Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

By and large, most people saying something like “well, you are the very last person I expected to see!” are lying.

If you knew someone at all, we must point out, putting on our most insufferable know-it-all glasses and getting out a personalised clipboard and pocket calculator with our names embossed on it, you expected to see them again at some point, even just a little bit, even in unusual circumstances; so, a total stranger you had never heard of before would, in all technicality, be even more unexpected.

Only more so if said stranger was long dead, had not yet been born, or was entirely fictional. There were higher and higher bars to become the very, very last person someone had expected to see, and most individuals could never hope of clearing them all.

So, technically, his personal wily adversary, the Serpent of Eden, the Demon Crowley Himself In All His Devilish Glory, had not been the very last person Aziraphale had expected to see - that was a textile merchant named Irwing who had been made up by a young woman in 372 AD as an excuse not to get married to the miller’s son - but he didn’t exactly make the top ten, either. Especially not here, at the very monastery Aziraphale had now been stationed at for a good few decades of the Middle Ages.*

*Though, of course, at the time they had been the very-far-end-all-the-way-at-the-front ages. The middle-ing had come on gradually.

Not that he was an unpleasant sight, of course. Aziraphale always enjoyed seeing Crowley; quite a lot, in fact, to a degree that was honestly starting to worry him a bit.*

*He had recently begun to note that most things that felt good and were deeply enjoyable were also the sort of thing Heaven sternly disapproved of, and was on the slow and rocky path of drawing some unappealing conclusions from that.

It was just that Crowley was an unusually attractive demon, wearing a particularly fetching humanoid corporation, which was simply an objective fact. He was all fluid joints and too much limb - Aziraphale quietly suspected the poor boy was overcompensating for the whole myth of God punishing the Serpent by taking its legs - and confidence enough for half a dozen men, which one should never underestimate.

Crowley knew he was attractive, and held himself as such… to Aziraphale’s great misfortune. Very impolite of him, to be all temptation, even now. In a monastery. In front of an angel.

(Not that Crowley seemed to be aware of Aziraphale’s presence on the staircase behind him, currently very busy miracling one step just a hair higher than the others, and maybe making it a little more slippery than it by all rights should be.

It wasn’t much, but it was dishonest work, and Crowley believed deeply in the power of micro-evildoing.)

So, when Aziraphale exclaimed “Crowley!”, it came out rather more accusing than it ought to, and a little offended by the fact that Crowley had somehow managed to make a monk’s habit look form-fitting and stylish and just a hint cheeky. Disgraceful. Demons really stopped at nothing, these days.

“Nghah!?” Crowley’s head whipped around in a flurry of crimson curls - he had forgone the monastic regulation tonsure, as well as the cross and rosaries he ought to be wearing, because apparently demons did stop at some things, after all.

At the sight of Aziraphale, he took a startled step backwards, up the stairs.…

And, inevitably, his heel caught on the recently-manipulated step.

We shall spare the Esteemed Readers a detailed description of the second-worst Fall in Crowley’s life, though they should know it was supremely humiliating, and still did not change Aziraphale’s firm conviction that Crowley was immensely attractive and effortlessly elegant even a little bit.

“Ouch,” muttered Crowley, at the bottom of the stairs, picking himself up and futilely trying to gather the shards of his dignity. “Hullo, angel. Fancy seeing you here.”*

*Crowley made no comment along the lines of Aziraphale being the last person he’d expected to see, in part because he always expected to see Aziraphale.

Or. Well.

Hoped.

Same difference, really.

“What are you doing here!” Aziraphale gasped, once he too had reached the bottom of the stairs in a slightly less mortifying matter.

“Oh, thanks for asking, I’m fine, nothing broken, don’t you fret-” Crowley shot back in a nasal sort of voice that did not sound like Aziraphale at all, thank you very much.

“What, in Heaven’s name, are YOU doing here!?” He repeated in a tone that was most certainly not a shriek, but only by way of denial.

“Nothing! I’m doing nothing in Heaven’s name!” Crowley, that wily demon, blinked his bright golden eyes innocently behind his dark glasses.* “In Hell’s name, however…”

*The Society of Timetravellers Against Really Dumb Inconsistencies in Spacetime (TARDIS Society for short, and currently locked in a fierce copyright battle with a Doctor Who fanclub from the 22nd century) had written Crowley up a ticket for the blatant anachronism at least once every century, but so far he had always shrugged, paid the fine, and stubbornly kept his glasses on.

“You’re here on-” Aziraphale lowered his voice, though not his outraged high pitch, leading to the sort of tone that gave nearby bats a headache, but required Crowley to lean in quite closely. “Demon business?”

“I’m a demon. By definition, all my business is demon business.” Crowley smiled quite infuriatingly, though also handsomely, which just made it worse. “But also, yeah. Destroy all the good in the world. Erode humanity’s faith in the Almighty. Sow a bit of dissent and treachery and blasphemy and…” Crowley tried to think of more nouns. “...stuff.”

“Here!? At a monastery?”

Crowley shrugged. “Go big or go home.”*

*There was a demotivational poster down in Hell that said something similar, except it read, in a font that looked like comic sans, just more grimy, “Go Big or Go To Hell (because you have no home, miserable underling)”.

“Well. Far be it from me to discourage your lofty ambitions,” Aziraphale muttered tetchily, “but you might want to try a different monastery, then, hm? I’ve been puttering about in this one for years now, blessing left and right, sharing God’s love, Goodwill To All Mankind Etcetera Etcetera, and you know how easily we cancel each other out.”*

*The scientific method, controlled experiments, and empirical testing had yet to really catch on among the alchemists of Europe, who preferred more of a “fuck around and find out gold” approach; but Aziraphale and Crowley had gone through enough trial and error to find out that any time they were within a hundred miles of each other while both blessing and cursing respectively, it really didn’t do much either way.

“Hnyeah. One of us will have to leave,” Crowley agreed.

“One of us will have to, indeed.”

In the ensuing silence filled with looks so pointed that they would make a needle look positively dull, it became quite clear that when Crowley and Aziraphale said “one of us” they really meant “you”, and neither had any intent of leaving.

“So.” Said Aziraphale.

“So,” echoed Crowley.

“After you?” Aziraphale tried, dropping all pretence at subtlety; but they were not yet at that point in their relationship where a demon could be banished simply by strongly hinting, so Crowley stayed put.

“Age before wisdom,” Crowley shot back, which was perfectly ridiculous because he and Aziraphale were both Older Than Time Itself, and arguably both lacking in wisdom.

“Now really, dear fellow, you’re being quite childish.” Aziraphale huffed. “One would think you’d jump at the idea of leaving this one to me! I’d imagine the hallowed ground isn’t particularly easy on your feet… you must be in terrible burning holy agony.”

“Kind of you to worry, but it’s fine actually.” Crowley threw Aziraphale a curious look. “Don’t you know what sort of monastery this is, angel?”

“Er.” That gave Aziraphale pause. “The briefing from Above has admittedly been… minimalist.”

“But you said you lived here for years.”

“...there’s always work to do in the scriptorium. I kept busy, Crowley!”

“Right.” Crowley, who had actually been at the monastery for two weeks already, but spent most of it in the gardens hissing at bulbs (and therefore never crossing Aziraphale’s path from the library and scriptorium to dinner in the refectory and back again), struggled to argue against that. “Fair.”

“So, why aren’t you in terrible burning holy agony?” Aziraphale inquired politely. Not that he wanted Crowley to be in t.b.h.a or anything, perish the thought; but he was wondering.

“Well, the thing about this monastery is…” Crowley began; though since his explanation style occasionally leaned rather ramble-y, we will leave Aziraphale to sort through it on his own, and instead provide the Esteemed Reader with an omniscient cliffnotes summary.

This particular monastery, in which Aziraphale and Crowley both found themselves in, housed the Brotherhood of Blissful Ignorance, an order of monks worshipping Saint Casimir the Oblivious.

Saint Casimir had been a pagan prince living somewhen in the fifth century, and had been married to a Christian woman named Beryl Articulatus of Cracow - which the Esteemed Reader might recall as the patron saint of the Chattering Order of Satanist nuns. Some sources claimed that her God-given ability to incessantly chatter had eventually driven him to strangle his wife a few weeks into their still-unconsummated marriage, and thereby ensured her martyrdom; but the Brotherhood of Blissful Ignorance rather subscribed to the alternate legend, which revolved around the purchase of a set of earplugs and a surprisingly happy and loving marriage as a result of it.

Saint Casimir, they believed, had been blessed with God’s benevolence, and in His honour, they engaged frequently and enthusiastically in what the Brotherhood considered the holiest act of all and the root of all that is Good and Kind in the world: Minding Your Own Business.*

*This was, coincidentally, why Aziraphale and Crowley had been so readily accepted, and why nobody had commented on their rather odd angelic or demonic behaviours. To ignore strange happenings, and each other - the monks only acknowledged communication through written missives they passed to one another, and quite a few even wore blessed earplugs in honour of Saint Casimir - was akin to prayer and a core tenet of the particular way in which the occupants of this monastery served God; and they’d really been quite grateful to Brother Aziraphale for taking one for the team and acting so incredibly strangely that they had quite a lot to worshipfully turn a blind eye to.

Which was commendable, all in all, and honestly not a bad way to go about your worship, all things considered. What kept Crowley’s soles safe was the fact that the Brotherhood had Satanists-in-law in the Chattering Order… and also that Casimir’s conversion status was somewhat a matter of theological debate. While it was entirely possible, if not very likely, that Casimir had once vaguely nodded and smiled, or even distractedly murmured “yes, dear” while Beryl chattered on about Jesus Christ Our Lord and Saviour and how nice it would be if her husband converted to Christianity for her, his saintly qualifications remain somewhat disputed as scholars struggle to agree on whether or not that really counted.

So, between the adjacency to Satanism and Paganism, some blasphemous acts a former abbot had performed on monastery grounds so his brothers could piously ignore him doing them, a particularly morally-dubious batch of sandstone in the building’s foundation, and an investment in sturdy footwear, a demon could stroll all about the monastery and feel barely even a twinge of discomfort.

And frankly, it did the monastery garden no end of good - a number of root vegetables and almost every type of cucumber were categorically evil, and struggled to thrive in soil with too high pH (percentage of Holiness) values. A bit of theological ambiguity was just what they needed, and if Crowley spent a few more weeks hissing obscenities and threats at them, the Brotherhood was going to be blessed by the richest harvest in decades.

Returning to our narrative, Aziraphale kept saying “oh my” and “goodness” and “dear me” as the Brotherhood of Blissful Ignorance’s complicated history and clerical status was revealed to him in bits and pieces.

“Honestly,” he said, shaking his head, when Crowley had finished explaining. You really never could tell, could you. They’d seemed like a perfectly pious lot to him, albeit a bit reluctant to strike up casual chit-chat, but there was no sin in that either way.* “It’s a miracle that Heaven chose this monastery for…”

*Unless you made small talk about the weather, which had been strongly condemned by the Fourth Ecumenical Council of Constantinople.

“For?” Crowley stepped a little closer, leaned in a little further. Aziraphale briefly had the sort of thoughts he was henceforth going to blame on the mild undercurrent of unholiness running through the monastery.

“...for nothing specific at all, you inquisitive fiend!” Aziraphale evaded, both in word and deed, stepping back quickly. “Now begone, afore I feel compelled to smite you.”

“Right.” Crowley looked weirdly hurt. Strange. There had been no smiting yet, after all. “So, still not interested in throwing our lots in together, huh? Exchanging information? Coming to an arrangement?”

“No,” Aziraphale said, rather more sharply than he meant it. The hurt look on that devilishly handsome face intensified.

“Look. Crowley.” He tried, gently. “It’s been quite lovely to see you again, and on a purely personal level, I am… rather fond of you. Yes, fond. If you were interested in getting together over a tankard of something alcoholic and a good bit of stew sometime, I would be far from opposed. But, professionally… you are a demon, dear boy, and I an angel. Nothing good would come of it if I give Evil even an inch.* Do you understand?”

*If an Effort were Made, Aziraphale would be able to give Crowley rather more than just one inch… but that was neither here nor there, and this footnote should be really very ashamed of itself for even making this innuendo in polite company.

“You wouldn’t be giving an inch to Evil. You’d be giving it to me.” Perhaps it should have come out cutting, but somehow Crowley’s voice cracked in the middle of it, and it went all faintly plaintive instead. “...but I suppose the lack of distinction there is answer enough.”

“Oh Crowley, really-” Why was he taking it so personally!? Aziraphale had just made clear that it had nothing to do with Crowley himself! It really was dashed difficult to deal with that wicked adversary sometimes, it really was!

