For the first time in his life, Aziraphale wished he could urge a driver to break the speed limit. There was a black pool of anxiety welling up in him. Why hadn't he insisted on Crowley showing him Sandalphon's offer? He might not have remembered Crowley all that well, but surely some part of him knew that the dear boy sometimes went off and brooded and came up with ridiculous risky schemes like stealing holy water. The only way to keep him safe was to be by his side.

Aziraphale stared out at the impossibly slow traffic. Really, he would be better off walking, why hadn't he caught the Underground? He avoided it usually, all that press of bodies and, worse, the press of too many human sins and needs and unfulfilled wishes all around him, too many to help. It also tended to be too hot and to wrinkle his suit. Still, he felt that time was of the essence.

It was Aziraphale's fault, his heart told him, if Crowley did anything reckless and stupid to protect him. Aziraphale had spent centuries encouraging the pattern of a demon swooping in to rescue and comfort him whenever things went wrong. When had that started? In the beginning, it had been Aziraphale who had been the protective one, showing kindness to a lonely demon, saving him from the desert, teaching him to write and to integrate with human society, to enjoys its pleasures.

Somehow, the script had flipped, and stayed flipped. The end of Kukkatarma, perhaps. Rather than disappearing with his doubts and fears like he had after the Ark, he had allowed himself to be tempted into being held and comforted and let Crowley rage against the Heavens on his behalf, just long enough to understand how wonderful that felt. By the time he had fled, it was too late, because then it was Egypt and being at wit's end with Hagar and Ishmael and the fear of the consequences of his own rebellion, and a surprisingly kind demon coming in and making it right. Once he had accepted that he liked being rescued and have his pain soothed... well. Crowley had obviously enjoyed it as well. He wouldn't have rescued and comforted quite as reliably if not, glowering and smirking his way through chivalrous acts as if that could disguise his own pleasure at being needed.

Aziraphale had told himself it was part of his good work, nurturing a spark of goodness in Crowley. Truthfully, he thought, trying to will the taxi to go faster, it had been vanity and pride. Secret, selfish, unacknowledged pleasure that a demon, a creature so utterly Fallen, still chose to please him, do little kind favours, save him from trouble, and ultimately even defy Satan for his sake. He would act against all the principles of Hell just for the sake of the angel's company and a grateful smile. Aziraphale's sins stared him blankly in the face.

He prayed. Dear Lord, give me your aid and guidance to make this right for both of us. A careful prayer, no open offers, but from his whole heart and soul.

No answer. Of course, no answer. When was there one? Perhaps he should have Fallen right back in the Garden, the first time the demon smiled at him, and saved them both all this pain. If he had, this damned taxi would be going faster.

That was a thought. What would Crowley do? Ah, that was it. Just arrange that no one was in the car's way.

Aziraphale smiled beatifically despite his anxiety. "I think you can speed up now, my dear lady."

The cab driver looked dazedly at the suddenly unobstructed road in front of them, other vehicles peeling aside. "I—uh—" Aziraphale reached out and touched her arm soothingly. A small blessing. The woman's face cleared, and the taxi leapt forward.

Crowley never bothered to knock on the shop door, but Aziraphale was an angel. In any case, he didn't want to risk walking in on Crowley doing, ah... His mind sought for a concrete example, shied away from any that came up, and settled on catching him doing demonic things in the flat.

The door swung open on a scowl. "I don't need any bloody—oh, Aziraphale. What are you doing here?"

Aziraphale blinked uncertainly at him. Crowley looked sleep-rumpled, his hair less beautifully styled than usual, his tie askew. "You said that if you didn't come to the shop, to come over and check on you," he said, ignoring that Crowley had said tomorrow.

"Did I?" Crowley passed his hand over his dark hair, restoring it to its usual perfection, and gave him a half-smile. "You'll have to forgive me," he said, as if the word meant nothing in particular, "I was napping. Don't hang around on the doorstep waiting for permission, come in. I'll make some coffee."

"Tea, for me," Aziraphale said automatically, and Crowley made a wry face, humorous annoyance with a touch of reluctant fondness.

"Sit down, Aziraphale. I'll make you some tea. I bought a fantastic tea maker, it should get some use."

"Barbarism," said Aziraphale, feeling strangely lost, as he crossed the deep pile carpet and took a seat on the horrendously uncomfortable leather couch.

"Luddite." He watched Crowley cross to the kitchen part of the open-plan flat, suit now uncreased and lying perfectly tailored over his thin form.

