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Soho, London, July 2008: Aziraphale’s POV

It was, all told, an altogether ordinary evening.

There was nothing particular to set this evening aside from any of the many, many evenings Aziraphale spent alone in his bookshop in Soho. He had ushered out the last lingering customers from the shop before closing up for the night, and had done the sort of perfunctory tidying around the shop that amounted to rearranging his books in an increasingly indecipherable organizational system. It was not so late yet by the time his ministrations were done, but the angel had no plans this evening, nowhere to be and no one expecting him, so he turned off the lights in the shop and took the stairs at the back to the small flat above to retire for the evening with a book and mug of cocoa.

It was how he usually spent his evenings, more often than not. The quiet ones when he wasn't called away to perform blessings, or meeting a particular demon somewhere for dinner or drinks or the theater to discuss work and their Arrangement and whatever other excuse.

Nights like this, the angel had no orders--his time was his own for the moment. And he had not seen Crowley--in any capacity, in any iteration of their relationship--in... a while. It was difficult, sometimes, to keep track.

Aziraphale had just settled himself in his armchair with a happy little wiggle, white angel wing mug in hand and a book at his side. A quiet evening alone with his books was not unwelcome, if extremely ordinary and only a little bit lonely sometimes. And whatever the angel may have claimed if anyone should ask, he was never really opposed to the odd interruption--at least not when it came from a particular demonic source.

The adage about minding what one wishes for applies even for celestial beings, unfortunately.

Aziraphale reached out for his book--a well-loved and equally well-preserved tome of Robert Frost poetry--and it's then, just as his fingers connect with the spine of the book, there it is, like a button had been pressed somewhere to set it all in motion--Crash! Thud!

Aziraphale paused, tilting his head to the side to listen, oddly nonplussed by what was, by all measures, a decidedly abnormal series of sounds to be coming up from what ought to be an empty bookshop below him.

To be fair, would-be burglars posed little real threat to an angel, even if the noise hadn't sounded like it came from somewhere in the middle of the shop.

With decidedly unhurried movements, Aziraphale set his mug down on the coffee table and straightened up before crossing to the door that led to the stairs down into the shop. He was not in a particular hurry--this was, by now, old habit, and there was a certain pattern to these things. When he pulled open the door, Aziraphale half-expected to find a demon already there--a little unsteady, perhaps, a little less well-kept than he generally was when they saw each other the usual way--but the stairs were dark and empty.

"Crowley?"

There was a sound--an awful little keening sound that froze Aziraphale on the stairs for a moment before he shook himself and determinedly made his way down to the shop.

"Crowley?" he called out again. "Are you all right?" There was silence, then a terrible whining, and a sound like someone sliding across the floor.

It was not entirely dark in the shop--there was streetlight filtering through the closed blinds.

Aziraphale did nothing to change this for the moment, half-worried that the sudden brightness would spook the demon when he was in this sort of state, and half-worried that a sudden flashing light would send him back where he'd come from prematurely. That had happened a few times over the millennia.

Aziraphale hadn't seen Crowley yet, but he could hear him, could hear the distressed hitch of his breathing, heard the way his movements suddenly stilled as Aziraphale walked in his direction. The angel, for his part, took slow, measured steps, like he was approaching an injured animal. "Crowley?" he tried again.

Rounding a shelf, the angel found him, there in a dark corner--yellow eyes glowing, fully serpentine, in the darkness, wide and staring at Aziraphale like... like...

Well.

So it was to be that sort of night, then.

Soho, London, July 2008: Crowley’s POV

In his flat, Crowley emptied his liquor cabinet of everything--from the fanciest, most expensive bottles he kept for special occasions, down to the cheapest, barely drinkable stuff he kept for when he didn’t want to waste the good stuff. He didn’t bother with a glass.

In his office, he lined up the bottles on his desk and sank down onto his throne. He reached for the first bottle. He wondered if it was possible to drink himself to discorporation.

Probably a bad idea. He probably ought to care more about that.

As Crowley uncorked the first bottle, he looked across his office at the doorway, where the puddle that had been Ligur still sat. It wasn’t smoldering anymore. It occurred to Crowley that he ought to clean that up eventually, but he didn’t move. Instead he raised the bottle to his lips and tipped the bottle back, still staring at that spot on the floor.

At least Ligur’s end had been quick. At least death was a one and done thing. Worse was being left behind.

He wished… he wished…

Crowley didn’t remember going to his bedroom. He didn’t remember most of that night after that. Or most of the next week. No one came for him. He almost wished they would.

Mostly, he slept.

When the demon woke, a week after the apocalypse and with a headache that might have killed a mortal, he stumbled out of bed, reaching blindly for something to hold onto as the world tilt-a-whirled around him.

Crowley shut his eyes tightly against the light of his bedroom, then took a step forward. Or tried to anyway. His foot slid, and then he lost his balance, for a moment it felt like his insides were being pulled in two different directions before he hit the floor and he heard and felt the crash as something toppled on top of him and slid away with a thud!

Crowley kept his eyes squeezed shut for several moments, trying to breathe through the insistent, pounding ache in his head. He thought he heard the distant sound of someone walking around above him. That was… odd. His flat was the penthouse. Was someone on the roof?

The demon slowly peeled his eyes open. And then blinked. Closed his eyes. Opened them again. No.

No, no, no.

He was not in his flat anymore.

Somewhere, a door opened.

No.

“Crowley?”

Giza, Egypt, 2560 BCE (1)

There, in the center of the room, looking very dishevelled and very unsteady, was Crawly. But a very different Crawly than the one who had just left. The one who was still, if Aziraphale looked over his shoulder, still visible on the street outside.

"'Zira," this Crawly said--slurred, his voice little more than a barely intelligible mumble-- before he wobbled and stumbled, and then pitched forward suddenly.

Aziraphale didn't think. He only caught the demon before he passed out cold on the floor.

Standing there, in shock, holding the slumped weight of Crawly in his arms, Aziraphale froze. He stared down at Crawly--at the short hair, and the strange clothes--and he didn't know what it meant, he didn't know why this was happening.

"Crawly?" He laid the demon down on the straw bed, giving his shoulder a useless shake.

"Crawly?"

There wasn't a response, only Crawly's head lolling to the side, close to Aziraphale's face as he leaned over him, and while the angel was at least reassured that he was breathing—not strictly necessary, but a good sign nonetheless--it made it very easy to tell just what the problem was.

"Oh, good Lord." Aziraphale drew back, his nose wrinkling. Somehow, it had not occurred to him before that it was possible for occult and ethereal beings to drink enough alcohol to lose consciousness. He hadn't had a reason or a desire to test it.

Disturbed, and with little other choice, Aziraphale took a seat at the table, turning the chair so he could watch Crawly. It felt like the only thing he could do--wait for Crawly to wake up.

And hope for... for... well, he didn't know what to hope for.

So far, everything about this--these strange encounters with Crawly--had been confusing, even infuriatingly so. But there now, he wondered, for the first time, if something wasn't really, truly, very very wrong.

He didn't get to ask Crawly. Not this night, anyway. He didn't wake again, not here. Only a few minutes later, he was already disappearing again, back wherever--whenever--he'd come, and there was nothing Aziraphale could think to do to stop him.

fifteenth century Florence

[not described, just mentioned in the next travel]

Persia, 1020

There was that familiar cresting wave of something--after nearly four thousand years, the angel still wasn't quite sure what to call it--and then--

"Oof!" There was a painful sounding thud and an ominous rattling as something collided with the underside of the table.

Aziraphale did not look up from the book he was not reading. "Hello, Anthony."

"Mmph." There was a scrabbling noise, and then a groan, which might have been more concerning if it wasn't such a normal occurrence by now.

"Do you need assistance?"

There was a too long pause--long enough that Aziraphale finally looked up in time to see the demon propping himself up, his face contorted into a look of concentration as he seemed to be working out how legs were meant to move. Again, all perfectly normal, really.

"Crowley?" the angel prompted, setting aside his book.

"Think... think I've got it." There was a mess of elbows and knees and hips moving in confusing but somehow effective fashion.

Aziraphale stood, regardless, though once he was sure the demon was all right, he went to fetch the List from where he'd already packed it away in his trunk. When he turned back, Crowley was standing next to the table with his hands braced against it, like he was still a bit too unsteady on his feet. Now that Aziraphale had a proper look at him, he noted the somewhat glassy sheen to the demon's eyes. Unsteady indeed. He didn't take the List when Aziraphale held it out to him, only stared blankly at it, and the angel frowned. "Perhaps I should take a look at your head. That landing sounded like it hurt. Would you like to lie down?"

"Ngh. Okay."

Crowley followed Aziraphale to the bed--really just a pallet of straw on the ground with a blanket thrown over it, but it was hardly as if it had seen much use--and hesitated when the angel made to sit down first. "I--"

"It's all right," Aziraphale soothed, ignoring the ache that was already settling itself in his chest. He wondered if this was how Crowley had felt on all those Pre-Rome travels, when it was all so new and confusing for the angel. It seemed only fair that he should have to return the favor on this end of things, even if something about it made him itch with unease.

There was hesitation now, this Anthony not yet at ease, it seemed, with even simple, casual intimacy. Aziraphale did his best not to think about it. The angel was about to tell him it was all right, that he didn't have to, but Crowley seemed to find his courage at last and lay down next him.

"Does your head hurt?" Aziraphale asked as they settled, keeping his tone light.

"Ngk. A little." The demon didn't protest when Aziraphale carefully placed his hand on his head, though he let out a breath that was just a bit too shaky. "'D do it myself, but... can't really..."

"I know. It's all right." Miracles were always tricky business. They hadn't quite worked out why, and it was terribly inconvenient most of the time, but there seemed to be little that they could do about it. Aziraphale stroked the demon's forehead, almost reflexively, attempting to soothe before wondering if it would be welcomed. Crowley seemed to relax a little, at least, so he continued his ministrations without commenting on it. "Has it been long for you?" he asked. "Since you've been traveling, that is."