“Don’t bother. You’ve made your stance quite clear.” Crowley’s hands clenched into fists, even as a grin spread over his face. “Guess we’ll be at odds, then. Working firmly against each other. As what I’m doing here is so Evil, and you are so Good, and our intentions are thoroughly incompatible.”

He bared his teeth, sharp serpentine fangs flashing in the candlelight, and stuck out his hand.

“May the besssst man win, eh, Aziraphale?”

“May he, indeed.” Aziraphale grabbed the offered hand rather a bit too tightly, and they shook on it with mutual the-closest-the-two-of-them-could-get-to-contempt (which really just meant somewhat sharper glares in place of longing gazes, and for-once-not-ONLY-sexual tension you could cut with a knife).

If Crowley was so intent on making trouble for Aziraphale, instead of obligingly buggering off to do Evil elsewhere, then! Well! Aziraphale would just have to place his trust in the Lord, and thwart his demonic wiles at any opportunity.

And Good would prevail.

Obviously.

Chapter Text

To nobody’s surprise - but please look at least a bit shocked, Dear Readers, for Aziraphale’s sake - the scriptorium had instantly become his favourite part of the monastery.

The high-arched windows lit up the room during the day, carefully-placed lamps and candles replacing the glow of the sun in the evening hours; and a soft blanket of studious silence enveloped all who entered here. There was nothing but the whispers of quills on parchment, the steady breathing of the monks working on their respective projects, and the faint echo of the prayer chants drifting from the chapel throughout the monastery.

(And, well. Sometimes there was a quiet whisper of a very rude word, and the scraping of the correcting knife over the vellum to amend the mistake.

Think of the rudest, most outrageous swear word you can possibly imagine, and then add in a crude reference to an outrageous sex act and a random mention of bodily fluids - such was the sort of thing a monk uttered after having just realised he’d skipped a word aaaaall the way up the exquisitely-calligraphy-inscribed page.

Hell, it must be said, Hath No Fury Like A Monk Discovering A Spelling Mistake.)

Aziraphale felt quite at peace there. He supposed he should by all rights favour the chapel, but there was simply no serenity quite like the one he experienced when surrounded on all sides by literature. Perhaps he ought to set up a little library of his own, one day - though that would of course be punishingly expensive.

He rather hoped one of those clever little humans would come up with something to streamline the writing process a bit within the next few centuries; and firmly told himself that he wasn’t sending up regular prayers towards this end for selfish reasons. It was just a suggestion, to alleviate the stress the writing was putting on Brother Inscius’s wrist, and to lessen the workload on all those other poor souls forever copying and illuminating new manuscripts. Wouldn’t it be nice if there was some technology to make it easier on them?*

*And, failing that, could Aziraphale get a raise in his celestial wages please? He’d so like to be able to afford an illuminated copy of Floire et Blancheflor.

The point was, Aziraphale enjoyed spending time in the scriptorium - which was fortunate, because that was also where his assignment lay.

Among the many scriptural projects the Brotherhood had been working on since the monastery’s founding, one unquestionably stood out among the rest.

It had been started by Abbot Immemor, who had gasped awake one night, his mind flooded with divine inspiration, and immediately set to work on scratching out a rough outline, using any spare coin the monastery could possibly part with for the finest parchment, and the best leather, and the most precious colours and inks, to create the masterpiece that God was willing him to lay down in writing.

Whichsoever brother worked on this manuscript found that it was as if an Angel of the Lord was dictating each precise word to them, guiding their brushes over the page in intricate and detailed drawings, and approvingly saying “oh, jolly well done!” whenever a new paragraph was finished.

In this very monastery, tucked away among the closest thing England had to mountains - they were no Alps, but size wasn’t all that mattered! - and serving a saint whose elevation was rather a matter of dispute, the Brotherhood of Blissful Ignorance was hard at work compiling a complete and entirely factually correct list of all the angels in Heaven, their names and their deeds, as well as a full account of that great and terrible war that had sent Lucifer to the Pits of Hell - as well as solemn predictions of the War Yet To Come. It was Heaven's magnificent, and vastly superior, response to the Ars Goetia.

This was the Encyclopedia Angelorum, the title embossed in gorgeous gold lettering on its front; and it was to be the very first, and only one, of its kind.

Aziraphale’s task in the whole matter was to oversee the work at ground level, to make sure all that divine inspiration translated well onto the page - human minds were fragile, and too much celestial instruction could get them a bit scrambled* - check for spelling mistakes, and generally heap liberal blessings over the whole process.

*Honestly, it was comparatively rare for the whole thing to come across loud and clear. More often than not, Someone Up Above ended up muttering “oh, no, not- oh. Oh my Me. You got that all wrong, why would I ever- ohhh, this is going to be terrible PR for me, isn’t it” before hasty plans were made to blame the worst of the misunderstanding on Satan, who was always happy to take credit for some undue zealotry.

He’d been doing rather well with it, too. The Encyclopedia was, at long last, after decades of work, close to being finished, with not a single spelling mistake or wayward marginalia to sully its perfection. Aziraphale had been backreading and cross-checking every night, after the other monks had laid down their work for the day, and was extremely pleased with their progress. He had even managed to resist editing his own section, even though he’d been sorely tempted. That they just had to keep bringing up the lost sword business over and over again…

But, well. At least the illustration had gotten his good side.

This evening, Aziraphale had been planning to check if gold leaf had really been applied to all the initials - only to stop short when there was a figure already leaning over the manuscript.

There was no mistaking that serpentine-slender figure even under the modest vestments of the Brotherhood, or the russet curls gleaming in the candlelight like strings of garnet; or, of course, the very faint crackling of demonic aura sparking through the air.

“Crowley!?”

Crowley’s head shot up, the sort of pinched and vaguely guilty look on his face that made Aziraphale think of little cherubs with their hands in the star-biscuits jar.

“Heyyyy, Aziraphale!” Crowley grinned, leaning over the writing desk with a smile he probably thought was dashing. Unfortunately, he would be correct in that. “What’s an angel like you doing in a place like this?”

“Good. Obviously. We’ve established that.” Aziraphale stepped forward, Crowley quickly hid one hand behind his back. “Was that- are you holding a quill?”

“No,” lied Crowley. Badly.

“Were you writing in the-!”

“No! Noooo.” In a few steps, Crowley had moved to the table holding the monastery’s Chronicle, a rather more modestly decorated volume - though of similar size - that contained all the history the monks within these walls had ever witnessed, all their names and lives, and what they heard of the world outside the monastery. “Was going to… uh. Draw a lewd figure in the margins here. Demon stuff. Encourage fornication and lustful thoughts, maybe some wrath if they get tied up in trying to figure out which novice did it. You know.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale could not say he approved, but this was a very standard demonic wile, only to be expected - and, frankly, there were enough lewd doodles among the marginalia already, as generations upon generations of novices had found themselves tremendously bored and in the mood for something daring. “Fine, then. As long as you stay away from that manuscript. It’s-” Aziraphale hesitated. Narrowed his eyes at Crowley, recalling their earlier spat. Best not to reveal too much, perhaps. “-the monastery’s pride and joy. It’s off-limits. Understood?”

Crowley made a non-committal humming sound, and, poking his forked tongue between his lips, began to scratch something indecent* onto the open page of the Chronicle.

*A certain angel’s backside, as he was leaning over the scribe’s desk, was providing quite ample inspiration.

Aziraphale peered suspiciously over his shoulder at him, and then peered even suspicious-er at the Encyclopedia, trying to see if Crowley had done some dirty deed upon its pages… but no. It seemed like Aziraphale had arrived just in time.

He would have to be very careful, Aziraphale realised, running gentle fingers over one of the final blank pages still left to fill. He’d almost hoped Crowley would never even make his way into this scriptorium, he’d never really been one for books and the written word; but here he was now, and he’d seen the Encyclopedia, perhaps realised what it was, too. What it meant to Aziraphale to see it completed.

Even if Crowley hadn’t initially been sent here with the intent of somehow sabotaging this Holy Project - which did seem increasingly likely, actually - he was most definitely going to do it now.

Or, well.

He was going to try, Aziraphale thought with a smirk. Yes! Let him try! Aziraphale would prove himself worthy of having once been a Guardian of the Eastern Gate*, and not let the wicked serpent within two steps of the Encyclopedia.

*Aziraphale took a page out of the Brotherhood’s book, and blissfully ignored the fact that his guardianship had ended with him essentially shoving his charges to the other side of the Garden walls himself, rather letting down the side - East side, to be precise.

That really was entirely besides the point, and did not reflect on his guarding abilities at all.

If there was to be a little miniature war waged over this book, then, by God, Aziraphale was most definitely going to win it. Good triumphed over Evil, after all - and book lovers over filthy saboteurs.

He glanced over his shoulder at Crowley again.

There would be no mercy from his side, not one moment of inattentiveness. No getting distracted by Crowley’s… everything, either. He knew now that Crowley was after the Encyclopedia Angelorum, and from the guilty, evasive way Crowley’s eyes flickered towards him over the edges of his dark glasses, before flickering down again, Crowley knew that Aziraphale knew, too. Which Aziraphale knew. And-

Well.

They were both quite clear on the stakes and their respective awareness of them, was the point. And once more, it didn’t seem like Crowley had any intention of backing down.

Fine, then! Good! Neither had Aziraphale, who was so stubborn that he’d once convinced a boulder in his path to move first.

If spending his nights in the scriptorium, and his days shadowing Crowley, would be what it took to see this through…

Then Aziraphale was quite fortunate that he’d never developed a fondness for sleeping, wasn’t he.

“I don’t believe that’s a suitable substitute for ink, demon.”

“NGK!” Crowley made a sound as if he’d swallowed his tongue, which would be rather a shame. Aziraphale had heard he could do very interesting things with it. “Ngkz’phale!”

“Quite. I’ll be taking that, shall I?” Aziraphale reached over to pluck the jar of what appeared to be some sort of Hellish corrosive-sticky substance from Crowley’s limp fingers, and then disappeared it with a decisive miracle-snap. “Wouldn’t want this to end up on any of the good vellum, seems like it’d burn right through the pages.”

“‘Course not.” Crowley seemed to have recovered from his fright just enough to glare crossly at Aziraphale instead. “Perish the thought.”

Normally, this would be the point at which they’d laugh about it together, and went off to have something scrumptious for dinner.

But not this time. This time, they parted warily, Crowley probably already scheming, while Aziraphale drew up all his walls and protections around himself once more.

It was a dashed unpleasant feeling, if you asked him. Wretched business, this actually-working-against-each other. Aziraphale could not recommend it.

Aziraphale sighed, unhappily pushing his oatmeal around in his bowl, glumly peering up and down the long table in the refectory, and overall feeling like God must surely be testing him a little.

Brother Ignarus was by and large providing the monastery with meals of rather fine quality, having grown up in a family of cooks before joining the clergy - but there was only so much you could do to oatmeal to disguise that it was mostly oat and only very little meal. Aziraphale had tasted all the finest foods the world had to offer, and even nibbled once at a speck of heavenly manna when nobody had been looking; so, suffice to say, the oatmeal was rather underwhelming.

And then… then there was the issue of Crowley, of course.

Crowley had been relentless in his wicked machinations. After the corrosive ink, there had been the quill sabotage, the indoor rainstorm, and the attempt to disguise himself as Brother Leviculus with a false beard.*

*He’d clearly started grasping at straws with that one. Brother Leviculus was two heads shorter and thrice as wide. And was usually clean-shaven.

So far, not one scheme had succeeded, which Aziraphale rather prided himself in - but that hardly changed the fact that he was starting to feel somewhat drained. Being constantly on guard took a lot out of you, and Aziraphale was going to start jumping at his own shadow soon enough.*

*Or, worse, he’d forget to have one, which tended to give humans terrible frights if they noticed.

Aziraphale sighed, and spooned another unsatisfying glob of oatmeal into his mouth. He rather missed the nearby court he’d frequented before all this, particularly their marvellous roasts and cakes. He’d occasionally popped over there for a meal or two when the mood struck him, or miracled himself something from more distant tables, but obviously that was no longer an option. He had no miracle energy (miraclenergy) to spare, and couldn’t possibly leave Crowley and the Encyclopedia alone together for that long. That seemed about as unwise as putting a young unmarried maid and a winsome knight into a secluded bedchamber during the lustiest days of May, and telling them to have fun. Aziraphale had made that mistake once, and was quite committed to never repeating it.*

*Suffice to say that there was a certain royal house on the Continent that would never ask Aziraphale to act as chaperone again.

Aziraphale sighed again. More pointedly.

