short. 

“Home?” the demon questioned, struggling to contain his tears. The angel nodded.

“Home it is.” Crowley secured his grip around Aziraphale’s hand and braced himself to continue the hasty trek back to the bookshop.

Aziraphale wandered curiously around the shop, taking it in as if he was experiencing it for the first time. He smoothed a layer of dust off of some books with his fingertips and smiled as if he was seeing old friends. He ran his finger around the rim of his mug, still where he had left it, then slowly lifted a shade. Dust motes floated in the sunlight as he opened the window and shuffled off to retrieve the tea from the whistling kettle. He settled at his desk, lifted his teacup, and bounced lightly on his chair. For a moment, he thought he might have missed his chair almost as much as he missed Crowley. The angel smoothed out his lapels and glanced at the antique grandfather clock. 

Five minutes to seven. Much too early for a weary demon, Aziraphale thought. He gazed fondly at Crowley, who had resumed his signature sprawl over the furniture. As the angel quietly gathered his things and tiptoed into the backroom, he could hear the faint buzz of the snake’s snore. 

The clock struck seven and the angel's cell phone rang. Aziraphale sighed.

Well, here we go... 

Anonymous: 777-Angel

AOC Mr. Fell: Angel On Call - Can I help you?

Anonymous: Yeah, hi. I need an angel. Stat. 

AOC Mr. Fell: What’s the nature of your need, please?

Anonymous: I have a terrible need for a very alcoholic breakfast and a lot of yammering about…well, about anything you like.

Aziraphale smirked and his face shone as he wandered back into the front of the shop. Crowley, still sprawled out on the couch, held his cell phone in the air and wore a cocky grin. 

“I really did miss you,” Aziraphale whispered, breathing a deep sigh of satisfaction and relief. Crowley smiled wider. 

“Breakfast then, Angel?” 

“Yes. Breakfast.”