"Mm."

Crowley seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes open. Aziraphale thought it might have been a combination of his hand on his head and the alcohol he could smell now, sitting this close. It was not particularly unexpected--neither the alcohol nor the demon's insistence on fighting to keep his eyes open.

"Tuesday," he finally said.

The angel felt his stomach lurch. "Tuesday? You've only been traveling since Tuesday?" He did not, of course, know when "Tuesday" was in relation to when Anthony was coming from, but the idea that it was so recent the demon would specify the day of the week...

(Anthony, as far as Aziraphale could tell, rarely seemed to know what day it was even in his own time. He'd once commented that he'd been in and out of time so much of late that he hadn't even known what month it was until he happened to see the date on a paper at the local newsagent's. "What is a newsagent?" "Eh. 'S like the town gossip, if the town gossip talked about what the Emperor of China had for breakfast that morning." "That sounds... hyperbolic, surely." "Well, yeah. China's not had an emperor in ages.")

"No, 's when I saw you last." Anthony's brow furrowed. "Think was Tuesday, anyway. Spent a couple hours in the fifteenth century. Florence, I think?"

Aziraphale hummed. "Well, I'll look forward to it." He concentrated then, on Anthony, on soothing away the already dulling headache. Opening up his senses like this to heal gave the angel a peek into Crowley's own essence, though he didn't delve deeper than he needed to—as curious as he was, Aziraphale knew that was many steps too far without the demon's consent.

He was leery of even helping alleviate the drunkenness, feeling it was too great an invasion without permission--and even at the surface, Aziraphale could feel the grief in Crowley's soul, even as it was laced with love. He did not wish to examine that farther when Crowley did not want to talk about it. That way only led to wild speculation which may have been worse than actually knowing. He hoped it was worse than actually knowing.

The demon had relaxed more, now. Still, he sighed and said, "You called me Anthony."

Aziraphale paused, his hand momentarily stilling where it had ventured into Crowley's hair.

The demon frowned, and he quickly resumed. "Yes." You told me to, he thought but did not say. He was so used to the variability of what they each knew about the other, or were expected to know or not know yet, that he used "Anthony" and "Crowley" near interchangeably most of the time. Aziraphale would worry about slipping up and calling the wrong demon "Anthony," except the idea had apparently come, originally, from someone called Leo and Aziraphale would not admit to the completely irrational jealousy that flared in him at the thought.

(To be fair, Crowley had similar feelings about someone called Oscar. They were, of course, both idiots.)

Instead of voicing any of this, of course, Aziraphale instead asked, "You don't like it?"

"Didn't say that. I'll get--" The demon broke off, his brow furrowing further for some reason.

Aziraphale waited, but he didn't continue. "Well," he said at last. "Do let me know if you'd like me to change what I call you, of course." Anthony grunted non-committally.

"Oh! Actually, while I have you here..." A distraction. They could both do with a distraction. "Do you remember your crusade to get the two of us to work with each other?"

"'Course I remember." Anthony's expression turned fond. "The Arrangement."

The Arrangement. Like Tuesday, the specificity was what caught Aziraphale's attention. He stilled, staring down at the demon who frowned at him.

"What? What's wrong?"

"I--" Everything. Everything was the answer. All of Aziraphale's concerns that Crowley had poo-pooed--was still poo-pooing, he thought, throwing a glance toward the table and their ongoing exchange--suddenly felt very real, with Anthony here beside him. "I just--I suppose I wondered why you were so adamant."

Crowley shrugged. "'S like I kept--keep?--saying. Help each other out." He shifted around, and Aziraphale felt him press in closer. He seemed to be losing the battle to keep his eyes open. "And, y'know. 'S an excuse to see you more."

The angel laughed, though there was little humor in it. "Of course, you say that now, but I hardly think--"

"Same thing. Woulda done it in Eden, if I'd thought of it."

Oh. Oh. As much as Aziraphale preferred not to think on things too deeply, he thought he could probably read between the lines on this one. "That long?" he asked weakly.

"Mm."

He thought Anthony might have meant to say something else, but when he opened his mouth, all that came out was a yawn. Aziraphale smiled softly, resuming running his hand through the demon's hair--as much for his comfort as for Aziraphale's.

"Perhaps you should rest, darling. You seem to need it."

One hand came up to tangle itself in Aziraphale's tunic. "Stay," the demon mumbled.

"Of course. I'll stay as long as you're here."

Aziraphale would stay there for a long time--long after Anthony disappeared back to whatever the future held for him. Eventually, the angel would stand and go back to the table, and would take up first the letter from Heaven, and then the one from Crowley.

Not long after and some distance away, said demon would look up to see a folded piece of parchment appear in his own quarters. He would open it, expecting further arguments, to find a very simple message.

I am going to London soon, should you also find yourself there. - A

Multiple visits, unknown locations and dates

Undescribed couple of dozen travels, referenced in the next jump

Soho, London, 1969

Crowley rather thought that, after a couple dozen tries or so, he might finally be getting the hang of this whole time travel business.

He’d appeared in the bookshop’s backroom, only mildly disoriented from the sudden change in scenery. He’d called out for Aziraphale, found the angel wasn’t home, and had gone about what was quickly becoming a ritual: finding the List, noting the date without much thought to it, and then going about the business of distracting himself until whenever Aziraphale came home. He even got the coffee maker in the kitchen upstairs to work with a miracle. He was fine--coping even.

(The obvious aside, one could probably forgive Crowley for not yet understanding the correlation between his occasional ability to do miracles and his contemporary counterpart’s occasional trips to Head Office. And if his hands shook as he got a mug out of the cupboard-- an all-black mug Aziraphale kept there just for him--that was just proof he was a bit tired. Understandable. And if he felt a bit too warm, it was simply because it was the middle of summer, and certainly not anything to do with the phantom flames Crowley couldn’t help imagining at his back. They weren’t real, he’d checked several times.)

Crowley wandered the bookshop, nursing his coffee and waiting for Aziraphale to come back from wherever he’d gone to. He’d thought about watching television to pass the time, but the spot where the television ought to be was taken up by a book-laden end table.

He eventually made his way back downstairs, where he ended up behind the counter with the bookshop’s ancient cash register and exactly what Crowley suspected would be there--that morning’s paper. It usually found its way inside one way or the other, whether the angel remembered picking it up that day or not.

Newspapers were handy, when they existed, because Crowley--who could hardly be expected to remember every notable date in the whole of human history--liked having at least some idea of what to expect, should he try venturing outdoors. He’d rather not get discorporated by an angry mob or whatever the crisis du jour was at the moment. He didn’t even know what would happen to him if he discorporated when traveling, and he really didn’t want to find out.

So, the demon picked up that morning’s Times , read the headlines about the Americans sending someone up to see what was happening on the moon--not much, it turned out, but it was something of a big deal anyway--and thought, Sure be nice to watch it happen with the angel.

He didn’t leave a note. Hopefully, he’d be back before it was necessary.

Aziraphale had had a most productive and pleasant morning. He’d not bothered to open the bookshop--it was Sunday, after all--and had gone out to have a very nice meeting with an antiquities dealer about some new acquisitions and then popped into his favorite little bistro for a spot of lunch before taking a leisurely stroll through the park.

By the time he returned to the bookshop, it was mid-afternoon, and the angel was in rather high spirits. Those spirits were dampened a bit when he spied a familiar black mug tucked next to the register, still half-full with undrunk coffee. He’d called for Anthony, and, receiving no response, sighed and set about cleaning up.

After the angel had gone upstairs, rinsed and washed the mug, and left it to dry, he had decided that, though he’d have to consult the List to be sure, Anthony must have come and gone while he was out, and Aziraphale was quietly cursing himself for taking so long, even if there was no way he could have known.

He was making his way back into the shop when he heard the bell over the door ring. Aziraphale frowned. He was certain he had locked it behind him--“Angel!”

“Oh!” Still confused, but smiling now, Aziraphale descended the rest of the stairs, calling out, “Crowley. I thought you were meant to be in New York.”

“I mean, I probably still am.” When Aziraphale rounded a corner into the main area of the shop, a familiarly anachronistic demon was coming to meet him.

“Oh.” Aziraphale glanced toward the front door. “You went out?” It wasn’t completely unheard of, of course, especially as they drew nearer to Anthony’s present. “Have you been here long?”

“Eh. Few hours?” He shrugged. He seemed to hover awkwardly, seemingly uncertain, until Aziraphale turned back to smile at him and held out his hand. Crowley took it, and visibly relaxed. “Right. Anyway. Got you a present. They’re delivering it in a couple hours.” The demon turned and, tugging his angel along with him, started for the stairs. “Come on, we’ve got some rearranging to do.”

“Rearranging?” Aziraphale let himself be led up to the flat, amused.

“For the present. You didn’t arrange your sitting room so it’d have a place to go.” The demon waved his free hand dismissively. “S’fine. I know where everything needs to go.”

Aziraphale was fairly certain he knew where this was going--he did, by now, know what a “telly” was--and although he had little interest in television, he was very much interested in seeing his demon happy. There was little he wouldn’t have done to see it happen. (Aziraphale, of course, did know the difference between happiness and whatever sort of mania possessed Crowley on occasion. He simply thought it better than the depressive moods that were all too frequent.)

By the time a pair of young men arrived at the shop, newly purchased television in tow, the sitting room had been rearranged to better suit its new addition. A few miracles may have been used--though not by Anthony, who found he’d apparently used up all his luck in that department, so it was mostly Aziraphale while the demon directed him.

“Do you ever wonder,” Aziraphale asked, once the men had left and they’d settled on the sofa in front of the new television set, “if what we do now has an affect on the future?”

“Yes. All the time.” Constantly.

“It just all seems so… cyclical.” The angel looked thoughtful. “I wonder, if we moved the furniture back, or to a different configuration entirely--would it be different for you when you return to your time?”