“Oh, shut it.” Crowley, sitting opposite him and distractedly scratching at the table’s wood grain with one sharp nail, glared over at him. “You don’t get to act the martyr over this, angel. You are free to leave at absolutely any time and enjoy whatever luxuries these humble pious folk choose to go without. Clothes that don’t scratch your corporation’s skin off. Beds so soft you’d think you’re sleeping on a cloud. Bacchanalian indulgences, plates piled high with-”

“Oh, lead me not unto temptation!” Aziraphale muttered wretchedly. “I can’t leave, Crowley! I’m the angel here, I’m supposed to… endure in the face of adversity, all that rot. Unaffected by mortal vices or desires.” He rubbed a hand over his face, somewhat despairingly. He was not unaffected. Not at all. “You ought to leave. Demons are fickle and changeable enough, you could justify it. Leave, and we can put all this sorry business behind us.”

“Nope.” At least Crowley looked as miserable about it as Aziraphale felt. “No can do.”

“Then it appears we continue to be at an impasse.”

“Nnyeah.”

They sat in unhappy silence together, cheerfully ignored by the other monks around them. If there was one silver lining to the whole bloody mess, it was the fact that there was absolutely no need to hide any of what they were doing from the humans around them, nor to keep their voices down. The abbot had even recently taken Aziraphale aside to thank him personally for offering so many opportunities for the rest of the Brotherhood to emulate Saint Casimir, and then serenely smiled while ignoring Aziraphale’s bumbling attempts to explain to him that there was a demonic agent among the monastery’s denizens.

All in all, what had seemed like a noble mission and exciting challenge a few weeks ago had rather lost its lustre, and Aziraphale was starting to hope that the monks would hurry up with the Encyclopedia a bit. Those last few blank pages now stretched for miles between himself and freedom from this increasingly bothersome task, and the sooner it was over and done with, the better. He was already considering a discreet miracle or two to somewhat imitate the effect of that dark brown drink made from the beans they had in Africa,* in the hope it would accelerate the timeline somewhat.

*Aziraphale had tried it exactly once, and subsequently bounced about his lodgings for about three days. Clearly, the stuff didn’t quite become a celestial constitution, and he had vowed to abstain until further notice.

“This is all your fault, you know.” Aziraphale accused unhappily, eyes on his oatmeal.

“Rude. If neither of us backs down, that means equal shares of the blame, at least.”

“Oh, not that. This.” He lifted the spoon, a blob of -meal splooping oatily back down into the bowl. “You’re always late for every meal, so now I’m late for every meal, when all the tastiest morsels are already gone!”

“Oh. Sorry.” And, to Crowley’s credit, he actually looked like it.

“If you arrive early, there are fruits. Berries.” Aziraphale sighed, wistfully. “So sweet and ripe they burst in your mouth, juice melting over your tongue.”

He licked his lips. Under the smoked glasses, Crowley’s eyes followed the movement.

“And I’m missing out on it. Thanks to you.”

“Um. Right.” Crowley blinked, very slowly. His line of sight was still angled just a hint too low. 

And then, he stood up, very suddenly, almost tripping over the bench in his haste to clamber out of his seat. “Come on then.”

“Excuse you!” Aziraphale huffed, gesticulating at his oatmeal. “I was in the middle of ingesting this extremely sad excuse for a breakfast, what are you- Crowley!”

Crowley was already stalking off to who knew where, with his silly long legs that went on for miles and miles without stopping. Tempted to curse under his breath, but bravely resisting the urge, Aziraphale abandoned his oatmeal and hurried after him. This constant shadowing business really was terribly inconvenient.

Crowley did not, for once, return to the scriptorium that was their battleground, but instead made for the cloisters, and the garden enclosed within it.

It was rather magical, stepping out of the shadowed walkways and into the sunlit gardens, teeming with life and colours, positively flourishing through a combination of the monks’ hard work, Crowley’s green thumb (and forked tongue), and that little bit of evil in the soil. 

Aziraphale found himself reminded of Eden - only moreso when he saw Crowley run his hands over leaves and vines, greeting the plants like old friends. He’d seen him, sometimes, the Serpent, slithering or wandering around the Garden, elegant and beautiful and no longer the angel Aziraphale had once known. It had stung a little to look at him then, and it still stung a little now; but differently. Like a jolt of heat through Aziraphale’s sternum, spreading through his lungs. An almost pleasantly sweet pain.

“Come on.” Crowley beckoned him forwards, almost making as if to take Aziraphale’s hand - only to hesitate and abort the movement. “Careful, stay on the stone path here. Do NOT touch the hellebores, or Mord will throw a fit.”

“Mord?” Aziraphale asked nervously, making as wide a berth around the growths Crowley had indicated as he could without stepping on anything else. He liked gardens, he did, but he’d grown rather fond of being at a polite distance from nature in the past few centuries.

“The Gardener.” Crowley pointed towards a dark hooded figure hovering ominously by the well, looking like the thing you see waiting on the very edge of your vision, like the bastard child of a shadow and a bad omen, like the sort of creature that might haunt your darkest nightmares forever. He was currently in the process of filling a watering can that had little flowers carved onto the side, and appeared to be wearing a straw sunhat on top of the hood and cowl that concealed his face entirely. “I think he might just be a swarm of sentient beetles piloting someone’s skeleton under there, but it’s hard to tell. Something or other must be blessing him with life, possibly a soul - your lot?”

“Not that I know of.” Aziraphale squinted. “Is he a, a danger, do you think?”

(That really was the very last thing they needed, a third supernatural party interfering! What was it about this monastery, really!? There were standing stone circles around these parts that saw fewer magical visitations than this!)

“Nah.” Crowley grinned. “As long as you don’t step on his hellebores, that is.”

He slipped further into the garden, towards the bushes at its centre, where he knelt down and fussed about, hissing pointed remarks under his breath that sounded, from where Aziraphale was awkwardly fidgeting, like “and make them extra ssssweet, or it’s the sickle for you” and “ripe. I said ripe, what is that!? Half-done!”

Finally, Crowley straightened up…

And held out a handful of select berries, looking perfectly ripe, sweet, and frankly utterly terrified.*

*Berry expressions were notoriously difficult to read, but there was just something in the stem angles and the skin texture that spoke of naked terror.

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasped in delight, reaching out…

And hesitated.

Squinted at Crowley suspiciously.

“Is this your new angle then? Bribery? Temptation?” He stepped back - though not too far. He could feel Mord’s possibly-eyes-if-he-even-had-those drilling into his back, daring him to step onto a tender growth. “You’ll not get me that easily! You might’ve tricked Eve with the apple, but not me, Crowley! Not me! I wasn’t born last century, you know!”

“Angel, it’s not-” Crowley groaned. “No temptations. Just trying to be nicehrrrghh… not-mean. You know. Come on, eat. You said you wanted some.”

“That’s exactly what a conniving tempter would say! I’m onto you, don’t think I was fooled for even a second!” Aziraphale crossed his arms. “No, thank you. A Principality cannot be bought with even the greatest riches the good earth can bring forth!”

“Oh you stupid, sssatanblessed-” Crowley looked like he was terribly tempted to smash the berries into someone’s face, preferably Aziraphale’s. The berries were generally resigned to their fate, and just wished it would be over already, except for one brave blueberry who was gearing up to make a run for it. “Was just trying to make it up to you! No ulterior motives, you absolutely featherbrained-”

“Insidious fiend! Vile opportunist! You-”

“-did they screw your halo on a size too tight, or is your brain always-”

“-might have known! There’s just no trusting a demon!”

“Oh yeah?” snarled Crowley.

“Yes!” snapped Aziraphale.

(And FREEDOM! squealed the blueberry, rolling right off Crowley’s palm and into the grass.

Good for it.)

With everything said that had been left to say, Aziraphale whirled around on the spot, and stomped off - though they were careful stomps, confined exclusively to the stone path, at least until he had left the garden well behind himself.

Crowley did not call after him. And Aziraphale did not look back.

Only once the angel was a fair distance away, having been successfully ignored by two monks and a novice, none of whom had wondered for even a moment what had him so upset, did Crowley deflate, all the anger leaving him, his straight-backed snake attack stance collapsing into itself until he rather resembled a question mark that had just gone through a messy divorce and received some worrying medical examination results.*

*Though of course, in those days, most things that could not be cured by either leech and/or prayer had the doctors in a complete tizzy, anyway.

“Berry?” He muttered weakly, holding his cupped palm out to Mord, who had materialised behind him to sprinkle water over the carrot patch.

Whether there were eyes somewhere in there or not, Crowley briefly had the distinct feeling that something was being rolled at him.

It occurred to Aziraphale that he might, perhaps, have overreacted in his paranoia just a bit. It was possible. He was coming to strongly suspect it.

That might have been… ill-done of him. Crowley was generally decent, even if the recent forth-and-back of trickery and scheming had made Aziraphale forget it somewhat, and could even be quite startlingly kind - and anyway, it had just been a handful of berries. There wasn’t much evil you could do with a handful of berries, they simply didn’t have the volume to contain much villainy. Apples, peaches, or - God Forbid! - melons, that was a different sort of risk category; but no real harm would’ve come to Aziraphale if he’d just accepted the damn things.

It was silly of him. Crowley was capable of making him feel so much, all at once, and sometimes it frightened him - enough to lash out and run away.

…he ought to apologise, oughtn’t he.

Oh dear.

(Aziraphale was generally quite bad at admitting he’d been wrong. It might have something to do with how his angel brain always assumed, at least a little bit, that he’d Done The Right Thing, after all.

Even - or especially - if he hadn’t.)

Aziraphale, in the sort of cowardly move that brought shame upon his name, finally opted to write the apology up and slip it under the door of Crowley’s cell while on the way towards his nightly vigil in the scriptorium, fretting over whether or not it had been the right thing to do, and if Crowley would forgive him, the entire way.

When he arrived, he found a small bowl of assorted berries sitting by the inkpots of the Chronicle - the Encyclopedia was far too well-warded by Aziraphale to approach without him noticing - with a scrap of paper tucked into it that said “Sorry” with a slightly rude drawing of a weird sort of marginalia snake-man under it.

Aziraphale stood there in the empty scriptorium for a long time, bathed in the warm flickers of candlelight, and pressing the scrap of paper to his heart, aching oh so sweetly from relief and unbearable fondness.

He ate the whole bowl of berries, during the night, and found them honey-sweet and perfectly plump, the sort of berries you could only eat as a child in your grandmother’s garden, and would be comparing every other berry in your life to, finding them all sorely lacking. They were perfect - and well worth any trouble they might get him into, though not even a shred of ulterior motive or wicked scheme was currently forthcoming. And Aziraphale wasn’t exactly holding his breath for one.

Really, if it had been a temptation, then Crowley had succeeded in it centuries ago, anyway…

But still, Crowley kept at it.

Regardless of Aziraphale’s increasingly desperate hinting that he rather felt like they could turn a new leaf now and just let the Encyclopedia Angelorum be completed, the way it had most certainly all been meant to be from the start, Ineffable Plan and God’s Will and all, and afterwards they could maybe go have brunch - regardless of all that, Crowley didn’t stop his sabotage attempts.

If anything, he seemed to take them ever more seriously. Like he was actually trying in earnest now, not just playing a silly game of wile-and-thwart* with his divine nemesis.

*Heaven and Hell both disapproved of understanding wile-and-thwart as a game. For entertainment, Heaven preferred to play Seraphims and Ladders, while Hell was rather partial to pin-the-tail-on-the-squealing-tortured-human-soul.

And, of course, both sides just loved Twister.

Aziraphale had taken to working on the Chronicle more often than not, always two steps away from the Encyclopedia trudging towards completion letter by intricately-drawn letter, watching anxiously as a steady rotation of brothers poured a steady stream of words onto those beautiful pages. His own work on the Chronicle was simpler, absentmindedly noting down the events in the far reaches of the realm reported to the monastery by letter, the ascension of a novice to full monk, the passing of an elderly brother who had gone peacefully unto his reward. All these little, inconsequential details. On a scribe’s desk just two paces from him, a text was being written that would change humanity’s understanding of Heaven forever. In a hundred years, nobody would remember the name and death of Brother Remissus, God Rest Him, except perhaps these pages - but until the world would end in fire and death in just a few handfuls of centuries, the whole world would whisper of the Encyclopedia Angelorum.

How inconsequential was the Chronicle of a small monastery against that. Aziraphale had only volunteered for it to have something to do with his hands.

(Once, he’d been so distracted that he’d doodled a snake into the margins, a splendid red-black thing curling around a line of text, an apple held in its tail. He’d very nearly been tempted to miracle away the entire page when he’d realised.)

Crowley had still tried his tricks, of course. Set loose a small… herd? Pack?* of mice in the scriptorium, hid the inkpots, even tried to trip Brother Indifferens so he might fall unfortunately on his right hand and be unable to write with it.

*One of the accepted collective nouns happens to be “a mischief of mice”, and that certainly seemed to apply to the ones under the demon’s command.