The flat was quite nice, really, but it had the cold feel of Heaven about it, with the bright neon light and all the white. Fashionable, he supposed. And kind of sad, really. Not that he would ever point that out to the dear boy, that would be unkind, not unless Crowley was being really irritating and in need of putting in place. Aziraphale wondered why he had expected the room to be somehow darker, and more dramatic. Silly of him. Crowley put in far too much effort pretending to be a polished young professional to harm his image with infernal styling. At least he had some nice houseplants.

"So, what was so terribly urgent that I needed checking on? Not that I mind the company, I mean, I suppose there's no need to run around playing secret agents anymore." Crowley handed him a teacup, and Aziraphale sniffed it cautiously. It smelled quite delicious, despite the ominous mention of a tea maker.

"Have you heard anything unusual from Down There?" Aziraphale asked.

"Nah." Crowley settled in the chair opposite him, tiny espresso glass in his own hand. "I think you were right, they are going to pretend nothing much happened. Yours?"

"Nothing."

"So business as usual, I suppose. Well, not quite as usual." Crowley met Aziraphale's kindly smile and looked away, looking embarrassed and a little pleased at the unmasked affection.

They talked vaguely of music while Aziraphale drank his tea, arguing mildly about the relative joys of record players and high fidelity systems with over equalised and, Aziraphale held, soulless music, and agreeing that live was better anyway and they should really get some concert tickets. After all, concerts were one of their usual rendezvous when they needed to exchange information, so they were familiar ground.

Crowley's own choice of music seemed a bit odd. Adagio in G minor, of all things, sighing with loss in the background. Why loss, when they had won, and come through remarkably well, all things said? Perhaps he was trying to start an argument about its authorship, but Aziraphale was no mood to bicker, for once. Or perhaps it was simply that it was beautiful, and not Queen.

"Look, I have some work to be getting on with soon, havoc to cause, that kind of thing, and I'm sure you have some good deeds that need doing and books not to sell, but how about meeting me at Claridge's for dinner? I haven't had their lobster in truffle sauce for ages, and I know you'll love their Île flotante." The demon frowned at the ceiling as if pretending that it didn't matter at all that he was suggesting a purely social meet-up, no pretence about it being about the Arrangement. The dear boy could be really considerate, sometimes, for the Enemy.

"I suppose we've earned a treat," Aziraphale said pleasantly, climbing to his feet. "Saving the world, and all that. Well, you're right, I must be getting on. I'm glad everything was all right here."

Crowley looked puzzled for a moment, as if wondering why it wouldn't be. "See you tonight." He stood abruptly, with serpentine grace, and for an odd minute Aziraphale wondered if Crowley was going to hug him. That would be extraordinarily out of character. Crowley wasn't at all the demonstrative type. Instead, Crowley gave him a half-smile, corners of his eyes crinkling a little beside his dark glasses.

"See you at half eight, angel. I'll pick you up."

"I'll take a taxi," Aziraphale said firmly, shuddering at the thought of getting in that black case again, and Crowley laughed.

"You'd be safer with me. All right, then."

"All right, then," Aziraphale echoed, and left.

He was pleased, of course he was. It meant more to him than he probably should admit that his relationship with the demon was proceeding on more openly friendly terms. Now the threat of the Antichrist was all over, he could admit to himself how much their long history together meant to him, how much Crowley's friendship had always meant to him.

He couldn't understand why he was feeling such a terrible sense of loss. After all, everything had worked out for the best in all possible worlds. The Almighty always, in the end, looked after her children, even the wicked ones like Crowley.

Perhaps it was that damnable music.

The afternoon and early evening passed quickly enough. Someone came in with an eye to selling the books from her grandmother's estate, and after relieving his conscience with a quick check to ensure the lady had indeed passed on to her happy reward and didn't care about material objects, Aziraphale had a delightful time negotiating.

He finally finished the business and sighed happily. An hour still until he had to meet Crowley. Time to relax and gloat on the incoming treasures. There was a knock on the door, and he called out "We're closed!"

"Not to your brother in Heaven, surely," said a jolly voice, and Aziraphale looked up at a breath of lemon.

"Ah, Sandalphon." He repressed a slight sense of unease. He probably shouldn't admit to it, even to himself, but he heartily disliked Sandalphon. He couldn't look at him without remembering Sodom and Gomorrah. Yet they said Sandalphon had actually been a human himself before Ascension. It hardly bore thinking about. Crowley had much more genuine feeling for humans, and he was a demon who cheerfully spent his existence tormenting them.