“Dunno.” Crowley shrugged. In truth, this Crowley hadn’t been to the bookshop in his own time in quite a while, and had never been allowed upstairs besides. At least now he understood why. “But I had to’ve seen it first to tell you about it, right? ‘S a paradox or something.”

“Hmm. So you’ve said.” Aziraphale still looked unsure, but instead of continuing the topic, he asked, “Well, should we see how this works then?”

They spent the evening watching television--or at least, Crowley watched. Aziraphale read, but he sat on the couch and coaxed Crowley into lying down with his head in his lap, so that was all right.

Crowley was still there to watch humans take their first steps onto the moon, which somehow was a marvel that didn’t lose its luster the second time around that he saw it. Clever humans. They’d likely go all sorts of places if they were given half the chance. Definitely worth a second viewing. Especially worth it this go around, getting to watch Aziraphale’s fascinated reaction.

“They’re quite amazing sometimes, aren’t they?”

“Yeah.”

When the phone rang, Aziraphale cast a scowl toward it. “Who could be calling at this hour?”

“Oh, er. I think that’s me, actually.” Crowley sat up to let the angel up. Aziraphale looked back and forth between Crowley and the ringing telephone, clearly hesitant.

“Go on, then.” He made a shooing motion. “I really want to tell you all about this, best not to ignore it.” Aziraphale still looked hesitant, and maybe a touch guilty, but he got up to answer the phone.

Crowley lay back down on the sofa, listening to Aziraphale talk on the phone to his past self, and wondered if it was a good thing or a bad thing that this all felt very normal now.

Soho, London, 1800

Some time later, when he awoke from a booze-soaked nap to a pounding headache, it felt like penance. When he hauled himself off the sofa, and his head swam and his vision blurred, he thought yeah, this might as well happen now. And then he stumbled forward, hand reaching out instinctively to steady himself on the back of the sofa--

Except the sofa wasn't there anymore.

When Crowley's vision cleared, he found himself sprawled on the floor of an empty room. 

Grey, pre-dawn light came in through the bare windows, and it took him a minute to realize they were the same windows.

Crowley sat frozen on the floor for a long moment, staring. He hadn't moved at all--at least, not through space, anyway. The flat was bare around him--devoid of furniture, or books. The floor under him was bare hardwood, not the plush carpet he was used to.

Before Crowley could really work himself up into a good, irrational panic, he realized someone was calling his name.

"Crowley? Is that you?"

The demon forced himself to his feet, swiping idly at his dark jeans as he called out, "Yeah. Up here, angel."

He heard the familiar cadence of Aziraphale's footfalls on the stairs, and then the door to the flat opened and a mop of white blonde curls emerged from around the doorframe. "Oh! Hello, Anthony." The angel beamed at him like he'd been expecting someone else and was pleased as anything to be proven wrong. Even though no one else would be in the flat. Noone else was allowed.

"'Course," Crowley mumbled. "Who else would it be?" He did not comment on the “Anthony."

(Aziraphale had taken to calling him that, sometimes, and Crowley could not remember now if he'd mentioned it, or if he would do in the future, or when it might have happened for Aziraphale. Cause and effect were so muddied that sometimes they forgot things, forgot what they were supposed to know or not know yet. Crowley couldn't help thinking of a church and Nazis and scorched soles and Aziraphale's questioning Anthony? He didn't know what any of it meant.)

Aziraphale didn't answer his question--he was too busy fussing with Crowley's clothes, dusting at the demon, saying, "Oh, you're covered in dust. Were you on the floor?"

Crowley let the angel fuss over him, even as it made his chest feel too tight and made him feel a bit too warm all over. "Ngk. Yeah. Tripped and expected there to be something to catch me." The angel made a sympathetic noise. He also stopped swiping at Crowley's clothes, but he hadn't moved away, so that was all right. "Just move in?"

"Hmm." Aziraphale glanced around at the barren flat. "Yes, well. It's still something of awork in progress. Seemed less important than getting the downstairs together." He turned back to Crowley, still smiling so bright it nearly made Crowley's eyes ache to look at him. "I open in two days. Rather serendipitous for you to be here now."

"Don't know about that. Seems like I end up at the bookshop more than anywhere else. Least so far." The angel's expression morphed into that face he always made when Crowley knew he was trying to fit this in with other things he'd heard the demon say. It was a bit like trying to put together a puzzle when you didn't know what the picture was supposed to be. And when you barely even knew what a puzzle was. "Still getting settled then?"

"Oh. Yes." Aziraphale's expression cleared a little. "I'll confess I haven't thought much of what to do up here yet. More book storage, I suppose."

"Hmm." The demon had a feeling already that he knew where this was meant to go. He felt little compunction about guiding it that way. "Could make a nice flat."

"Oh?"

"'S what's it's intended for, yeah? Nice little bookseller's flat above the shop." Crowley shrugged, then made a sweeping hand gesture. "Put a kitchen over there. This could be sitting room. Imagine a sofa right about here--" He paused, then shook his head and reoriented himself so he was gesturing into a different empty space. "No, wait, here, we move the sofa when you get a telly in '69."

The angel, for his part, looked highly amused. "Do we now?"

"Yeah."

"What is a 'telly,' exactly?"

"Eh," Crowley waved a hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it. You'll like it." Or, at least, he’d keep it, even if Crowley doubted Aziraphale ever turned the thing on when he wasn’t with him.

Crowley often found he had more energy in his angel's presence--not that that was saying much, but a little was still more than none at all. Like an adrenaline shot straight to his veins, born of something raw and instinctual, he thinks--a need to protect his angel, to chase the worry from his eyes, to be okay, for just this little while. He wasn't--his head still pounded dully with the ache of his hangover, it still sent desperate shivers down his spine to look away from Aziraphale, like he'd cease existing the moment he was out of Crowley's line of sight--but he could pretend for a few hours.

Aziraphale let Crowley tow him around the flat, pointing out this and that with "suggestions “that they both knew were not really suggestions at all, and neither of them talked about the looseness of cause and effect, though Aziraphale did let out a little huff when Crowley steered him into what would be their bedroom, saying, "My dear, I don't sleep."

"No, but I do." Crowley raised one suggestive eyebrow, pleased when this elicited a pleasantly pink flush. "Bed's for more than just sleeping, angel."

Aziraphale cleared his throat. "Right. Well. Start a list, shall we?"

Egypt, 2874 BCE

Crawly was sprawled out, his face half-buried in a cushion, appearing for all the world to be asleep. He didn't move when Aziraphale entered, only snuffled a bit when the door closed behind him, but otherwise didn't wake. He looked much like he had the last time they’d crossed paths--still clad in bafflingly form-fitting clothes that Aziraphale couldn't imagine were terribly comfortable, though now Crawly was also wearing a pair of glasses with darkened lenses on his face, presumably to cover his eyes, although they'd been knocked askew in his sleep.

Aziraphale stood for a long moment, staring, baffled. He didn't understand how Crawly was here. Almost instinctively, Aziraphale reached out to check the wards that he'd thrown up on his rooms when he'd first settled here--not to keep out Crawly specifically, of course, but to keep out any potential unwanted guests of the occult variety. The wards were still very much in place, apparently untouched, which only served to further confuse him. He couldn’t imagine how Crawly had gotten in there in the first place, let alone been comfortable enough to sleep. Aziraphale had never done it himself--he didn't need to, and he'd so far not been curious enough to try it--and he rather assumed demons similarly lacked the necessity of sleep.

Reaching out a tentative hand, Aziraphale touched the demon's shoulder--mindful, this time, to touch only where he was clothed in a strange-looking black tunic--giving it a gentle shake.

"Crawly," he said. "Crawly, wake up."

Despite his attempted gentleness, the demon startled terribly, gasping and flinching back before he saw Aziraphale, who drew back guiltily, even though Crawly was the one breaking into his rooms and falling asleep there in the first place. Still, Crawly seemed to relax considerably at the sight of him, and then he smiled--a soft, unguarded thing that should not have looked at all at home on his face--and said, "Mornin', angel."

Something about this--the way Crawly was looking at him, the way he said angel for what may have been, for Aziraphale, the first time--filled Aziraphale with an odd, warm glow that he couldn't name. He took several steps back. "Ah, actually, it's quite late, really."

Crawly turned to look toward the darkened windows, his expression thoughtful--he'd lifted his glasses so they rested on top of his head now, so Aziraphale couldn't even claim he was misreading things later. "Huh. So it is." When he turned back, he paused, frowning. "What’s wrong?"

Aziraphale had a great many questions, truth be told, but he started with the simplest. "How did you get in here? The wards--"

Crawly shrugged. "Dunno. Always just kind of pop in wherever you are. Feels less like ‘breaking in' from this perspective and more like... just changing rooms really abruptly." He did a complicated-looking manoeuvre to get himself to his feet without, somehow, using his hands at all. He stretched his arms over his head, his face pinching as if something pained him, which Aziraphale added to the growing list of odd things about this whole situation--he had seen Crawly heal before, and knew he was perfectly capable of doing so.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. "The last time I saw you--"

"Er, right. When was that exactly?"

"You don't remember?" The angel's brow furrowed. "But--"

"I mean. Might do. Depends on when it was."

Aziraphale let out a frustrated sigh. "About twenty-five years ago. You said--"

"Where were we?" Crawly interrupted. "And, uh, still when, I'm not real clear on when we are now, if I'm honest. I gathered we're in Egypt, but usually you leave me notes so I know where and when I am if you're not around right away when I turn up."

Not knowing what to make of any of that, Aziraphale settled for beginning with what he knew, "Uruk," he said. "A few hours' journey outside of Uruk."

"Oh." Crawly threw up his hands. "See? There you go. I haven't been to Uruk. Not in a few thousand years, anyway."

Aziraphale closed his eyes. If humans had come up with clever ways of calming their minds like counting to ten or some such, Aziraphale had not heard of it yet, so all he could do at the moment remind himself that it was not very angelic to yell, even at a demon, and even at a demon who kept insisting on being so infuriatingly difficult.