That last plan even succeeded; but unfortunately for Crowley, Indifferens was left-handed, and happily wrote on, entirely unperturbed; though he might have been ignoring Brother Crowley a bit more pointedly at Vespers that evening, in a way meant to sting rather than bless.

In truth, Aziraphale had been a bit… worried about him.

There was something frantic and anxious about Crowley as of late, only interspersed with long periods of sitting very still at his own scribe’s table, not writing anything crude and obscene in among the psalms, not drawing something even cruder and infinitely more obscene onto manuscripts - just staring at the Encyclopedia being written on, with disdain and hatred burning so sharply in his hidden gold eyes, that Aziraphale would not have been surprised if the damn thing just caught fire one day.

(He might almost be glad for it. As valuable as this manuscript would one day be, and despite its immense significance, Aziraphale rather wished he’d never see the accursed thing again until it burned in the flames of Apocalypse with all the rest.)

And Crowley wouldn’t really talk to him about it, either. Or at least Aziraphale assumed he wouldn’t. They’d taken their meals together, walked the cloisters together, prayed side by side - though Crowley never folded his hands properly, and cited Satanic verses instead - and even gone to the monastery gardens again, Aziraphale sitting in the shade while Crowley worked, looking almost human with dirt on his hands and the sun in his hair… but despite all that, they hadn’t talked. Not really talked. Not about the Encyclopedia, the way they still fought over it more and more bitterly, not about Aziraphale’s desperate wish to just drop this attempt at being proper nemeses and be somewhat-friends again, and not about whatever had Crowley strung higher than a fiddle on Ben Nevis.

They were still at that damn impasse. Stuck. Neither of them really making a difference, while the humans went on their merry way, perfectly ignorant of them.

There might be a lesson there, the longer Aziraphale thought about it. Some greater symbolism. Something he should be understanding.

But before Aziraphale could get even close to unravelling that particular mystery, the Brotherhood of Blissful Ignorance finished the book.

Chapter Text

It was all rather anticlimactic, in the end. These things often were.

The final period, a last t crossed, just one more i dotted, and then it was done. One would think it would feel more significant, more monumental, a moment as grand and fantastic as running over the finish line to the frantic cheers of an ecstatic crowd. But no. It was just… over.

It was done.

The Encyclopedia Angelorum, the most remarkable text to ever come out of this modest little scriptorium, lay finished on its table, the last of the ink lazily drying, as if it had all the time in the world.

Aziraphale stared at it, staying behind while the other monks headed over to the chapel for Vespers prayer, as always true to form and ignoring him.

He, too, had expected… more. An angelic choir or two, maybe. Certainly some mad last-ditch effort of Crowley’s to destroy the book just in time - but then again, Aziraphale had estimated that they’d have at least another day, maybe two. Perhaps Crowley had miscalculated, as well. Humans - always managed to catch them off-guard, in the end.

But now, it was done.

A smile tugged at Aziraphale’s lips.

It was really finally done. Oh, sure, he was still tasked with seeing to the thing’s safe delivery to court, to the Pope in Rome, but the first hurdle, the writing of it, was done. They were free of it, him and Crowley. Good had - predictably - come out the victor, despite all of Evil’s best efforts, but in the end it hardly mattered who had won this bout. As long as it was over, and Aziraphale could finally stop being so damn suspicious of Crowley all the time.

Aziraphale gave the Encyclopedia’s heavy pages a sort of comradely pat, and then hurried towards the chapel.

He could hardly wait to tell Crowley.

Aziraphale arrived in the middle of prayer, sliding quickly into the first empty seat he could find, folding his hands together and following the chants by pure grace-memory (which was sort of like muscle memory, just more holy.)*

*The only memories Aziraphale’s muscles had ever acquired was A) swinging a sword, and B) moving something edible mouth-wards - and, thanks to a year spent accidentally travelling with a group of acrobat nuns, C), the upside-down flesh-eating venus flytrap.

He cast his eyes about the modest chapel frantically, passing uncaringly over the admittedly quite lovely architecture, growing increasingly irritated with the light of the setting sun filtering in through the stained-glass windows. It was throwing splashes of radiant-glittering gemstone colours all over the chapel, which was perfectly lovely, but also terribly inconvenient. At least there were clouds drawing rapidly up along the horizon, soon to eliminate the problem, Aziraphale thought peevishly-

And suddenly, there Crowley was.

He was sitting close to the middle aisle, just a little diagonally ahead, and the last rainbow-fractured* beam of evening light spilled through the stained-glass gown of Saint Beryl (opposite her husband in the East-facing window), over the side of Crowley’s sharp-cut face, down the length of his neck, bleeding out over the roughspun cloth of his monk’s garb.

*Aziraphale had not cared for rainbows much, in the past. Seeing the very first one arc its way over the watery grave of most of the human and animal kingdom from the roof of Noah’s ark had rather put him off the damned things…

But he thought, looking at the prism-colours shifting over Crowley’s cheekbone, that he might be growing to find new appreciation in them.

He’s very beautiful, thought Aziraphale; and, well, of course he was. A demon like Crowley had to be beautiful, tempt and seduce at every corner, with lips like a red, red apple you couldn’t un-bite, could never un-know, and golden eyes that reflected the world and all the stars in the night sky in them.

But it wasn’t the general beauty that made Aziraphale catch his breath.

It was the way Crowley’s face was turned upwards, hands not folded but fingers twitching towards each other, muttering a private prayer of his own for Someone neither demons nor angels really believed was listening anymore, at this point.

He was asking Questions, Aziraphale knew it in his heart. Playing at piousness, standing at God’s altar among a Saint’s servants, and still, Crowley Asked, because he didn’t know, had never known, how not to.

Aziraphale could never. The mere thought frightened him.

But, oh, to witness such bravery. Such defiance.

He liked this about Crowley, if he was entirely honest with himself - which was rare enough. The sharp edges. The restlessness. How he always kept Aziraphale on his toes, that wily old adversary, and asked all the Questions Aziraphale will never dare to.

Perhaps, one day, they’ll receive an Answer to share between them. Who knows. An angel could dream.*

*That “the average angel has at least one dream per year” factoid was actually just a statistical error. Most angels could not, in fact, dream at all. Aziraphale was, in this as in so many other ways, the exception, meaning his countless and varied daydreams were outliers adn should not have been counted.

Aziraphale had been foolish, mistrusting Crowley. Too afraid that Crowley would use Aziraphale’s own fondness, his rather compromised state, against him. That he would take a mile if Aziraphale gave an inch, seduce him with a handful of berries, and then do… wicked, demonly things. And not the sort that Aziraphale privately thought sounded rather spiffy to engage in between two consenting celestials.

He should have known better.

Crowley was too honest for a demon. Couldn’t keep his Questions to himself, his strange prayers fitting in so well in this part-Christian-part-Pagan-part-Satanist monastery - and in that moment, Aziraphale really felt like he could, perhaps, trust Crowley.

(At the very least now, with the book finished and his task done. Let Crowley ensorcell and betray him if he wanted; if it was only Aziraphale’s heart he was staking on a game of possibly-loaded dice, and not a holy artefact of Great Significance, then a loss would sting… less. At least.)

Aziraphale would never be brave enough for Questions, he knew that full well. But watching Crowley bow his head under the weight of no Answers, this demon with more faith than most angels, he thought he might just manage to be brave enough for him.

The clouds drew together in front of the setting sun, heavy with an oncoming storm; Vespers prayers ended; and the chapel slowly emptied as the monks all drifted along the cloisters towards the refectory for evening meal, few of them brave or foolish enough to cross straight through the courtyard, and risk the Gardener’s wrath.

And “Crowley!” Aziraphale called out, with all the bravery he had to spare. “Crowley, wait!”

For a moment, it seemed like Saint Casimir had finally blessed Crowley with the miraculous ability to ignore Aziraphale’s more pleading tones of voice.

No such luck.

“Yeah?” Crowley turned, and let Aziraphale catch up to him, leaning against the cloister wall. “What is it, Aziraphale.”

Outside, the first fat droplets of rain splashed apart on the stone paths and soaked into the earth. Would be good for the plants, Crowley thought absently - not, mind, that most of them had earned the right to a good rain, but what could you do against God’s wet providence.

“You tempt me,” said Aziraphale, voice trembling. Crowley’s thoughts snapped back to the angel before him almost immediately.

“For the ten-thousandth time, Aziraphale!” he hissed, exasperated. “No! No, I don’t tempt you, I don’t seduce you, Hell, I’m not even any sort of incubus, you know! I just offer a bit of food here and there! S’not a sin, is it!? Keeps the plague doctor away,* I hear.”

*An apple a day did indeed keep the plague doctor away, but you needed a very strong throwing arm to go with it, and passably good aim.

“No. Crowley. Listen to me, please listen.”

The wind was whistling through the cloister, through all the little corridors of the monastery, picking up fallen leaves and old bits of feathers and parchment, tugging at the hem of their habits.

“You tempt me most awfully,” said Aziraphale, softly. “But that has less to do with you, and everything with me. Do you understand?”

Crowley frowned. “...I really don’t mean to. Not seriously. Not for anything like-”

“I do know that, dear fellow. I only… forget. At times.” Aziraphale glanced down at the old stone, tread smooth by centuries of human feet. “The truth is, Crowley, I am afraid. Very afraid.”

He looked up, and despite what he’d said, there was little fear in his gaze. Only a strange, wild determination.

Crowley didn’t dare hope.

“Of what?” he asked, voice half-breaking over the words.

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s hands reached out to touch the edges of Crowley’s glasses, his cheeks, trailing down to rest on his shoulders. Behind the halo of Aziraphale’s pale-gold hair, lightning flashed across the courtyard, and raindrops danced a wild maydance on the roof above their heads. “This.”

A clap of thunder shook the very air; and as it rolled over St Casimir’s monastery, Aziraphale fisted his hands into Crowley’s collar, pushed him flat against the wall, and pressed their lips together.

It was the very first kiss an angel and a demon had ever shared; and the world trembled with the magnitude of it.

“Oh!” Crowley choked.

And then, because Crowley was no fool and knew to grab at a good thing with both hands and never, never let go, lest it think better of it, he threw his arms around Aziraphale and clutched at him like a python entwining itself around its prey.

He kissed back.

It was not heavenly.

It was not hellish.

But it was positively earth-shattering.

(And as the wind, cold and heavy with rain, once more whipped their habits and Crowley’s hair about them, he pressed against Aziraphale’s soft, warm shape even more closely, and took care to employ every single weird thing he could do with his tongue.

When, if not now, after all.)

At that very moment, Brother Marius Silentium, who had stayed behind to quickly sweep the chapel, turned around the corner, and saw Brother Aziraphale and Brother Crowley locked in the sort of embrace he only knew from the lewdest and most blasphemous of marginalia doodled into the Chronicle by generations of brothers who had come before him and had clearly been blessed by the Lord with a much dirtier imagination.*

*Just like the chapel after sweeping it, Brother Marius Silentium’s imagination was positively spotless, unless you really looked all the way in the corners.

There were hands in places hands should not be. There was clothing being tugged and rucked up. There was, if Brother Marius squinted, at least one pair of wings, if not two, and the very faint glow of a halo reflecting in Brother Crowley’s strangely serpentine eyes - his glasses were currently rather higher up his forehead than normally - which made the whole thing even worse, and infinitely more complicated.

This, Brother Marius could tell at a glance, was the sort of matter the Pope called in an Ecumenical Council for. Something remarkable, which would shake anyone who even heard a whisper of it to their core. An angel and a demon, engaging in… fornication? The prelude to fornication? He really hadn’t fornicated enough to know.

Well! The were engaging in something in the middle of a monastery! Anyone with half a brain would break up this sort of intimate moment between two natural arch-enemies posing as men of the cloth!!!

Brother Marius took a deep breath…

And then he folded his hands into prayer, smiled serenely up at the cloister roof, and simply walked straight past the indecent display; minding only that business which was exclusively his own and ignoring all the rest so faithfully that, for the rest of his natural life, a distinct aura of benevolent ignorance would follow him, marking him as chosen by God to become the Brotherhood’s next abbot, until he would eventually be elevated to sainthood as Saint Casimir reborn.

After all, when it had really, truly counted, he had successfully Ignored, Denied, and Pushed Aside harder than any mortal being on this earth ever had or would again; and if that was not worth a sainthood, we really don’t know what would be.

Aziraphale and Crowley, meanwhile, had not even noticed that they’d briefly had company, far too wrapped up in each other - and, it had to be said, far too accustomed to the monks ignoring everything strange they did, anyway.

“Wait!” Crowley gasped, tearing their lips away from each other. “Wait, I- Aziraphale, I should-”

Aziraphale, who had waited and denied himself long enough, and had the sort of hedonistic temperament that immediately wanted to gorge itself after the first delicious bite, glanced up from where he had clearly been planning to gnaw at the exposed edge of Crowley’s collarbone, looking mildly disgruntled.