Besides, Aziraphale secretly felt that any Archangel of Music who did such a terrible job of securing talented musicians for Heaven should resign the title.

"What can I do to help you?" he asked anyway, always courteous.

"Well, you know what a stickler Michael can be." Sandalphon dropped into the occasional chair that Crowley, well, occasionally used, when he came around the book shop. Aziraphale repressed an odd flash of resentment. "She says your consent is needed on this one, and I have to admit she was right, contractually speaking. So we just gave you a temporary change according to the demon's wishes, to see how you felt, and now I suppose it's up to you."

"Whatever do you mean?" said Aziraphale, and then it all came back.

Two sets of memories. Two. A long, comfortable, mostly unspoken friendship across the millennia, important to them both, a source of comfort and pleasure, but not speaking aloud. And the other—longing, frustration, fear, pain. Forever hurting each other. The memories fought each other.

"You changed my memories of him again?" Aziraphale said, shaking with rage.

Sandalphon clicked his tongue at him. "No, we just gave you a taste of a different path, so you know what you're choosing.. The offer was for the demon to be what you wanted, not what he thought you wanted. Gabriel just deliberately took it that way, even though there was no sign of a clear enough repentence to unFall anyway, if you ask me. Bad faith contract. I'm not surprised Gabriel Fell himself." He smiled, contemplating the ceiling. "Not that I'm complaining about a sudden vacuum in power, to be honest."

"You want to take and change my memories when I just got them back." The fury was cascading through him again.

"Oh, nothing as namby-pamby as that. We're letting you choose your past from, shall we say, the most readily available ones. I mean, we can't change the really big things. Apocalypse still failed, you're still a traitor to Heaven who miraculously still has white wings through some ineffable decision of the Almighty, you and the demon are still irritating codependent brats. Gabriel, well, he Fell well and truly, and good riddance to him. But you get to choose what you and the demon are to each other."

"Why me? Surely this is Crowley's decision as well?"

"Oh, yes. He's made his. He Rose, and then Fell again. I'd advise you to both keep out of Michael's way for a while, she's ropable about having to build Uriel a palace. The Serpent's only caveat was that we make a deal with Hell that Asmodeus doesn't get to touch or punish him, and they were willing enough, just for the chance to stop a precedent of Ascending demons." Aziraphale felt a small moment of pride that Crowley hadn't forgotten his common sense entirely, if Falling twice could be considered to be sensible. "But the two of you have to sort it out somehow. Can't make decisions for each other, when there's two sincere prayers. You have to find a way not to let them conflict."

"If we don't?"

Sandalphon smiled unpleasantly. "Good luck with that, then. We won't wait forever. You know, you both could Fall. That would be the easiest way all around, from my perspective."

Then he was gone.

Aziraphale reached out a shaking hand to his antique phone. It was answered before the first ring was even finished.

"Aziraphale."

"What colour is your hair?"

A shaky laugh. "Auburn. I think. For now. But a bit darker than usual. Angel, you have to understand, this is for the best for both of us. Weren't you happy that way?"

Yes. He had been. Perfectly content. Looking forward to a lovely life on Earth among his books, and continuing an ancient and dear friendship. The truth of that was undeniable.

"Crowley, would you be so kind as to pick me up for dinner after all?"

It was only a few seconds' silence, but the anxiety and unspoken sentences were almost audible. "All right. See you in a few minutes." The next two words were almost there, Aziraphale could almost hear them, love you. Perhaps they had been mouthed. He was sure Crowley never intended to speak them aloud again.

Aziraphale gently replaced the receiver in its cradle.

Notes:

1) As always, I'll keep the updated if you want some super heartbreaking music to Angst with. "Adagio in G Minor" is frequently attributed to the 18th century and Tomaso Albioni, but is more properly regarded as a twentieth century composition by Remo Giazatto. I actually have a Good Omens fit in my head somewhere about that... Anyway, if you want some music to make you cry, can't do better, really.

2) Happy ending in next update. :) We've run out of contracts. Love to you all, hope you feel the various strands are all tying up properly. Thank you for staying with me.

3) Updated note as there was some confused feedback from readers. The white late 1980s flat, dark hair, different relationship, lack of punishment from Heaven or Hell, far less highly strung and more yuppie Crowley is book canon. It was really fun to write book!canon Crowley and Aziraphale, it has been a long time.