"You all right?" When Aziraphale opened his eyes, Crawly was peering at him with an expression that bordered on concerned. "Er, it'd really help if you'd tell me when we are."

"I really, truly, do not understand what you are asking."

The pinched expression was back. "Right. Okay. It's that early then, I guess."

"Early?"

"In history." Crawly turned away and went back to the small nest of cushions he'd apparently gathered from around Aziraphale's room. Aziraphale had a moment to wonder at Crawly's casual and overly familiar way of interacting with the angel's space and things, before the demon dropped down onto a pile of cushions. He'd replaced the glasses over his eyes again.

"Look," he said, "I've never had to explain this before."

Aziraphale approached slowly. "I would appreciate it if you would try. I confess, this is becoming increasingly frustrating to try to understand."

"Yeah. Yeah, believe me I get that." Crawly seemed to think for a moment, then asked, "You said you saw me on the way to Uruk, yeah? What happened?"

Sighing, Aziraphale recounted, as best he could manage, their last meeting, feeling, quite frankly, very silly. He was, at least, no longer convinced that Crawly was putting on an elaborate ruse, if only because he couldn't imagine anyone being so dedicated to the task for so long, with so little pay off. He was sure that something very strange was really happening, but not that he wanted any part in it. Probably, he didn't.

When he'd finished, Aziraphale peered down at Crawly who, for the most part, had merely listened and nodded along, looking, as far as Aziraphale could tell, like this was all very commonplace and sensible to him.

"Well?" Aziraphale prodded. "What was all of that then?"

Crawly slowly sat up straight--he'd taken to reclining while Aziraphale talked--and said, slowly and clearly, "I time traveled."

Aziraphale blinked. Once. Twice. "I beg your pardon?"

"It's--look, I don't know how to explain it, all right?" Crawly drew his hands up to rub across his face. "Didn't used to be able to do it, and I can't control where I go or when or how long I'm gone for. Just... happens. One minute I'm at home in the twenty-first century, and the next I’m trying not to smash my head in on a side table in some random inn in Someone knows where." Crawly paused, then amended, "Well, not really random. 'S always where you are."

There was a stool in the room, and Aziraphale chose this moment to sit down on it, as just listening to Crawly was making him feel rather dizzy. "You are trying to tell me," he said, "that you are from two thousand years in the future?"

"Er." The demon started to say something, seemed to think better of it, then said instead, "Bit longer than that. Never mind. But yeah, from pretty far off in the future."

"Crawly that is-- That doesn't--" Words failed the angel. He could do little more than stare down at Crawly in disbelief. Oddly, he wasn't even angry, even though part of his mind reasoned that perhaps he ought to be. Perhaps he was right in the beginning--perhaps this was a very foolhardy prank. They'd perhaps stretched quite beyond the bounds of that likelihood, granted, but it still seemed leagues more likely than what Crawly was claiming.

(Two images, unbidden, sprang to Aziraphale's mind--Crawly's expression, each time he'd first seen Aziraphale. So unguarded, so difficult, at least the angel thought--perhaps foolishly--to fake, and to what end?)

"I know," Crawly was saying. "I know. But if you think about it--" he held up a finger, and gestured in the air, "--if you think about it, 's not that much 'a leap, is it? Possible to stop time--"

"Is it?" Aziraphale asked, not because he doubted this--he could not recall having seen it done, but he was aware enough that such a miracle was possible, in the same way that a human might know that running a marathon is possible under the right circumstances—but mostly in the hopes of distracting Crawly with a topic that was more familiar territory.

"On a good day," Crawly said. "But point is... Point is, it's just another kind of time manipulation, isn't it? Can't be that much of a stretch." He shrugged. "Well. Isn't a stretch at all, since I'm here and not at home in my flat."

Aziraphale didn't know what to say to that, except, "Well. I'm afraid it's still rather hard to believe, regardless. And a bit harder to prove, unless you can take me with you." He chuckled a little at the last.

Crawly's expression was doing something complicated that Aziraphale didn't understand.

"No. 'Fraid not. Can't seem to take anything I'm not wearing with me."

"Oh. Well. That's--"

"Wait!"

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows in question. Crawly leaned forward until Aziraphale could make out his yellow serpentine eyes over the rim of his glasses. "You can detect demons, can't you? You know when we're up here on Earth?"

"Yes?" Technically, if he was looking. Generally speaking, Aziraphale rarely had cause to go searching for demons, even this demon. Crawly, generally, was very good at finding Aziraphale when he wished to, as evidenced, he supposed, by this nonsense now.

"Well, then you can find him."

"Find who?"

"Me." When Aziraphale only stared at him dubiously, Crawly held his hands up, as if placating. "I mean, if I'm here from the future--which I am--then there's going to be another me running around somewhere, right?" He made a little shooing go on gesture. "So... check."

"I'm not sure that will do very much," the angel warned. "I could easily be finding any demon this way."

"Are you saying we all feel the same to you?" Crawly was smiling now.

"Well," Aziraphale sniffed. "It's not as though I have cause to do this enough to tell a difference. Don't tell me you're not the same."

Crawly didn't respond except to shrug, though his smile had dimmed just a little. "Right. Well. Go on then."

Aziraphale sighed, but did as asked. It was a simple enough thing, reaching out with his angelic senses. And yes, there, beside him, the familiar demonic presence of Crawly that he could feel, even if he closed his corporation's eyes and deafened his ears. Though there was something... not right about it, something that Aziraphale couldn't put his finger on, something other than the exhausted aura humming around the demon which was, to be fair, in itself concerning, but at least not surprising, given how Aziraphale had found him.

Aziraphale pushed out farther, and then farther still, until something pinged! at his senses.

There it was, another demonic presence, as familiar-feeling as the one beside him, but more solid somehow, though it wasn't in Egypt. Aziraphale didn't know where exactly it--he--was, it didn't work quite that precisely. It was more like a homing beacon, pointing vaguely north and east.

"Well?" Crawly asked when Aziraphale focused on him again. "There two of me?"

"I don't know." He held up his hands defensively as Crawly opened his mouth, presumably to protest. "I don't! You have to admit, it's a very strange story, and that is very flimsy evidence."

"I guess." Crawly shook his head. "I wish I knew what to tell you. I must convince you somehow, I see quite a lot of you in the future."

"Perhaps it would help if I could actually see two of you at once," Aziraphale offered, jokingly. "That would certainly make a case for it."

Crawly made a face. "Eh. Probably a bad idea, that. Two of us in the same room together. Who knows. Might explode."

Soho, London, 1862

When Crowley came to, he was first aware of the familiar scents of the bookshop and Aziraphale’s cologne. He had a vague, half-asleep memory of appearing in the empty bookshop and stumbling his way into the backroom.

It took another moment for him to realize that he wasn’t alone before he heard, “Anthony?”

Crowley lifted his head from the pillow it had been resting on, his tired smile freezing when he saw the look on his angel’s face.

Aziraphale wasn’t quite looking at him, and was instead looking down at him lap, where Crowley could see he was fidgeting anxiously.

“Angel?” Crowley sat up, hesitantly. Aziraphale glanced up--though he still didn’t quite look at Crowley so much as look at the space around him--and smiled the sort of brittle little smile that made the demon’s chest clench. “What’s wrong?” What did I do? Crowley didn’t say the second question, but he had a sinking feeling it was apt, anyway.

“Are you feeling quite well at the moment, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, with a tone that might have been an attempt at something casual, but came out a little too high-pitched.

“I’m fine. Are you all right?” He leaned forward, giving the angel a closer look. Aziraphale’s appearance changed very little for the better part of two centuries--his constancy a foil to Crowley’s ever-changing appearance. Minor, small changes were the only real differences to herald a different era.

He might have gotten up to check the date, but the demon already had his suspicions as Aziraphale tried to smile and said, “Oh, well. I suppose I’m a little… shaken, perhaps. I’ve just seen you actually.” He made a gesture behind him, toward the door, as if that signified something. “Well. You know. Present-day you.”

Right. “St. James Park? Eighteen-Sixty-Two?” It was not the first time Crowley had landed in this particular year. He’d been here a couple of times, actually. According to Aziraphale in the future, Crowley popped in with his usual inconsistent consistency all that year. Right up until this date.

Aziraphale gave a jerky nod.

“It’s really not what you think.” It wasn’t . It had been more than a hundred and sixty years for Crowley, but he remembered Hell had been antsy about something. He didn’t remember about what anymore--probably, whatever it was didn’t matter anymore--but he remembered noticing an increase in demonic activity around the first half of this century, and residual signs of a presence around the bookshop--

Oh. Crowley blinked. Somehow, he hadn’t made that connection until now. Mostly, it felt like a very long time since he’d thought about it at all.

“Then what is it?” The angel leaned forward, and when he reached for his hand, Crowley let him take it. “Please, help me understand.”

“It’s--it’s like I told you, angel. Insurance.” He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand. “Just… wanted to keep you safe. Keep us safe. That’s all. Really.” For all the good that had done them in the end.

“Oh, darling, you don’t have to .” Aziraphale’s eyes had gotten a bit too shiny to bear looking at, so Crowley focused on their joined hands instead. “And anyway, it’s much too dangerous. Surely you know that.”

Knowing exactly how effective holy water could be--and exactly how futile any effort now would be, anyway--Crowley said, “Doesn’t have to be. You’d know how to contain it--”

“Absolutely not.” The angel shook his head. When Crowley chanced a look back up at Aziraphale’s face, he looked resolute--and very, very sad. “I’d worry it would be… too much of a temptation.”