“Yes, dear?” he asked, remarkably coherent for a man who had just experienced most of what Crowley’s tongue could offer. (And there was a lot of it to enjoy.)

“Need to tell you- haaaa, ngghhh- something.” Crowley took a deep breath. Another flash of lightning lit up his golden eyes, and the wetness around his mouth (as well as, though Crowley would not like us to admit that, under his eyes.) “The… look, the… the blasted angel directory.”

“The Encyclopedia.”

“That.” Crowley shrugged weakly. He did not look entirely steady on his legs, but then again, neither was Aziraphale. The wall at Crowley’s back was doing all the heavy lifting, really, and reaped none of the benefits.*

*We would, at this point, like to invite any volunteers among the Esteemed Readers to give the poor neglected wall a little smooch. Just one. Tongue entirely optional.

“What about it?”

“Er. Well. I’m honestly not sure- you might already know.” Crowley squirmed under Aziraphale’s weight as if he would have very much liked to fidget or pace. “Was going to talk to you about it at the start, but… you were being a bit of an arse about things, you know.”

“I know.” Aziraphale sighed, unable to dispute that.

“At first I thought I could just take care of it on my own. And then I didn’t know whether I should tell you, or if you perhaps already knew, and just thought it was a Good thing. You might. Your logic is absolutely ridiculous at times, angel, and-”

“Hush, you.” Aziraphale interrupted tartly, rather more eager to get back to the kissing than hear more criticism of his person. “What, in God’s name, are you talking about!?”

“What happens to the monks. After the angel book is finished.” Crowley grimaced. “I mean, I do have a pretty good reason to want it destroyed. Figured it was the preferable alternative… though I didn’t much factor in the whatsitcalled- Greater Good. That one your lot like to go on about.”

A pause.

“Did you… not know?” Crowley said, hesitantly.

“I told you, my briefing was minimalist!” Aziraphale snapped. “You will tell me, right this instance, what happens to the monks!”

“They die,” said Crowley, bluntly.

Aziraphale blinked.

“...I beg your pardon.”

“They die! They’ll be dead as a dodo bird!” Crowley paused. “...that’s just been killed,” he tacked on, because of course at that time dodos were still very much un-extinct.

“Oh.” Aziraphale frowned, stepping back. The wind was rather more cold if you weren’t sharing body heat. “Is that… is Hell planning to take revenge, or…?”

“Hell!? What’s Hell got to do with it?” Crowley shivered. “No, that’ll be all Heaven. Probably some martyr… stuffs. Or just trying to clean up after the work’s done.* Point is, we’ll have to get rid of that book before it’s finished, or-”

*This was somewhat standard practice among Heaven and Hell both - one day, centuries later, Hastur would deal with the convent of Saint Beryl the same way.

“Heaven would never.” Aziraphale felt something in his chest crack. “They would never! T-this is another transparent plot to destroy the Encyclopedia, this most holy relic! Isn’t it, Crowley? The moment you had me soft and vulnerable for you, you come in with this, this drivel-”

“ASK THEM!” Crowley snapped over the howling of the wind, and the sheets of rain pouring down into the courtyard. “Ask your superiors if you d-don’t believe me, not even after I- after we-” Crowley groaned, scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m not here in Hell’s name, Aziraphale, for Satan’s Sake! They think I’m writing a blasphemous verse into a random bible or two, maybe driving a monk to sin - all I did, and am doing, is for THEM, angel! Those stupid little humans I don’t want to see killed just for one of Heaven’s idiotic little Revelations-flavoured ideas that you probably find just smashing, as such a good little angel - so ask them! Ask a question, if not a Question! But do be quick about it, before they finish the bloody book and sign their own death warrants on it!”

“You know what? I WILL! I will ask, if just to disprove your fool scheme once and for all!” Aziraphale snarled, well and truly incensed now. “Twice over, even! Because the book is finished, demon! Since before Vespers! So there!”

“...whot.” Crowley’s face fell. If nothing else, the vile serpent was certainly an excellent actor. “You mean it’s-”

He threw a fearful glance at the sky, the churning clouds sparkling deep inside with lightning.

And then, without another word, he shoved Aziraphale aside, and ran. Not towards the scriptorium, but in the direction of the refectory - which, well. Whatever suited him. Aziraphale hardly cared about the conniving little devil, indeed not! Kissing him back so passionately and then, then, coming up with this ridiculous lie…

Best not to think about it any further, really. He had superiors to contact and detailed instructions to request, after all.

Aziraphale slid into his own small cell, pushing the door closed behind him. He’d spent less and less time here, over the weeks of guarding the Encyclopedia, but some things were better done in privacy, and he really wasn’t sure how much more unusualness the Brotherhood could ignore before a certain limit was reached.*

*They had about two more mild scandals and one eccentricity in them, but a single outrageousness and they were done for.

“...er. Hello? Principality Aziraphale calling.” With his hands primly folded, Aziraphale glanced warily up at the ceiling. “I don’t suppose you could connect me with- oh! Hello!”

“Yes, yes. Hello.” Michael’s vaguely floating ethereal shape waved him back into silence, and he complied, if just because the wobbly look of the waving made him faintly dizzy. “What is it, Aziraphale?”

“Oh. Well, the book, the Encyclopedia Angelorum - it’s finished!” Aziraphale beamed, and to his relief, Michael did look vaguely pleased at that. “So I was, ah, wondering… I’m supposed to collect the book and carry it to the royal court, yes?”

“Yes.” A curt nod

“The thing is, only… the people here, these monks… they’ve been putting an awful lot of time and money into creating it, and what a splendid job they’ve done! So I was. Er. Wondering…” Aziraphale took a deep breath. “They do get rewarded for it. Don’t they?”

“Of course!” Michael smiled at Aziraphale as if he was slightly insane - and he supposed he must have been, to consider believing Crowley’s tall tales for even a moment. “Eternal paradise in the Kingdom of Heaven awaits them.”

“Oh! How lovely.” Aziraphale beamed. “They’ll like that, I’m sure.”

Faltered.

Paused.

“Er, just. Just to clarify.” He began hesitantly. “Awaits them after their… their death…?”

“Naturally.”

“Of old ageeeee…..?” Aziraphale’s voice was getting a bit high-pitched and desperate at the end there.

“No. Of fire.” Michael’s pitying smile hadn’t changed. “We thought we’d get it over with right away - not like their inconsequential human lifespans matter much, in the grand scheme of things. One good lightning strike to the refectory should do it - not a single human will survive.”

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale, faintly.

“So really, you needn’t worry yourself about the humans, they’ll be taken care of.” Michael perhaps aimed for soothing, and landed straight in ominous. “Your task is to safely retrieve the book before the flames consume the scriptorium. You will be up to it?”

“Yes! Yes. Uh. Jolly good. Yes.” Aziraphale felt like he might need to hold on to something. Preferably Crowley. “I’ll go… do that, then. Good talk. Thanksbye!”

With a pointed eye-roll and a cloud of smoke smelling faintly of vanilla milk and spun sugar, Michael vanished.

Aziraphale was already out the door again before the celestial smoke had even had a chance to fully dissipate.

Crowley.

He had to find Crowley.

For the first - though most certainly not the last - time in his existence, Aziraphale felt, very strongly, that everything would be alright, if only Crowley was there. Aziraphale would hastily apologise, and then they could save the monks, and this whole ghastly business would resolve itself spit-spot and tickety-boo!*

*Perhaps they might even kiss at the end. Or the middle. Anytime really. Aziraphale would rather like more kissing.

Panting, Aziraphale shot out from the cloister into the courtyard, pulling his hood up against the torrential downpour, squinting with all his dozens of immaterial eyes. The refectory, he just had to-

Aziraphale slipped and slid, the beautiful monastery gardens turning to a sea of mud and loose soil around his ankles, a few miserable radishes floating past. To his left, he could faintly see the outline of Mord, trying valiantly, but evidently futilely, to somehow secure his hellebores - Aziraphale sent a helpless little blessing his way, hoping that it would at least not do anything worse. God knows he’d been ruining a great number of things today already.

But not this one.

Not this one!

He would burst into the refectory and call for Crowley, and they’d herd the Brotherhood to safety together, and-

And like the avenging hand of God, lightning cleaved the sky, and struck the refectory’s steeple.

And all the world was awash in flame.

Chapter Text

“-up! Wake UP!”

Aziraphale gasped.

He was lying in mud, rain streaming over him, soaked to the bone, and his corporation’s head ringing like a church bell had been struck in it.

There were flames licking at the sky all around him, illuminating the night, horrible and hungry to a degree that should not be possible in this rain, hot steam rising in great billowing clouds into the air.

Aziraphale sat up so hastily he nearly fell over again, he had to get- the refectory, the humans- Crowley-

…

…where once there had been a refectory, there was now a broken carcass of a building, bits of wall and columns sticking into the sky like fractured ribs, flames licking along them.

There was not a single moving human shape to be seen anywhere, only disoriented mice squeaking and scrambling out of what remained of the refectory doors, and…

And Mord the Gardener, crouched at Aziraphale’s side.

“Careful,” he growled, in a hoarse, droning monotone that nevertheless managed quite well to communicate cutting disapproval. “Before you make it worse.”

Aziraphale briefly wondered if he meant the concussion Aziraphale would be nursing if he were human, or the situation at large; but before he could ask, or venture a guess himself, Mord had straightened up, shouldered a large sack filled with hastily dug-out hellebores, berry bushes, half-grown carrots and a shrub with sentimental value, and, without a single word of goodbye, stomped off into the rain, or the dark, or the fire.

(Or possibly all three.)

And then Aziraphale was alone.

“Crowley?” He called out weakly, in the hope of not being alone. It was getting rather perilously close to being lonely, and he couldn’t have that.

“CROWLEY! Dear boy! Are you there!?” He levered himself onto unsteady feet. “Crowley! Please!”

No answer.

He was… most likely discorporated. Yes. Inconvenient, but hardly as bad as it could be. This wasn’t holy fire, or holy water raining down from the sky, he ought to be right as - heh! - rain, only waylaid by all that unnecessary paperwork.

Aziraphale stiffened his wobbling lip, and wiped rain - only rain! - from his eyes. There was nothing for it. Crowley was unavailable for the foreseeable future, the monks had all gone on to their reward, God bloody well Rest Them, and the Gardener would possibly forgive the destruction of his garden, but certainly never forget.

Aziraphale was alone, and he was wet, and he was hurt, and cold, and miserable, and above all alone...

But there was one task he could yet fulfil. One last thing he could maybe still do right.

Pulling his sodden habit tighter around himself against the rain, Aziraphale leaned forward into the cruel wind, and made his muddy way back to the other side of the courtyard, and the scriptorium.

With liberal application of his shoulder and metaphysical-body weight to the warped door, Aziraphale stumbled into the scriptorium with the snapping of old wood - and then his heart broke all over again at the smell of burning leather, and the sound of parchment crackling in the flames.

(This was not Alexandria, and yet he felt the same pain, the same grief.

If only Crowley was here. If only Crowley was here!)

Coughing, he pushed onwards through the smoke, feeling his way along the tables, tears dripping from his eyes every time his fingers slid over another manuscript he knew he couldn’t take with him as well. Further down the room, to the large desks at the back.

There!

There it was. Aziraphale could feel the heft of the book’s cover, the still-unburnt surface of its pages. Still intact. Not yet touched by the flames.

Aziraphale coughed again. Swiped blindly for the chair, the cloak he’d left there for the cooler nights, until his fingers met with coarse wool.

With a grunt, he hefted up the book, swaddled it in the cloth more tightly than a newborn, quickly, quickly - and then, holding his precious cargo close to his heart, he fled the scriptorium again.

He’d only barely slipped out of the room when the roof collapsed entirely in a shower of ember and sparks, burying the monastery’s scriptorium and turning all of its books into nothing more than dry kindling…

All of them - except this one volume pressed against Aziraphale's chest, which he had managed to save, after all.

The rain was letting up, slowly, in increments… but unfortunately only at the sort of pace that would ensure thorough soaking for at least another hour or so.

Aziraphale stood miserably under the branches of a scrawny elm tree that did very little to keep the rain at bay, tightly clutching the cloth-covered manuscript as if it was his only source of solace in this storm - which it was - and watched the monastery burn.

At least the fire seemed to be gradually recalling the laws of physics, and had begun to shrink on the incessant onslaught of rain.

Small mercies, thought Aziraphale. Tiny mercies. Really minuscule. Mercies barely worth mentioning.

He shuddered miserably, and ducked his head, shoulders pulled up nearly all the way to his ears.

He really ought to spread his wings, fly over to the nearest settlement, find somewhere dry and comfortable to curl up and pray for the poor departed souls. Hand over the book to the relevant authorities. Leave the remains of the monastery behind, and forget this whole sorry business.

But Aziraphale couldn’t.

Not yet.

The rumble of thunder was distant now, but still it made Aziraphale’s heart tremble in sympathy, remembering…

Remembering…

…

…it would not do to dwell on those memories now, he decided, and pushed them far down into the very depths of his mind.

(Though Aziraphale faintly suspected they would continue floating up to the surface during thunderstorms for centuries to come.)

“...angel?”

Aziraphale’s head snapped up, towards the thin shadow swaying unsteadily against the glow of the flames behind him.

“Crowley,” he gasped, tone rather perilously close to a sob of relief. He had not expected a miracle, it wasn’t the sort of night for it - but here Crowley was, staggering hastily towards him, covered in ash and soot, missing his glasses, and looking utterly ragged… but still fully corporated, which was miraculous enough. “Oh, thank God. Dear boy, I thought you were-”

“Yeah. Thought you were.” Crowley closed his eyes for just a moment, as if to collect himself. There were plenty of slightly less-sooty streaks leading from his eyes down his cheeks. “Good to see you’re… not.”

“Likewise.” Aziraphale inclined his head, and shuffled a little to the side, so Crowley could join him under the meagre canopy of branches.

Crowley did, and for a moment they stood silently together, watching the flames. Of course there was no real way for the demon’s mere presence at his side to radiate the heat of Hellfire, and yet Aziraphale felt a little warmer already.

“It turns out you were quite right. Obviously.” He finally admitted quietly, gesturing towards the monastery. “And I was an absolute fool to mistrust you. It seems I keep making this mistake, don’t I? I’m almost ashamed to ask you to forgive it all over again.”

“S’fine, Aziraphale.” Crowley sighed, mostly tired, but perhaps a little fond. “I was being an idiot, too. Not trusting you with the whole story. Thinking I could just take care of the damn thing on my own. Should’ve filled you in sooner, if I hadn’t said it after- ngk.” Crowley made an inarticulate sound, as if he’d choked on the mere thought of the kiss. “...hadn’t said it then, I wouldn’t even have known the Encyclopedia was finished. Not in time. You warned me, in the end.” A pause. “Thanks.”

“Yes, well. For all the good that did.” Aziraphale muttered bitterly - because really, what good had it done?

“It’s done more than you think,” Crowley murmured, almost gently. “Aziraph-”

“Is that what it was all about,” said a dark, monotone voice behind them.

Aziraphale and Crowley turned.

“The destruction of the monastery. The garden. The Brotherhood,” Mord continued coldly, and it was very much to his credit that he counted the humans as the final and most important point, rather than his garden.* “All for your petty squabbles?”

*Which, make no mistake, he had been sorely tempted to.

“Er.” Aziraphale fidgeted with the book. “Technically, it was, ah, much, much bigger than the two of us, both our factions have been locked in a Grand War ever since, oh, since Before-”

“Madonna of Leaves, give me strength. That’s worse. You do realise how that is worse, don’t you.” A shake of the entirely-covered part of him that resembled a head. “All this, destroyed, for your superiors’ petty squabbles.”

“And that book.” Crowley helpfully pointed to the manuscript still cradled in Aziraphale’s arms - who promptly stiffened.

“Well. I do hope it was worth it, then.” Mord’s tone rather clearly implied that he didn’t think it had been. “Saints preserve you, fool angel and idiot demon; and may our paths never cross again.”

And with that he trudged off towards the next garden, darkly muttering under his breath about how Heaven and Hell should bloody well embrace the wisdom of Saint Casimir and mind their damned business once in a while.

“Well,” said Aziraphale, but only once Mord was well out of earshot. “That was a little uncalled for, wouldn’t you say?”

“Dunno. The ominous man-shaped entity has a point, wouldn’t you say?” Crowley frowned. “Though I’m frankly a bit surprised he can talk.”

“Quite.”

They stood in silence again. Aziraphale wondered if he could get his wings out, shield Crowley from the rain - but they were both so drenched, it would hardly make a difference now.

“And?” Crowley’s voice was rough, though to his credit, tried to be gentle rather than unkind. “Was it worth it? For that blasted book?”*

*He didn’t seem to think so, either… though, perhaps, he wished it had been.

Aziraphale closed his eyes. Took a deep, fortifying breath.

“This book? Perhaps.” He said, calmly. “I dearly hope so.”

Crowley made a sound like a scoff, and looked away. It was not the answer he’d been wanting to hear.

“You might understand if you see it.” Aziraphale awkwardly tried to balance the heavy tome in one arm, tugging away the cloth with the other.

“Spare me.” Crowley sounded pained and bitter. “I’ve seen enough of that stupid Encyclopaedia for a dozen lifetimes. I’d be happy if I’d never set eyes on it-”

And then the last layer of cloth was thrown back, and Crowley fell silent.

Blinked.

Reached out, to trace a finger across the embossed leather cover, the title written there.

Turned his startled gaze on Aziraphale, eyes wide and glowing gold, reflecting the dwindling flames.

“You actually…” he whispered. “After everything you said…?”

“Ah, well.” Aziraphale had to look away from that look full of raw emotion. It was just worsening the storm in his own heart. “I thought… a list of angels, yet another text full of ominous warnings about the Apocalypse… what’s the use of it, really? For the humans, I mean. Just one more account of ultimately conflicting information. We angels know all the facts, and we’ll know until the world ends in ash and flame, so really, there’s no need to have it all put down in writing. Quite superfluous. While this…”

Aziraphale bit his lip. Glanced up at Crowley, watching him with such intensity.

“All those poor men, young and old, martyred before their time for that bloody Encyclopaedia - I would’ve wanted to save them as much as you, dear boy. I wish we could have. But I thought… perhaps I could preserve their memory, their place in history, instead. Save their past, if not their future, by…”

“...saving the monastery’s Chronicle.” Crowley finished, his hand still lingering on the comparatively plain and practical cover, holding countless pages by countless scribes, simple and practical and covered in little personal notes and drawings. Not a holy work, not a masterpiece of its craft. Just a book, full of the lives and deaths of a semi-inconsequential order of monks, and the world they lived in.

“Yes.” Aziraphale sniffed, bowing his head, and pretended it was only rain dripping down his cheeks, from his nose. “You were… oh, Crowley, you were right. We should be doing everything we can for humanity. Not Heaven, not Hell. And this… this was the most human thing I could think of saving, in the heat of the moment.”* 

*And the heat of the fire.

“Sod the Encyclopaedia Angelorum. I hope- gosh, I hope it was burned all to ashes and cinders, and Michael can stick what’s left of it up-” Aziraphale cut himself off just in time. Crowley was already staring at him like he’d grown a fourth head, no need to make it worse.

“...in any case, I imagine I’ll get into a great deal of trouble for it.” He sighed, quietly, fingers worrying at the cloth the Chronicle was still half-wrapped in. “First I give away my sword, now this… they’ll not be well-pleased with me, up there. But it was the right thing to do, under the circumstances. With everything else already lost. It was right.”

He glanced up at Crowley.

“Wasn’t it…?” he asked, shakily, voice breaking with something that tasted almost like desperation in his mouth. Aziraphale no longer knew it himself, but surely Crowley would be able to tell. He was clever like that.

And Aziraphale would trust his judgement, this time. Over that of Heaven, even.

“Oh, angel.” Crowley let out a soft breath, a fond sigh, and took his hand off the book at last, instead reaching up to cup Aziraphale’s cheek.

He was smiling, not sardonic or bitter but true and radiant, and he was looking at Aziraphale like… like he was a revelation. A miracle. Some vision of sheer perfection, rather than an entirely average angel in a mediocre corporation, singed and wet and clutching an old book that was the only remnant of human life he’d managed to save.

Aziraphale was a failure of an angel… but the way Crowley looked at him now, relieved and hopeful and full of awe, he hardly felt like one. He felt that he was good, and that he’d somehow, miraculously, done the right thing in the end, after all.

And then Crowley’s hand slid into his wet hair, and he leaned in close; and though his lips were cool and wet with rain, his mouth was hot and sweet as it pressed over Aziraphale’s own in a second kiss so loving, so gentle, so unlike the desperate passion of the first, that it felt like they’d never done this before all over again.

There was no thunder, this time. The earth did not shake.

It was only a quiet, private thing. A reassurance.

Only a kiss.

(Perhaps there was a quiet thank-you in it, for Aziraphale being the angel he was, giving away swords, lying about Job’s children, choosing a book about humans over one about angels.

Crowley could never have loved an angel that wouldn’t choose to side with humanity over Heaven’s Greater Good, at least sometimes; just like Aziraphale could never have loved any demon who didn’t have the capacity to care as deeply and genuinely as Crowley, or to put up a very pointed finger at Hell’s Greater Evil now and then.

A failure of an angel, and a failure of a demon - but just right for each other, nonetheless.)

Aziraphale sighed into the kiss. He’d clearly done the right enough thing for Crowley to be willing to kiss him, and while it was perhaps not the perfect metric to judge Right and Wrong by, it certainly was better than whatever Heaven told him.*

*Heaven would probably say that kissing a demon was Wrong. In which case, well, Aziraphale did not want to be Right!

He had just untangled one of his arms from around the book pressed between their bodies (which was starting to feel rather awkward, it had never been so close to fornication, rude marginalia be damned!) and was attempting to feel his way around Crowley’s sodden habit towards some body part he could grasp at, or maybe gently pet, or perhaps simply hold on to because his knees were in serious danger of wobbling - when something squirmed.

Aziraphale squeaked.

(So, incidentally, did the squirming thing.)

He reared back, leaving Crowley blinking somewhat disorientedly, and clearly displeased at the increasing distance between his own lips and Aziraphale.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shuddered, clutching the Chronicle tightly to his chest. “You’ve- you've got something up your sleeve! Literally!”

There was, indeed, something in the voluminous sleeve of Crowley’s habit, the one of the hand he hadn’t touched Aziraphale and the book with, which he held close to his body.

There were many somethings there, even, wriggling and trying to escape, but unable to scrabble up to the shoulder, and finding the opening at the wrist held close by Crowley’s hand.

“Oh. Yeah.” Crowley glanced down, as if he’d only just remembered. Though, in fairness, Aziraphale himself had only just noticed. “Right. That.”

Then he looked up again, and, oh, Aziraphale knew that look spreading like the rising sun over Crowley’s face. The grin of a demon who knew he had been awfully, awfully clever, and couldn’t wait for his favourite angel to know it, too.

The grin of an angel who had created something awfully, awfully beautiful, and couldn’t wait for his favourite colleague to see it too.

“You did do the right thing, if you ask me.” Crowley started almost casually, sauntering a little closer again, trying to look cool even as there was a giddy little twitch constantly tugging at his lips. “Which, well. Opinion of a demon and all, for what that’s worth. But I agree, history of humans over history of angels, anytime. There’s just… one thing you might’ve gotten a teeny-tiny bit wrong in your line of argumentation, is all. Been a bit too defeatist.”

“Have I?” Aziraphale blinked. He might’ve been worried, but not with the way Crowley was nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Whatever do you mean?”

“We two, Aziraphale,” Crowley beamed, “between us, we’ve saved past and future both.”

And with that, he opened his sleeve, and shook out a few dozen disoriented brown mice onto the sodden grass.

It seems necessary to clarify something here, regarding the nature of church mice.

If the Esteemed Readers know one thing of the Common European Church Mouse, then it is, if we may venture a guess, that they are quite notoriously poor.

This is, by and large, correct. Poverty among church mice is extremely widespread, and any money they might possibly earn, are given, or pilfer from the donation box, slips through their tiny little paws like water.

(So much for liquid assets.)

Some people assume, therefore, that church mice are pitiful little creatures, that Fortuna was giving them the cold shoulder, that they were nearly as bad luck as black cats.*

*From the perspective of a mouse, of course, cats were always bad luck. Fur colour did not factor much into it.

This, however, is incorrect.

As if to make up for their tremendously lacking money management, in every other regard, church mice have the luck of something even luckier than the devil. In love or in life, as long as it’s got nothing to do with cold hard cash, church mice simply cruise along, and the universe arranges the rest. They find the most delicious crusts of cheese, meet the most attractive fellow-mice to have wonderful relationships with, and it never rains when they head out for a picnic. Life does not merely smile on church mice, it beams at them, coddles them, and gives them a little pat right between their furry little ears.

The simple joys of poverty were rubbish, by and large - except, apparently, for church mice.

So if, say, there was a part of a monastery about to be struck by lightning and go up rather dramatically in fire and flames, chances were no humanoid being would survive it. It would take a real miracle, of magnitudes Aziraphale and Crowley could only dream of, to shield a few dozen monks from the Wrath of Heaven.