It took him a moment to realize what Aziraphale was hinting at, but when he did, Crowley jerked back in surprise, his hand slipping from his angel’s. He opened his mouth to deny it--he wouldn’t, that’s not what it was meant for, it’s not what he’d wanted it for. And anyway, it’s not like he had the option anymore.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale didn’t reach for him again, letting the demon retreat back into the sofa, but his eyes seemed to bore into him just the same. He sighed. “Look, I can understand your concerns. I can. But you must understand my--” He swallowed. “My fears. I might be… more amenable, if you could at least... promise me. Promise me that you would never--”

Crowley wanted to reassure his angel. He wanted to tell him that he would never, that the thought had never once crossed his mind, that even if he had holy water--had it still –he wouldn’t have used it. That he’d never have a moment of weakness when he might want to. He didn’t lie to Aziraphale. Not when he could help it. So he just didn’t say anything.

The angel’s face crumpled, and Crowley felt lower than the lowest scum. “Oh, Crowley.”

“I’m not going to off myself, angel.” That, at least, was the truth. “You don’t have to worry.”

“No, I don’t. I think that firmly settles things.” He hesitated, then reached out for Crowley again, his pained expression touched by at least a little hopefulness.

Crowley got up and went to him, curling himself around his angel--as much for his own comfort as for Aziraphale’s. And because the angel wouldn’t be getting this for a while-- this, the closeness, and… well, him, in any capacity--and even though it would hardly be the first time they’d gone decades without seeing one another, this one felt different. It was different.

He knew he should probably tell the angel he wouldn’t be around for a while. He intended to. But for now, he clung on, and was clung to, and tried to pretend to himself that this was enough.

Rome, 451 BCE

Aziraphale, for his part, was much more impressed with the food--and wine--in Rome than anything else it presently had to offer, though it was enough to make the angel linger a bit longer in the city after the blessing he'd been sent there for was finished. And when he returned his rooms one evening to find a Crawly in unusually high spirits, inviting him to share some of that food and wine seemed like the most natural thing.

Later, the angel would blame it on the alcohol, and the easy familiarity that this Crawly showed him. It was startlingly easy to give in to that, to not protest when they reclined together on the lounge, when the demon got just a bit closer than Aziraphale knew he should let him--to forget, for the moment, why he shouldn't let him. The thing was, even sober and thinking clearly, it was difficult to keep an appropriate distance. Aziraphale's perfectly reasonable boundaries--worries that they were an angel and a demon, still, regardless of the present circumstance--had naturally eroded a bit over millennia of Crawly's apparent clinginess.

Even if he'd wanted to, it was hard to say no to such persistence, especially when giving in felt so easy, like breathing, like simply being. And he didn't want to, even if, this first time in Rome, he wasn't quite ready to admit as much.

Still, when, somewhere in the night, Crawly leaned against his shoulder, so close Aziraphale felt the demon's hair tickle his neck, he did not protest, and he did not pull back or push Crawly away. I don't think anyone is paying attention was what Crawly had told him, more than once now, and just then, as they settled into the quiet of the night, and, warmed by the wine and the fire that they'd lit, and the warm body of his friend tucked into the angel's side, Aziraphale found it difficult to worry much. At least for this evening.

""S nice."

"Mmm?" Aziraphale was only half-listening. Mostly he was wondering when his arm had gotten behind the demon. He didn't remember moving it there.

"Y'know." He felt rather than saw Crawly shrug. "This."

"Mmm." Aziraphale leaned forward to reach for the wine bottle again. "More wine?"

Crawly seemed to hesitate, but then he reached out and caught hold of the angel's arm.

Aziraphale turned to look at him questioningly, only to find the demon had already moved closer--too close, part of him said. He should move away. He should--

Truth be told, Aziraphale had never considered before what it might be like if Crawly kissed him. If he had--if he'd allowed himself to indulge in that simple fantasy--he might have imagined it to be much like everything seemed to be for them--laced with ease and an impossible familiarity.

This was certainly all of that, and even as Aziraphale registered the shock of Crawly's lips pressing against his, some part of him echoed back to him yes, yes this feels right. Something was missing, and this was it. Something felt right about the way Crawly pressed into him, fitting there like they were two halves of one being.

It was not a long kiss. It took a few seconds too many for the angel's mind to catch up with just what was happening, and just why it should not, could not happen.

Aziraphale broke away abruptly, jumping to his feet and away from the demon. "Crawly! What do you think you're doing?"

"I--" Crawly stared up at him, looking dazed, bewildered and something else that Aziraphale couldn't identify, but which made his insides tie themselves in knots of anxiety. "I thought--"

"We can't," the angel said, still moving to put distance between them. A respectable distance. A correct distance. Whatever his instincts were telling him, no matter how cold he suddenly felt without Crawly pressed into him, Aziraphale knew they couldn't do this. "We shouldn't. What were you thinking?"

"Angel... No wait--"

Crawly stood up to follow, but his steps faltered almost immediately. Despite himself, Aziraphale reached out, instinctively, to steady the demon as he stumbled forward with a little cry, and then... nothing.

Aziraphale's hand closed around the empty air where Crawly had been.

That was the first time. The first Rome. The first kiss. And a new unsettled feeling that wrapped around the angel like a blanket and clung on for a very long time.

Mesopotamia, 2900 BCE

In retrospect, Aziraphale realized that the first time for him could not have been the first time for Crowley.

Very few of their firsts lined up, most likely, with only some notable exceptions. Their first meeting, on the wall of Eden, when Crowley was still Crawly. Their first argument, before the Ark. Their first time working together, of a fashion--on the Ark, if one counted Aziraphale's deliberate feigned ignorance of a certain snake demon and a few extra stowaways as "working together."

But for Aziraphale, the aspect of their relationship that was, by turns, the most peculiar and the most dear, began with very little fanfare. It began with an empty stretch of road, a handful of figs, and a donkey.

The donkey in question had decided he would go no further toward their destination--the city of Uruk, where the angel was meant to be doling out a few blessings. He'd been travelling with a small group of merchants, who had since left him a ways back, and now his only companion refused to take so much as another step in the right direction.

Aziraphale sighed heavily, finally giving up for the moment. It was getting toward the hottest part of the day, after all, a not ideal time to be travelling on foot. He could have easily miracled himself and the wayward ass there, but... well, he certainly wasn't in a hurry, and it was actually rather nice under the fig trees that lined the side of the road, and now that he thought about it, he was feeling a mite peckish...(It was a little too early in the season for well-ripened figs, but the angel wasn't thinking of that at the moment, and so the figs he picked found themselves suddenly in better shape they had been before.)

And so Aziraphale found himself sitting under a tree, on a hot afternoon, nibbling on a fig and keeping a perfunctory eye on the animal to make sure it didn't wander off.

He'd swear he only looked away for a moment, really. Only looked down at the fruit in his lap to select the next one, and not paying particularly close attention. Really, he might not have noticed anything at all if there had been more to distract him, but as it was, he felt a... blip, something pinging off his angelic senses, like the crest of a wave hitting him before he even knew it was coming. Aziraphale's head popped up in surprise just as he heard--

"Oof!" A sound like something hitting the ground, then an angry braying and a familiar voice, "Oi, all right, all right, sssorry." And then a shape was rolling out, away from the tree and a disgruntled donkey, and the angel had to blink several times before the image coalesced into something familiar as the shape sat up. And then, in an uncertain tone, "Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale blinked, then shook his head, before pushing himself to his feet. "Crawly?"

Because it was very clearly just that demon on the ground now, twisting around to see him with a look of such naked relief that Aziraphale almost stumbled under the weight of it, though he couldn't explain why. "What on Earth are you doing here?"

The demon waved a hand about as if indicating something--though Aziraphale couldn't begin to fathom what--before getting to his feet. "Oh, you know," Crawly said. "'S not like I choose where and when I turn up is it?"

"Oh." Of course, if Aziraphale had orders to be in the area, it stood to reason that Crawly might as well. "Right. I suppose you're headed for the city, too, then?" He didn't ask where the demon had come from. That little cresting surge of something hadn't felt particularly like a demonic miracle, but Crawly could teleport where he pleased as well as Aziraphale could.

"Eh, I guess so?" Crawly was looking at him with a very odd expression. "Never turned up on the side of the road before, to be honest. This is new." When Aziraphale clearly didn't know what to make of that, Crawly asked, "Er, what year is it?"

"Pardon?"

"When did we last see each other?"

It was Aziraphale's turn now to give an odd look. What a strange question. "About a century, I think. Since..." He hesitated. "Well, since the Flood." It had not exactly been an auspicious occasion, and they hadn't parted on the best of terms, with Aziraphale still sticking to Heaven's party lines, despite whatever he might turn a blind eye to, or privately think. Even now, he found himself wringing his hands nervously, absently, even as a part of him knew quite well he should not care one bit what this demon or any other thought about his actions, specifically Heaven-sanctioned or otherwise.

But, well, it just seemed rude not to care at all, didn't it?

"Right," Crawly said, and from his perturbed expression, Aziraphale was already steeling himself for whatever came next, even if he thought the whole thing was unfair--he'd been minding his own business before Crawly came along, after all. But then, instead, the demon sighed, and asked, "You don't know what the heaven's going on here, do you?"

"Er..." He rather thought he'd said as much already, actually. "No?"

Crawly groaned--a bit more dramatically than was strictly necessary, if you asked Aziraphale--and said, "Well, if you wait around long enough, you're going to get a bit of a show. Least as I understand it."

This was, the angel thought, a most confusing conversation, like they were speaking in riddles, and it was starting to get rather bothersome, all told. Aziraphale felt rather like he was being made fun of, though he couldn't understand the joke. Perhaps that was the joke.

"Well, I do need to be getting on..." he said, stepping back towards the road, even though he'd had no plans to leave yet before the demon had turned up. He stopped, though, when Crawly seemed to move as if to follow. "What are you doing?"

"What?" the demon sounded incredulous. "You're not leaving me here."

"I most certainly am. What if someone sees you?"

"Eh, easy enough to make humans look the other way for a bit. Just drop me wherever you're staying, and I'll be out of your hair in..." He seemed to ponder something. "...Well, a bit."