If it were church mice, however - why, the universe would just do all the work for them! Just like their rat cousins ending up in lifeboats long before a ship even started sinking, church mice could just scamper out of the struck building slightly singed but mostly intact, and possibly stumble right into a cheesemonger’s shop giving out free samples.

And in practice, it was a great deal more difficult to convince a few dozen monks to leave their well-earned evening meal and go take cover somewhere out in the worst storm in living memory (with all of them practising faith-based ignorance), than to simply…

Well.

It wasn’t exactly a great challenge to turn one living being into another, was it? Not for a demon, at the very least.

No - the only difficult part was catching all the perfectly unharmed lucky little blighters afterwards.

So there they were, a few dozen little mice scattered in the grass around them, all looking deeply confused at being A) out here, B) alive, and C), mice; and a very pleased demon who had spent the time in which Aziraphale had been first briefly unconscious, and then out on his book rescue mission, crawling about in the ruins of the refectory and the adjoining corridors to catch church mice and stuff them into his voluminous sleeve one by one.

(There was a joke, here, about having aces up one’s sleeve, but honestly, if there was ever an ace in there, then chances were the many confused monk-mice had nibbled it to shreds already.)

“Oh.” Aziraphale murmured, understanding dawning, things piecing themselves together in his head at quite some speed. As stupid as he at times could be, he was very intelligent, after all. “Oh, I see! This is Job’s goats all over again, isn’t it?”

“His lizard children, more like.” Crowley preened. He did so like being clever, particularly in front of Aziraphale. “Will you do the honours, or shall I?”

“My dear Crowley,” Aziraphale, too, was smiling now, something that had cracked in his chest when he’d woken to see the burning refectory slowly mending and refilling itself with pure hope. “Perhaps we might try to do it… together?”

“Ngkyeah,” said Crowley, and reached over to settle one hand on the arm Aziraphale still had around the Chronicle.

They smiled at each other.

And then, a miracle happened.

Which, around celestial and occult beings, was nothing special, of course. For Aziraphale and Crowley, miracles happened all the time.

And it wasn’t even special around humans, not really. Queen would not be writing The Miracle for several centuries yet, but the general sentiments were timeless enough: miracles came in all shapes and sizes, in every human being, in love and in kindness and in doing better and better as time went on; in trying and hoping and in all the wonders of the world.

For humans, miracles happened all the time, too. So often, even, that most people didn’t notice at all, unless someone came and pointed out the miraculousness of it, after which there would probably be at least a moment or two of quiet awe.

(And for church mice, well. It was more unusual for a miracle not to happen, frankly.)

It was nothing special… except it was.

Every miracle was special, regardless of how often it happened, how commonplace they were. They were all worth cherishing, and celebrating, because they’d brought some good, or joy, or relief into the world, even just a little - and that is special enough.

So a special-mundane miracle happened, and a few dozen little brown mice turned into a few dozen minus one* average-sized monks in brown habits; and the true miracle was the fact that they were even still alive at all, despite Heaven’s best efforts.

*Brother Timens, who had gotten a taste for the fortune-blessed life of the church mouse, had opted to stay one, and was currently peacefully curled up in another monk’s hood, enjoying the absolute certainty that everything was going to be well; for he was a church mouse, and Fate Herself was affectionately booping his little nose and petting his tiny whiskers.

“Oh, thank God.” Aziraphale sighed under his breath, watching the confused monks clamber to their feet and take in their surroundings, slowly coming to terms with the rapid human-rodent-human transformations they had just undergone*, as well as the fact that their only home was still partially on fire. For a group of people who spent most of their lives blissfully ignoring things, it was… not an easy process, no. “I’d really thought… for a moment there…”

*Human-rodent transformations were bearable as long as you liked cheese, rodent-human transformations were the worst thing that could possibly happen to an unsuspecting mouse (unless it really liked paying taxes and having enough of a brain to experience existential dread), but going back and forth like this was just no good for anyone. The monks all fervently hoped this would at least be the end of it, and there wouldn’t have to be another go-around.

“Nope. No martyring tonight, angel.” Crowley’s hand was still on Aziraphale’s arm. It didn’t seem like he had much intention of taking it away. “They’ll have all the rest of their lives to write into that book you saved for them, before passing it on to future generations. Nice thought, isn’t it?”

“Very nice.” Aziraphale smiled tremulously. It was much easier, suddenly, to know he’d done the right thing while surrounded by miraculously-alive humans, rather than alone with the horrible clenching fear of having made the wrong choice in the name of the dead. “I suppose I, ah, should…”

“Let’s go, then.” Crowley nodded, and together, they approached the abbot.

Abbot Ignatius Ignorance had been having the sort of evening he would be thinking of as quite the emotional rollercoaster, if the TARDIS society hadn’t just sent us a very sternly-worded warning about our anachronistic metaphor usage.

The completion of the Encyclopedia Angelorum had certainly been a bit of a highlight, as had been the rather delicious sausage served for evening meal. And when Brother Crowley had run in and shouted a great deal of things he could serve God by ignoring - truly an asset to the abbey, was Brother Crowley, for all that he could be a bit of a flibbertigibbet and will-o’-the-wisp at times - Abbot Ignatius had rather been of the opinion that it was shaping up to be a wonderful evening.

And then.

Well.

A lot of things had happened in quick succession, which the abbot was still trying to mentally sort out, with little success. He supposed there must’ve been a miracle at some point; but right now, standing in the rain and watching fire consume the only home he and most of his brothers had ever known and everything generations of the Brotherhood had ever worked towards, it rather felt like any miracles involved here had done nothing except place a flimsy pink band-aid* on top of a festering flesh wound.

*RIGHT, that’s it! In the name of the Great Unified Timeline, the TARDIS society is placing you under arrest for repeated contempt of continuum! You have the right to remain silent, but anything you say in alternate universes may be used in time court and given as evidence against you!

Well, no, Abbot Ignatius corrected himself. They were all alive and well and hadn’t been reduced to particularly pious ash - that was a miracle, a true miracle, the sort of thing to thank God on your knees for, and he was going to be appropriately grateful and do just that. Later. The ground looked wet and uncomfortable, and his knees were not what they once were.

(But as he watched part of the monastery roof cave in, a cloud of sparks and blazing embers lighting up the night sky, Abbot Ignatius wondered, quietly, why you were only ever allowed to praise God when good things happened, and could never point to the bad things around it and ask “so, ah, what about that then?”

It all just seemed a little unbalanced, the longer he thought about it.)

“Ah, pardon me? Father Abbot?”

Abbot Ignatius’s first instinct was, of course, to ignore the direct address. It was the Brotherhood of Blissful Ignorance’s creed, after all, and if his fellow monks wished to communicate, they would do so in writing, as they had always done for generations upon generations.

But then, the abbot looked around himself, and saw his miraculously-alive brothers, most of them without their writing tablets, help each other up from the wet ground, fuss over the novices, and console each other in the face of something too big and terrible to just be ignored.

To mind one’s own business was a Holy Deed, he was quite sure of that; but perhaps, just perhaps, there were times when Getting Involved and reaching out to one another was an act of the divine, too.

They had lost so much.

Perhaps it was time for a bit of a new start.

Abbot Ignatius Ignorance turned around.

“Yes, Brother Aziraphale? Brother Crowley?” He smiled at both of them in turn. “What is it?”

“At the time of the fire, I- well, I happened to be rather close to the scriptorium, and I managed to…” Brother Aziraphale was clutching a rectangular bundle of cloth to his chest, and for some reason, looked much less like a man recently re-transformed into a human from rodent form than the rest of his brothers. How peculiar. “The Encyclopedia was lost to the flames, I’m afraid. But I could save-”

“The Chronicle!?” Abbot Ignatius gasped, and rushed over to him, his hands shaking as he grasped the precious bundle. “Is it really- oh, Saint Casimir be praised!”

They had lost much, this night, yes - but they had not lost each other, and had not lost the carefully-preserved history of their order, and they were truly blessed for it.

“Thank you, Brother Aziraphale.” Some of the other monks had failed to ignore the commotion, and were coming to gather around, many smiling to recognise the old Chronicle cradled in the abbot’s arms like a child. “That you braved the fires for this, and survived* - God must have held His shielding hand above you, and kept the devil’s flames from scorching you! Thank the Heavens!”

*Without even the need for a mousacle (mouse miracle)!

“Er.” For some reason, Brother Aziraphale - who didn’t mind getting scorched by the flames of one certain devil, as the Esteemed Reader surely knows - could not meet his eyes at that. “Actually, you… perhaps you ought to know that Heaven’s involvement was rather-”

“Now, don’t tell us you’ve got your own personal Guardian Angel.” Brother Crowley interrupted, equally as inexplicably grinning from ear to ear. “I should be ever so jealous, and you wouldn’t want to drive our brothers to envy, would you? It’s a sin, last I heard. They’d be happier not to know, I think.”

“...quite.” Brother Aziraphale glanced over at him, and smiled, very softly. “I suppose some stories need not necessarily be told. Excuse us, Father Abbot…”

The two retreated, quietly bickering with each other - a familiar sight since long before the fire, actually - leaving the abbot and the rest of the Brotherhood to carefully cover the Chronicle again, and decide which local hamlet to try and find shelter in during the night.

Abbot Ignatius Ignorance watched them go.

For a moment, he considered calling them back, and asking some very sternly-worded questions about Brother Crowley’s yellow-golden serpent eyes, or about the faint halo-like glow around Brother Aziraphale’s brow. Perhaps he could bring up the fact that they both had two large wings* each emerging from their backs, too.

*With the dark soot from the fire coating Aziraphale’s white feathers, and flakes of white ash spread all over Crowley’s black ones, they even looked remarkably alike - except, of course, for the fact that Crowley’s were somehow, even despite the circumstances, still slightly better groomed.

…but no.

Even turning over a new leaf of attentiveness towards one’s fellow man, he reflected, some things should, in Saint Casimir and Saint Beryl’s names both, remain blissfully and pointedly overlooked, after all.

Chapter Text

In the belfry at the very top of the monastery’s bell tower - still mostly intact, if rather scorched and its insides more burnt out than a twenty-something with a stressful job and undiagnosed ADHD - an angel and a demon sat side by side, letting their legs dangle over the edge.

A quiet rain was drumming onto said roof above them, the bells hummed eternally with the fond memories of being rung over and over throughout the ages, and a family of bats* in the rafters was currently in the process of arguing over whether the glow of the fire meant it was still day, or if it was time to go out and catch insects** already.

*While church mice were indeed as poor as the various sayings indicated, we feel like we should point out that bats in the belfry were overall very reasonable and level-headed fellows, and did not deserve their general reputation.

**Except for Cousin Vlad, who would of course fly into the rooms of pretty young things who had left their windows open to bite their necks and suck their blood. He was a bit unusual, and quite possibly adopted, but the rest of the bats still loved him dearly and did their best to accommodate his particular dietary needs.

Aziraphale and Crowley were watching the Brotherhood of Blissful Ignorance slip and slide and stumble their way down the mountain towards the second-nearest village (because the nearest village had, after the last wandering knight had taken serious advantage of their hospitality*, put up signs saying “HERE BE NO VACANCIES - BEGONE, AFORE WE STICK A PITCHFORK IN THINE BUM”, and even though the monks intended to be very courteous guests, they didn’t feel like pushing their luck), taking turns to throw idle little miracles at them every time it looked like a monk might actually fall and do himself some serious injury.

*Sir Largemanhood of Muchsex (situated, according to him, in the general Essex-Sussex-Wessex area) had ridden into the village, and two weeks later, their larders were half-depleted, any man who had even looked at him wrong now sported a black eye, everyone had his favourite bawdy drinking song stuck in their head, and six young maidens were pregnant with his children - which was particularly impressive, considering historians recently discovered that Sir Largemanhood had been christened Lady Elysande of York, and had, by all accounts, possessed only those male genitalia which he himself had whittled out of hardwood.

We can only assume that Sir Largemanhood’s outstanding virility had the power to work miracles, and he really was just that good in bed.

“I was wondering,” Aziraphale said, eventually, “if you might allow me to… in the event that they do give me grief, up above, for the blasted book… if I might be permitted to blame you for it.”

“Hn?” Crowley blinked, vaguely waving his hand to relieve the stitch in Brother Inscius’s side. “Whot?”

“It seems the most convenient solution to all this.” Aziraphale shifted awkwardly where he sat. “I tell my superiors that a wicked demon intercepted me and dastardly and fiendishly and really-very-evil-ly caused the destruction of the book - very unfortunate, truly a valiant foe, nothing to be done about it - and you may tell yours that you succeeded in foiling one of Heaven’s plans at the last minute, excellent work, have a commendation and a pay raise.”

“There’s no pay rises in Hell.” Crowley, somewhat thrown, quoted one of the demotivational posters around the entrance to Dagon’s office. “Nothing ever rises up from That Place. It’s a one-way street, and the way in question is down.”

“Oh, don't be difficult, you know what I mean!” Aziraphale waved him away irritably. “We could help each other out here, couldn’t we? Mutually profit.”

“...I suppooooose.” Crowley said, finally, at length. “Thought you were quite anti the idea of the two of us lying to our superiors to make each other’s lives easier, though.”

“Yes. I was, wasn’t I.” Aziraphale absentmindedly miracled the monks a little drier and warmer, not meeting Crowley’s questioning eyes. “But, as you may recall, I have had a number of epiphanies today, about… our respective purposes, possible shared goals, our relationship, and my previous perhaps misguided understanding that Heaven is Always Right, while Hell is Always Wrong.”*

*Despite the recent hellish ad (short for abominations, but misspelt) campaign proudly boasting “Hell is what Heaven’t”, on average Heaven and Hell were about as bad (and even, sometimes, as good) as each other. All the rest was just clever branding.

A flicker of hope crossed Crowley’s face. “Oh?”

Trust the old snake to make me spell it out, Aziraphale thought, fondly.

“If I… if I am to throw in my lot with humanity, as you evidently already have… over our respective head offices… which I maintain is incredibly dangerous for us both, and will likely prove a terrible idea when all is said and done, I mean, seriously, Crowley, Heaven was going to kill the Brotherhood for doing what they wanted and I pray for your sake that Hell never finds out you saved a few dozen lives tonight, we really must be very careful about this-” He shook his head. Took a deep breath. “...I mean to say, it would be silly to work at cross purposes. Wouldn’t it?”

“Go on.” Crowley’s lips were twitching into a smile, delight shining from his eyes.

“So. I am suggesting that, in future, we pool our knowledge, always - if we’d only both known what was at stake, with the Encyclopedia, it would never have gotten quite so frightfully… escalate-y.”

“I don’t think that’s a word, angel.”

“Escalationed?”

“Doubt it.”

They pondered it for a moment.

“Escalatory!” Aziraphale exclaimed.

“That’s the one.” Crowley nodded.

“...where was I?”

“Information exchange would have prevented the situation’s escalatory nature.”

“Quite. Thank you, dear boy.” Aziraphale inclined his head in gratitude. “We would really be better served sharing what we know, finding some middle ground that keeps humans alive and probably, in balance, mostly leaves them to their own devices, and… telling our superiors whichever version of events is closest to what they want to hear. Helping humanity, and each other. All hush-hush, of course, utmost secrecy for both our sakes, they’d kill us if they find out - but as long as we are appropriately careful, it might not be entirely disastrous.”

Aziraphale glanced over at Crowley through his lashes, wringing his hands in his lap.

“Would you, by any chance, be… amenable, to that?”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley was beaming, and his distracted miracle promptly took away any exhaustion the monks below were feeling. “Could it be… I can’t believe it, my ears must be deceiving me… could it be that you are proposing an Arrangement?”

Aziraphale blushed a deep red.*

*Up in the rafters, Cousin Vlad was getting rather peckish, what with so much blood being moved about in his vicinity.

“Must you capitalise it?”

“Oh, Aziraphale, angel, I absolutely must.” Crowley looked like his birthday, Christmas, Easter, and an obscure demon holiday called Pit Day - celebrating the fact that you hadn’t been thrown into the Pit (yet!) - had all come early. “For centuries you won’t even entertain the idea, all ‘absolutely not, Crowley!’ and ‘I would never, Crowley!’ and ‘it’s unthinkable, Crowley, you vile Tempter, my arch-nemesis, begone, demon, and never darken my doorstep again with your hellish wiles-’”

“Hush.” Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. That really was putting a too fine point on it.

“-and now you are proposing it outright!?” Crowley shook his head in joyous-mocking disbelief. “Thought I’d never see the day.”

“And what about it?” Aziraphale defiantly stuck out his chin. “Can’t an angel reconsider his position without being mercilessly mocked for it?”

“Who’s mocking? Angel, don’t you see…” Crowley reached for where Aziraphale’s hand lay on the stone floor, slowly and carefully telegraphing his movements, giving him all the time in the world to pull away.

Aziraphale did not.

Crowley’s slender hand settled on his, warm and soft. The touch went through him like lightning, and down below, all the monks suddenly felt particularly blessed. Which was not all that unusual for monks, who tended to get first dibs when there were leftover blessings to distribute, but still surprised them a little.

“...I’ve never been so happy,” said Crowley earnestly, his eyes shining like golden stars in the moonlight.

And, well, he was a demon. Demons lied.

But in that moment, Aziraphale would have readily bet his angelic soul that Crowley spoke the truth.

“Oh. Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale moved his hand - but only to turn it around in Crowley’s loose grip, and press their palms together, fingers entwining. “...neither have I, come to think of it.”

(They both knew it wasn’t right, for a demon and angel to feel such joy only because of each other, and not, say, brutally torturing souls or listening to the angelic choirs launch into the 30th rendition of Climb Every Mountain in a row.*

*While they were clearly very dedicated to Exploring Every Option in terms of hiking trails, Singing Every Song - or, really, literally any other song, please, for God’s Sake! - had yet to occur to them.

But it was what it was.

And love, in both their opinions, might just be above Heaven and Hell’s ideas of right and wrong, anyway.)

They smiled at each other.

Both moved - Crowley slithered, Aziraphale wiggled - closer together, until they sat touching from hip to shoulder, leaning into each other’s warmth, wings curled cosily around them both.

“So. An Arrangement.” Crowley smugly capitalised, and Aziraphale let him. “I’m amenable. Of course I am, angel. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted.”*

*This was not quite true. Crowley also wanted a pony.

“My own wants always used to be… quite different.” Aziraphale admitted quietly, his shoulder singing hallelujah at the close contact with Crowley. Its twin on the other side of Aziraphale’s body was going to go all cold with envy, and he’d have to arbitrate in the inevitable jealous spat, he just knew it. “But that was then - and I don’t think I truly understood, then. Neither what I was rejecting, nor what I was rejecting it in favour of. It’s all changed now.”

(He wondered if Eve had felt like this, after her first bite of apple - of the Apple. Seemed like Crowley had gotten him cast out of Eden with his Temptations, after all; but Aziraphale now found that the grass was looking far greener on the other side of the Eastern Gate, actually.)

“Hmngk.” Crowley made a sound of agreement. “S’hard to go back, once you first start caring more about them-” he gestured a vague circle “-than about what they-” he pointed once up, and once down “-order you to do. And it doesn’t make it easier, having to go at it alone.”

“I don’t suppose it does.” Aziraphale guiltily ducked his head. “Oh, my dear, I really am awfully sorry that it took me so very long to-”

“Don’t. It’s hellfire under the cliffs.” Crowley did not like doling out forgiveness. Did not like the concept of forgiveness, generally, but that might just be because demons were denied it, always.

“Wind under the clouds, you mean,” Aziraphale corrected primly, still somewhat inclined to heavenly rather than hellish metaphors.*

*He was not entirely unjustified in that. As they said in Hell, every time a hellish saying is used, an angel gets an itch in their wings.

They looked at each other, smiled, and both said “water under the bridge”, meeting, as they had resolved to do, in the middle, and with humanity.

“Together, then?” Crowley held out one hand.

“Together,” Aziraphale agreed, and took it.

(Shaking on it while still holding each other’s other hand and refusing to let go proved a little difficult, but Crowley was not a snake for nothing, and easily contorted his arm accordingly.)

And simple as that, they had Arranged themselves.

“So, what happens next?” Aziraphale asked. “Divine retribution? Eternal damnation? Martyrdom and ascendance? All of those at once?”

“Oh, angel.” Crowley grinned, quite obviously besotted. “Was that a joke?”

“You know, I’m really not entirely certain.” At this point, Aziraphale wasn’t entirely certain of anything at all. It was rather terrifying. “I suppose I’ll let you know.”

Crowley tightened his grip on Aziraphale’s hand. Maybe there was one thing to always and forever be certain of, and that thing went “ngk”.

“As for what happens next…” Crowley shrugged. “Celebratory dinner?”

He snapped his fingers, and a feast that had been about to reach the table of the Archbishop of York* stopped, politely made its goodbyes, packed itself into a slightly anachronistic picnic hamper, and teleported halfway across the country into the little belfry before Aziraphale could even say “ooooh, yes please!” with a delighted little wiggle.**

*The Archbishop did not take this at all well, and Crowley would later receive a commendation for moving a Holy Man to such incredibly inventive and colourful swearing.

**It wasn’t like the food provided by the Brotherhood had been horrible, but, well. That was admittedly already one of the nicest thing you could say about it without perjuring yourself.

“Say, angel.” Crowley piped up, while Aziraphale was digging around in the hamper with one hand, carefully assembling a veritable feast on his lap that he intended to later put between two pieces of bread for ease of eating one-handed.* He hadn’t had dinner that evening, of course, and hadn’t had an actually good dinner in months - though, when Aziraphale miracled himself a treat, it usually came from somewhere in Normandy, where, in his opinion, the food was just much better. “Care for a drink?”

*Many centuries from now, the Earl of Sandwich was going to be a right old bastard and steal Aziraphale’s idea, making the angel very cross indeed. To this day, the confusingly standoffish order of “one plate of cucumber aziraphales, please” was a common matter of gossip among the waitstaff of various Soho cafes, but it did not look like this alternative was ever going to catch on, much to Aziraphale’s chagrin.

Crowley held up a bottle of wine that was very fine indeed, and which was going to be repeatedly mentioned in the Archbishop of York’s hangry rant.

“Oh, I really ought not make a habit of imbibing.” Heaven was graciously overlooking the various wineries popping up in monasteries, but Aziraphale had seen the inter-angelic memos on the topic of drunkenness, and they were overwhelmingly mean-spirited and personally hurtful. “Upstairs wouldn’t like it.”

“Probably not.”

“Nasty habit, drinking.”

“Absolutely.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised at all that you encourage it, you wily old fiend.”

“Yup.”

“...well, then. Won’t you pour me a few fingers’ worth, my dear?” Aziraphale held out a cup. Of all the things he’d done tonight that Upstairs Would Not Like,* drinking was certainly the least of it.

*Or was, indeed, still intending to do. The night was young, and having had a little taste of defiance, Aziraphale was already quite busy considering Crowley’s physical manifestation on this plane of reality, and what fun things he’d heard you could get up to with a pair of them. If he was going to give Heaven’s teachings the two-winged salute, then he might as well go the extra mile, and try out a few other sins, too. Lust was looking more appealing by the minute, though he was going to have a good go at Gluttony first.

“My pleasure,” Crowley grinned, and poured them both some wine. “To the Arrangement. May my bosses never find out I’m doing Good.”

“And may my bosses never find out I’m doing… a different Good than they want of me.” Aziraphale raised his cup, and tried not to think about the fact that he was likely also going to be doing quite a bit of what they considered Evil. He was still an angel, Arrangement or not, and the thought did not sit well with him.

“Cheers,” said Crowley; and with the way he looked at Aziraphale, all tenderness and the sort of love angels did not believe demons capable of, the thought somehow sat a little easier, after all.

They clinked their cups together, and drank. It was very good wine, though it was of course the company that made it even better.

Somewhere in York, an Archbishop said something very unkind about the dirty food-thief’s mother, and thereby, about The Divine Parent; up in Heaven, and down in Hell, a great number of angels and demons were awfully and unjustifiably pleased with themselves; on muddy hillsides, a number of monks (and one church mouse) were stumbling along, keeping their Chronicle as dry as they could, which was curiously easy, accompanied by plentiful blessings as they were; and up on the bell tower, Aziraphale and Crowley drank and ate (and, when that was done, kissed) to celebrate an Arrangement that, if they could manage it, would last until the End of the Earth.

…which wasn’t very far off, they both knew. Less than another millennium, and it would all be over, if the Great Plan was to be believed - and considering that the armies of both Heaven and Hell did believe in it, there did not seem to be much point in holding the minority opinion. The world would end in fire and flame, all of humanity would die and be judged, and it was all going to be lovely and ineffable and there’d be no scones for tea, because both tea and scones were going to be ash and dust on a crumbling husk of a planet. Hurrah.

But until then, Aziraphale and Crowley would continue watching over humanity. Over the monks of the Brotherhood on their long, wet trek, over every other human in the world, and any who were yet to be born, until the End.

(And perhaps, just perhaps, if they’d managed to save a few dozen monks from fire, death, and judgement via temporary mousification…

Perhaps there would be something they could do about the Apocalypse, too.)

But regardless of what the future held for them, they both knew one thing, and one thing only: they would weather it together.