Aziraphale stared at him. He was, quite plainly, completely lost. After a long moment, wherein his mind scrambled to form something resembling cohesive thought, he finally said, "I didn't mean humans. I meant..." And then he jabbed a finger skyward pointedly. "I don't know what you're playing at, Crawly--"

"I'm not--" Crawly sighed suddenly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look, it's not just that I'm being purposefully difficult here. Thing is, I've already explained this to you."

Could angels get headaches? Aziraphale thought he was getting a headache. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, not you you, but also kind of you."

Yes, yes, that was definitely a headache starting just behind his eyes. Perhaps even a migraine.

"See, at some point, in the past, I will have told you, in the future, what the heaven's going on right now, and if I told you now, it'd... I don't know. Probably cause a paradox or something." Crawly looked away, and Aziraphale had the impression that he was uncomfortable. "Don't really want to try it. Anyway. Understand?"

No. Somehow, even less now.

"Never mind. It'll make more sense eventually." Crawly started walking toward the tree where the donkey was, miraculously, still waiting, munching now on tall grass with a remarkably disaffected air for a beast of burden. "I wouldn't worry about your higher-ups. I'm not sure they ever notice." At Aziraphale's dubious huff, Crawly amended, "Well, probably. Haven't so far."

At this point, the angel really didn't know what to say, so he simply said, "Well, regardless, I think it's time I be on my way," and took up the donkey's lead and coaxed it out onto the road again, unsurprised when Crawly followed. He didn't seem in a particular hurry to get to wherever he'd been headed--and for all his nonsense, it didn't really sound like he'd found Aziraphale on purpose--nor did he question Aziraphale's slow pace.

They walked on for a bit in silence until curiosity finally got the better of him, and Aziraphale asked at least one of the questions that was plaguing him. "Not to be rude, my dear, but what are you wearing?" Aziraphale didn't think he'd seen anyone wearing clothing so form-fitting since they stopped constructing them out of leaves.

"What?" Crawly looked down at himself, holding his arms out to the sides as if to inspect himself. "I'll have you know this outfit's very cool where I just came from."

"And where was that? Tell me, so I can hopefully avoid it in the future."

"Ngk." Crawly looked away, dropping his arms. "Never mind. Tell you next time."

Aziraphale didn't know what to say to that, but he knew when to let a subject drop, so they fell into silence again, though it was mostly companionable, despite everything.

Crawly seemed quieter than he'd ever been, at least once they were out on the road, but then again, Aziraphale reasoned that he didn't really know the demon that well. Shouldn't know him, really, at all. Any other angel in his position would have sent Crawly back to hell first thing. But Crawly had, to date, never done anything to him to warrant such ill treatment. Still, it was odd enough for Aziraphale to notice, even considering the rest of their interaction.

They didn't quite reach Uruk, though they nearly made it. They were a little more than an hour's journey out when Crawly stumbled suddenly, his body giving a great involuntary shudder. When Aziraphale turned to him in concern, to ask what was wrong, his concern turned to mild alarm when the demon reached out and seized his hand. A jolt, a shock, like touching a live wire, ran up his arm. Crawly held fast when the angel instinctively jerked back, and Aziraphale stared down at their hands. Perplexed by their joining. Perplexed by the not unpleasant feeling that it caused.

It was, it would occur to him some time later, the first time he had been touched by Crawly.

"Listen," Crawly was saying, forcing Aziraphale's attention back to his face. Crawly's expression was suddenly tense, and his hand tightened around Aziraphale's. "I think I'm going. But you'll see me soon. Like this. I'll find you in Egypt in two or three decades."

"I don't know where--"

"You're going." Crawly smiled, and it was a little like a grimace. "Trust me."

Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something--perhaps to point out that he shouldn't trust him, he was a demon, or perhaps to ask again what this was about--but then Crawly was fading. Quite literally, becoming less corporeal before Aziraphale's very eyes, beneath his hand, though still smiling--a little wider now--until there was nothing there was nothing but empty air where he'd stood.

Soho, London, 1990

Sometimes, though, it was simple. Sometimes, Crowley'd go to sleep in his flat in Mayfair, and wake up on the sofa in the bookshop's backroom. Sometimes with a blanket tucked around him. Sometimes, if he was very lucky, he'd wake to the feeling of an angel's fingers carding through his hair.

When Crowley awoke this time, at first he thought he hadn't moved at all. It still felt like his bed under him--he hadn't fallen asleep on top of the covers, had he? And there, when he pressed his face into his pillow, there it was--the scents of tea and old books and cocoa and, somewhere lingering underneath, that faint edge of brimstone that signalled who the bed was really meant for. Crowley didn't get up right away, only hugged his pillow to him and breathed as his head cleared--from sleep or travel, it was hard to tell, at least without knowing how long he'd been there. Perhaps both.

He didn't live here, and when he was out in time there were so many other places to go that weren't here, but when Crowley was traveling, the bookshop was always home.

When he was ready to rouse from bed, the demon took a moment to take stock of things as he got up. Midday sunlight was coming in through the window. The flat was quiet, but he could hear the distant sort of noises from downstairs that told him activity was going on down there. As he stood and moved around the bed, he passed by the window, and a quick glance told him that he'd landed at a time when he wouldn't be so out of place for once. There were cars in the street, anyway.

To an outside observer, the upstairs flat--as well as the back room--of A.Z. Fell & Co. had the look of a place protected against the meandering antics of a particularly unsteady toddler. It was all plush carpeting and soft, rounded edges to furniture. Crowley had never been up here before he started time traveling--had never been invited, had always assumed Aziraphale didn't want him there, or at least, wanted a private space to himself, regardless of whether he was specifically looking to bar Crowley from it or not. In retrospect, when Crowley saw the space for the first time, and realized how blatantly it was designed for him--albeit still predominately in the angel's style, of course--with its attention to eliminating as many chances as possible for him to appear somewhere painful, and instead giving him a literal soft landing... Well. It made a bit more sense in that context.

Of course, having a soft place to land hadn't stopped the demon from appearing in the middle of the bookshop itself, which was a lot harder to Crowley-proof. And trying to contextualize anything about his relationship with Aziraphale before was... complicated.

Crowley briefly contemplated what to do with himself now, before deciding he didn't want to hang around the flat on his own. He was barefoot and sunglasses-less at the moment, which might have limited his options somewhat, but there were ways around that.

In Aziraphale's wardrobe, hanging in plain sight when Crowley opened it, alongside the angel's usual creams and browns and light blues, was one single, full outfit all in black--a tshirt, a jacket, a pair of skinny jeans, and, what he reached for now, a pair of snakeskin boots.

Crowley didn't remember leaving these behind--hadn't been to that particular event yet—but Aziraphale had blushed when Crowley had asked him where the clothes had come from, so he had a few ideas. He was rather looking forward to it.

He put the boots on, then left the bedroom and headed for the stairs down to the shop. He passed the sitting room on his way, humming at the presence of the 1960's-era television set that looked markedly out of place with the rest of the flat.

Downstairs, Crowley caught a glimpse of blonde curls near the front of the shop, but made a beeline first for the backroom first. He'd see his angel in a minute, and from the sound of things, Aziraphale was busy discouraging a customer from buying one of his precious books at the moment, anyway.

The backroom of the bookshop was a place Crowley had spent quite a lot of time before, and it looked much the same as it had the last time Crowley had stood in here when he wasn't traveling, and it looked the same as it had all the times he'd sat back here, drinking and talking with Aziraphale over the years, discussing the Arrangement or the Antichrist or whatever else they might have used as an excuse for each other's company. The difference, mostly, was now Crowley knew the room's secrets.

He found the stash of sunglasses--accidentally left behind or miracled there to be convenient, it was hard to say. They were hands-down the easiest thing for Crowley to leave behind on accident over the years, so maybe no miracles were necessary except to preserve them across time--tucked away in a drawer in a side table next to Aziraphale's armchair. He found the list, tucked away and completely innocuous, on a shelf just behind the angel's desk.

Slipping a pair of glasses on, Crowley meandered over to the shelf and pulled down the list from its place there--sometime over the centuries, when bound books overtook scrolls as the common way to record things, the list had metamorphosed into a small, leather-bound tome that never seemed to run out of space. Crowley hadn't asked Aziraphale if he'd miracled it consciously or if it had happened on its own as their needs changed, and he wasn't altogether sure when the transition even happened.

Crowley flipped through the book until he found the last written entry. The Bookshop, Soho, London, August 22, AD 1990.

Not wholly surprising, given some of his context clues, but useful information nonetheless.

Back out in the shop proper, Crowley found Aziraphale closing up shop early. He didn't startle when the demon came up behind him and settled his chin on the angel's shoulder and folded himself around him--only reached up and patted Crowley on the cheek before locking the shop's door and saying, "Hello, dearest. How was your trip?"

"Mm. Easy. Fell asleep in my flat. Woke up in our bed." If Aziraphale noticed the distinction in possessive pronouns, he didn't ask about it. (Aziraphale has asked. Of course he's asked. Every single time a horribly distressed Crowley has turned up, he has wondered and asked. It was just that, after the first several times only ended in making the demon more distressed, he had to be more careful. The last time had been so bad Crowley had simply disappeared from the stress. So he didn't speak his questions aloud anymore, and quietly wondered what the hell he was apparently doing in the future while his demon suffered so.)

"Already fed up with customers for the day?" Crowley asked. Aziraphale had finished locking up now, and had started walking away from the door. Crowley stayed half-encircled around him, even as he moved.

"That last woman tried to buy one of my first edition Austens," the angel said with a sniff.

"The nerve."

"And I thought I saw you skulking about." Aziraphale half turned his head to look down at him. "...All right?"

"Ngk. Yeah." Embarrassment wasn't a very comfortable look on a demon. "Just... spent a lot of time with you lately, you know, pre-Rome." It always made him a little clingy. He hadn't even been to Rome yet--not the one he meant now, anyway. Didn't matter. He knew it was when this part of their relationship had started. The part that made Aziraphale's bed Crowley's bed, too, and made Aziraphale call him things like dearest, and made it perfectly okay for Crowley to cling onto his angel like he was afraid Aziraphale might vanish into thin air at any moment instead of the other way around.

Aziraphale made a little sympathetic noise. "I imagine that also means you've been cooped up quite a bit lately."

Crowley raised his head slightly from the angel's shoulder. "A bit, yeah."

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. "Would you be amenable to an outing, then? There's a lovely little bistro that just opened up around the corner..."

Laughing a little, Crowley straightened up. This was hardly a turn of events that bothered him. "Sure, angel. Wherever you want to go."

Rome, 41 CE

It had been a busy time for Aziraphale--lots of work to do, keeping him out most of the day, but Crawly-- Crowley-- appeared late one night, and he was still there the next morning when Aziraphale went out again. And he was there, still, when he returned in the evening. Crowley stayed that time for nearly a week and Aziraphale… Aziraphale…

He liked it. He liked coming back at night to find Crowley waiting for him. There was a simple, idle domesticity to it all. To coming home to find the demon-- his demon—ensconced in his temporary living quarters, as if he belonged there. (Because he does, a voice inside him whispered. He always has.)

By the time instructions had arrived from Heaven for his next assignment, Crowley had gone, seeming to take part of Aziraphale with him. He’d set off for Judea the next morning, already thinking ahead to the next time.

Now, in a rented villa near Rome, free for the moment from Heavenly commitments, there was really no avoiding certain truths.

These things always tend to happen unexpectedly, don’t they? For Crowley, the spark that would grow into a consuming inferno came in Eden, nurtured through the millennia.

For Aziraphale, it would happen twice.

In 1941, amidst books and smoke and the shadow of the End of All Things.

In 41, it happened more simply than that. It was watching Crowley on the terrace, leaned against the railing, silhouetted against a brilliant sunset. And then he’d turned, and smiled and Aziraphale thought--

Oh. I love him.

In the future, the angel would keep that thought to himself, driven by fear and desperation and the irrational sting of guilt--that feeling like he’d been, on some level, unfaithful.

Here, at least, there was none of that. Not yet, not for this angel, unburdened by a future that still felt impossibly far away.

“I love you.”

It needn’t always be complicated. Even for these two onerously complicated beings.

Sometimes, this was enough.

Later, tangled up in each other in the quiet of the night--

“Have you done this before?” Whispered against a bare shoulder.

“Yes.”

“Like this?” With me?

“...Yes.”

(If you’re wondering, the first time for Crowley was a rainy winter’s day in 1952. It was a bit desperate, a bit sad, a bit of a microcosm of everything they were, had been, would be. From a certain angle, these nights were very much the same.)

Aziraphale rarely slept--rarely saw the need--but that night, happy and sated and momentarily free from worries he refused to acknowledge for just one night--he let himself indulge.

When the angel awoke the next morning, the bed beside him was empty, but still warm.

Crowley’s clothes were still draped over a chair. When Aziraphale called for the demon, there was no answer, just the creaking of an empty house.

The next day, he packed up his things--and Crowley’s discarded clothes for safe-keeping—and headed for the city. Some comfort was in order, he thought. He’d heard intriguing things about a restaurant that did something clever with oysters.

Giza, Egypt, 2560 BCE (2)

For once, Crowley landed with blissfully little fanfare. One moment he'd been riding in the lift in his building, the next he was standing in an unfamiliar dimly lit room. He caught himself on the edge of a table before he tripped from the shock of the sudden shift and the not at all unusual dizziness that accompanied it, but otherwise, it was one of his easier traveling experiences.

Straightening up, he slowly turned in a circle, taking in the room around him. It was, clearly enough, fairly standard inn fare. Straw bed. A table and two chairs. Though Aziraphale wasn't anywhere to be seen at the moment, Crowley easily recognized his things--a familiar too-white envelope, opened and discarded on the table; the angel's trunk that he often carried around with him when he didn't he didn't have a regular base of operations, and was, as far Crowley knew, still stashed somewhere in the bookshop, miraculously preserved across all that time. Or perhaps there was just something inherently magical about anything that belonged to an angel for that long, who knew?

The one thing that Crowley was expecting that was missing, at least at first glance, was itself a miraculous item. Frowning, he searched the usual places--the table, the bed. He even nudged aside the Heavenly missive in case it was hiding something under it. Perhaps he hadn't unpacked it yet?

Crossing to the room's single window, Crowley pulled it open to look out. Bright, midmorning sunlight streamed in and he squinted against it to try to get his bearings. He was somewhere hot and desert-y, apparently. Right. Egypt, maybe? Middle East somewhere? It'd help if this window pointed at something helpfully identifiable--like maybe a big "Thebes City Limits" sign, for instance. Crowley groaned. This was why he needed Aziraphale's notes. If this were modern times, he'd just take a walk around. It was a bit more of a hassle, the farther back he found himself. Changing his clothes was a pain--if he got yanked back without his normal clothes, welp. Too bad. Hope he wasn't attached to them.

(There was, in fact, a small dragon's hoard of abandoned Crowley belongings in a certain Soho bookshop, accumulated across the millennia and safeguarded by the angel, gathered up each time something was left behind with the intention of returning it, though inevitably one or both of them always managed to forget.)

Experimentally, Crowley snapped his fingers, intending to magic one of the chairs at the table closer to him. A tiny miracle, normally, that should have taken very little effort. The chair gave a great shudder, and there was a squeaking noise as it scraped on the floor, and then it moved... all of two inches.

Right then. Not an easy day for miracles.

With nothing else to do except wait for Aziraphale--and suddenly weary from even attempting that little bit of effort while outside of time--Crowley settled for searching through the trunk. The trunk opened to him without issue, even though perhaps it shouldn't have, not that he noticed. He sat cross-legged on the floor and began carefully rooting through the angel's things, wishing he could just miracle up what he was looking for, but he was already tired from the one attempt, and it just wasn't worth it so soon after. Miracles while time travelling were always a tricky thing. They took more effort, generally, like Crowley was trying to draw on his demonic powers from a great distance away. Or like the miracle equivalent of what happened when too many people were trying to use the same wifi, maybe.

Aziraphale had--would--once, around 2004 or so, suggested that miracles were so difficult while traveling because there were technically two of Crowley on Earth trying to access the same store of demonic power at once. Maybe. There had been a very pleasant two days in ninth century Bavaria with his angel that Crowley was fairly sure coincided with a very unpleasant discorporation episode that landed him in Hell for a couple decades.

Crowley didn't hear the door open, busy as he was searching through the trunk for one particular scroll with a very particular angelic power signature on it.

Someone cleared their throat behind him. "Ah..."

Crowley turned to see Aziraphale standing in the doorway, looking unsure. "Hey, angel. Quick question. Where do you keep the list?"

The angel merely blinked at him. "List?"

"Little scroll thing." Crowley made a gesture with his hands like he was rolling something up. "Tracks when I've been here. Tells me where and when I am so I don't have to wait for you to get my bearings."

Aziraphale nodded, but rather than produce the scroll from wherever it was hiding, he only continued to stand in the doorway, wringing his hands worriedly. Oh.

"...I guess it doesn't exist yet."

"No." Aziraphale stepped farther into the room. "This is only the fourth time I've seen you, like this."

"Oh." Crowley wanted to say Lucky you, but it sounded too bitter, even in his own mind, so instead he just kept his mouth shut.

"Do we see each other often... like this? When you're..." Aziraphale gestured at him, looking embarrassed. "Traveling?"

"...Fairly often, yeah." Crowley pushed himself to his feet. "Not fully sure how often, you understand, as it seems pretty random."

The angel's brow furrowed. "You have seen this list, though. You must have some idea of where you're going."

"Not really, no." Aziraphale made a surprised, skeptical noise. Crowley shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Don't exactly have the thing memorized." Mostly, he just desperately didn't want to know how few dates he had left.

The angel frowned, but still, after a moment, he waved his hand, and a piece of parchment unfurled into it. He handed it to Crowley wordlessly.

"Thanks." Crowley took the parchment and looked down at the date and location--Giza, his first guess was right, apparently--written out in Aziraphale's careful handwriting, as if the angel had actually taken pen in hand himself to write it down. "It's supposed to register automatically," he added helpfully. "Not much use, otherwise."

"Of course." Aziraphale snapped his fingers, but nothing obvious changed. Still, Crowley had seen it work enough to trust that it would. When Crowley glanced back up at Aziraphale, though, his expression was oddly pinched.

"Crawly..." he said slowly. "I know I don't fully understand... at all... what's happening here, but... is everything all right?"

As a rule, Crowley didn't lie to Aziraphale, at least not when he could help it. Wiggled around the truth a bit when he couldn't. Because the truth--the whole truth--never actually helped anything at all.

So, rather than answer the question, Crowley hesitated, and in the space of his hesitation, Aziraphale hastened to add, "It's just... You were just here, actually. Only a few days ago." He took a step closer, then seemed to hesitate, and stopped. "You seemed... ah... very distressed."

"Oh." Well, that wasn't especially surprising. "It might not have happened yet for me. I don't see you in the same order you see me."

The angel nodded, though he somehow looked even more uncomfortable now, which was quite the feat indeed. "You weren't here for very long. Perhaps ten minutes. And not conscious for most of it, I'm afraid."

"Oh," Crowley said again. He wasn't sure what else to say. Somehow, Yeah, that sounds familiar and That doesn't narrow it down a lot, angel, sorry didn't strike him as very reassuring, even if they were accurate. "Right. Well. Don't remember that time specifically."

He ran a tired hand across his face. "But the thing is, though I can't, y'know, control when and where I go, and sometimes it just happens. Like just now, it just kind of happened."

Aziraphale was nodding to show he was listening, though Crowley wasn't sure how much of this made any actual sense to him at this point. It'd been happening to him for years at this point, and he still struggled to make sense of it half the time. "But there are triggers sometimes. Exhaustion. Stress. That sort of thing, mostly."

"And alcohol?"

"Er." Crowley tried to look sheepish. He was afraid it came out guilty instead. "The alcohol was mostly for the stress. And mostly when it first started happening."

"I see."

There was a long pause, when neither of them seemed to know what to say, before the angel finally said, "Well, as interesting as this is, I do have things I need to be doing..."

"Right, sure. 'Course." Crowley waved his hands in a shooing motion towards the door.

Aziraphale frowned at him, but at least didn't argue.

"Don't worry, I'll find some way to entertain myself until you get back. Or until I pop home. Whichever comes first."

The angel sighed, resigned. "I suppose asking you not to stay here is asking too much?"

"Probably."

As if to demonstrate his intentions, Crowley walked over to one of the chairs and collapsed down into it. Aziraphale pursed his lips in annoyance. That was all right. Crowley had it on good authority that the angel forgave him. "Go on, then. I'll be here."

The Globe Theatre, London, 1601

Breaking laws, though undeniably demonic, was surprisingly complicated, it turned out.

Was reading someone else’s mail technically mail fraud if you were the one who wrote the letter--albeit some four centuries removed? Did mail fraud exist as a crime in Elizabethan England?

Theft was probably still bad, though. Or borrowing without asking, anyway, since Crowley fully intended to return all of it, if he had time.

The thing was… it had been a while. Six months since Crowley had last traveled. Six months was a drop in the bucket for an immortal, but it was the longest he’d gone so far.

Things were slowing down. Coming to an end. The real end, this time. Crowley didn’t know how many of these he had left--still refused to check, though it was at least getting harder to resist with each passing day.

So when he appeared in an empty room at an inn in seventeenth century London--the place bare except for Aziraphale’s trusty, ever present trunk and a discarded note from the demon himself…

Well, Crowley could hardly be blamed for his actions. Aziraphale might not be in, but Crowley knew where he’d gone.

Aziraphale had either just arrived or was preparing to leave, because all of his belongings were locked away in his trunk. Even the List, which always sat out in the open somewhere--easy to find and perfectly innocuous if you didn’t know what it was--even when the angel went years and years without seeing him. Just in case.

Of course, a locked trunk had never barred Crowley, and it certainly wasn’t going to stop him now when he was determined.

He just wanted to see his angel. Time and loneliness were a heaven of a thing. Make a demon do all sorts of crazy things they might not do otherwise.

Crowley could not go out dressed as he was, and Aziraphale’s clothes should not fit him, but should was never really a factor with them. The demon would have also preferred something darker and flashier, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

It wasn’t far to the Globe, which was probably for the best. Crowley felt oddly exposed, walking the street alone. He wondered if he’d disappear from the anxiety of it before he even made it to the theater. Wondered if he could, when his clothes were in a pile on Aziraphale’s floor and he knew the angel only had one set of Crowley’s clothes--a set that had already been accounted for.

He made it without incident, and quickly lost himself in the throng of people who were eager to see Shakespeare’s latest success. No one he passed seemed to know or care that it had been a disaster just a week before.

It was easy to slip through the crowd without being noticed, even without miracles to aid him. Really, it was easy to get in most anywhere if you acted like you were supposed to be there.

Crowley found his way to a balcony as the play started. From this vantage point, he had a clear view of the stage, but that wasn’t what he focused on. He’d seen enough iterations of Hamlet. Instead, he watched the crowd below.

It didn’t take long for him to spot himself--the dark red hair and the all-black get up was easy to pick out of a crowd. He wasn’t watching the stage either, though Crowley was sure he was pretending to, if only to make snarky comments. He’d made this a success. He’d earned a bit of snark.

No, instead his eyes were on the angel next to him. Crowley couldn’t see Aziraphale’s expression from where he was, but he could remember it well enough--how happy he’d been. How he’d fairly glowed with it, like a miniature, angelic sun.

The comparison was still apt, Crowley thought, watching them now. Like Icarus, he couldn’t help but fly too close. Even when it burned. Even when he fell. At least Icarus could only make his folly once.

Maybe it was worth it, just to fly.

He’d come here to see Aziraphale, but now that he was here, Crowley couldn’t help observing himself. He so rarely got the opportunity, despite all the time he spent laying around Aziraphale’s various abodes.

It was strange to see himself. Like looking in a mirror and looking at a complete stranger all at once. (The facial hair, in retrospect, was a mistake. One Crowley would keep making without ever learning his lesson.)

It was funny, in a tragic sort of way. Part of Crowley envied him--this other version of himself. This Crowley of days gone by. Lucky bastard didn’t know what was coming for him. Still had hope. The other part of him felt mostly pity--poor blighter. Didn’t know what was coming for him. All that hope, ready to be dashed on the rocks of cold hard reality.

The thing of it was, Crowley thought, turning his attention back to Aziraphale, if he could go back and change it all, he’d do it in a second. Forget the paradoxes, forget the possible consequences. Even if he’d have to erase five thousand years of Aziraphale being his, he’d do it. In a heartbeat. He didn’t think it was possible. He’d tried, and he was still here. With his wax wings and stolen sun. He’d resigned himself, long ago, to being happy with just this. Still, he wouldn’t be mad to be proven wrong.

Crowley left the theater before the play ended. He went back to the inn. Changed back into his own clothes. And waited, as always, for his angel.

Soho, London, November 30, 1900

Nothing lasts forever, even for immortals.

Crowley had learned this simple and devastating fact firsthand when he’d taken that million mile nosedive from heaven. He’d learned it again and again, over the millennia, living amongst humans whose lives were always too short, and sometimes that simple truth still snuck up on him when he least expected it.

He’d learned it again on an airfield in Tadfield.

It had been a while since Crowley had last travelled. Long enough that he’d started taking the first daunting steps toward moving on. A decade was nothing to a demon, but then again, who knew? All that time spent bouncing back and forth across time had to account for something. Maybe, if you added it all up, it would come out to much, much longer.

Enough time had passed by now that even Crowley had to give in and check the List. As much as he dreaded the thought that the last time had come and gone without his knowledge, he had to know.

He’d had a moment of questioning whether he’d even know what he was looking for. He had made it a point all this time to never look at the complete list, after all.

He needn’t have worried.

When the time finally comes, it’s surprisingly easy. Crowley is standing in his kitchen when it happens. He’s holding a postcard from the Antichrist--Crowley was sure he’d never given Adam his address, or any way to contact him for that matter, and yet this was not the first such piece of mail he’d gotten--and then his vision is dimming, and his stomach’s a little nauseous, and he has just enough time to think no, wait --

He landed, with little fanfare. The floor under his feet was wood now instead of concrete.

When Crowley reached his hands behind him to steady himself, his hands met the familiar outline of a bookshelf.

He knew, without moving or calling out, that he was alone. The corner of the shop he’d landed in was dimly lit--the daytime shadows of a shop with the blinds drawn. The stillness of a place that should be full of life, but was still as a tomb without its usual occupant.

It was all right, Crowley thought as he pushed away from the shelf and turned to take the familiar path into the backroom. He hadn’t really been expecting Aziraphale to be here just now, anyway.

He’d thought it strange, originally, when he found this date on the List. Crowley was almost positive Aziraphale had confirmed that they didn’t see each other once in the seventy-nine year period between their fight in St. James’ Park and the night in the church with the Nazis and the books. He hadn’t thought Aziraphale would lie to him--not about something like that.

There’d been time, though. Time enough that he’d gotten curious--or desperate. Or both—and searched the internet for this anomaly of a date.

At any rate, Crowley wasn’t surprised to find the bookshop empty today.

The demon wandered the bookshop, occasionally trailing a hand along a shelf or a table, feeling a bit like he was trying to commit the whole place to memory. He wanted to remember it like this, when, even empty, it still felt like a living, breathing extension of his angel.

He thought he’d be sadder. He thought, when the end finally came, he’d be railing against the unfairness of it all, that he’d try to hold on as tightly as he could.

He was sad. Crowley didn’t want it to end, but he’d always known it had to eventually. There was a sort of resigned acceptance to it now.

It wasn’t all bad. It had never been all bad, not really. He’d gotten to love Aziraphale for the whole of human history, not once but twice. He’d gotten to know he was loved in return.

That wasn’t nothing. That was so very far from nothing.

As Crowley walked through the shop, he thought it was far too quiet. He wanted to remember everything, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to remember it like this. As he walked past Aziraphale’s ancient and new phonograph, music started to play, like the shop was answering him.

Crowley paused, half-way to the stairs up to the flat, listening. And then he recognized the song and he laughed. He laughed and laughed, all the way upstairs.

It wasn’t all right. But it wasn’t all bad, either.

There was music playing in the bookshop.

It was quite late, the sun having set many hours ago now, when an emotionally exhausted Aziraphale arrived home at last. He had thought only to rest, perhaps to have a stiff drink in honor of a departed friend.

But there was music playing in the bookshop.

It didn’t sound like any music the angel owned, or in fact had ever heard before. He stood, just inside the shop, his brow furrowed in confusion as he listened to a voice he did not recognize--the voice of a man who, in fact, would not be born for another four-and-a-half decades.

“Whatever comes of you and me

I'd love to leave my memory with you”

(Many, many years from now, Aziraphale would hear Freddie Mercury sing “Now I’m Here” on the radio and would yelp with such surprise that Crowley nearly crashed the Bentley.)

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called out, hesitant. Hopeful. There was no response. He couldn’t feel a demonic presence in the shop, only the residual feeling that yes, someone has been here. Still, the angel walked through the shop, searching for some sign.

Come back, he wanted to call out, uselessly. Come back, come back.

The bookshop was empty, as was the flat above. When Aziraphale returned to the ground level, he went to the phonograph, intending to turn off the music. That was when he saw it. A note, written on a small, torn off piece of paper. Written in a familiar scrawl. When he reached out a trembling hand to pick it up, it simply said--

Mind how you go.