London, Four Days ago.

Heaven hadn't left Aziraphale alone as long as he'd hoped.

"Hello, Aziraphale," said a melodious voice, and he swallowed his cocoa down fast, looking at the almost unbearably perfect face of Uriel, the ironically named Prince of Repentance, pitiless as any demon. Certainly more pitiless than the demon Aziraphale spent most of his time with. Uriel, who was set over the final tortures of the sinners on the Day of Judgment, and had only recently been thwarted in her mission.

The words echoed in his head. And this was it, then. If Uriel had worked out the swapped bodies trick, then the river of hellfire would be waiting for him, and there would be no escape. Perhaps it would be better than Falling, after all. He hoped Crowley would have the sense to run for it, because if Heaven had suspicions, then—

"Hullo, Aziraphale," said a rather less lovely voice. "Long time no see."

Aziraphale put his mug down quickly. "Hello, Uriel, Dagon. You are unusual company. What brings you to my shop?"

"We thought, " Dagon said, smiling, "you might like to cut a deal." Aziraphale looked into the demonic smile, and remembered the gleeful condemnation of Crowley to death by holy water, and mustered all his courage to smile serenely at them. It helped that Dagon was far more demure looking and less scaly up on Earth than in the dripping mess of Hell. With their red hair and frills around their neck like an Australian lizard, they could pass for one of the more attractive Tudors.

"An infernal contract? I'm afraid— "

"Not just infernal," Uriel said, in her smooth, cold voice. "Holy as well. And not a contract. An offer. A way out of this mutually unpleasant impasse."

"A trilateral negotiation, you might say," Dagon put in helpfully.

"I'll just call Crowley to come in and discuss it," Aziraphale said, wondering just how to phrase the phone call in order to warn Crowley what was up without arousing their suspicions. Even if he was doomed, Crowley might be able to make it out alone.

"No. No phone calls. Crowley already has a contract signed and sealed, six thousand years ago." Uriel's smile frosted her lips like ice. "The balance must be kept, Aziraphale. You understand that."

A terrible certainty leapt into his heart. "You want me to Fall, to save Crowley?" He couldn't help feeling personally betrayed. Of course Uriel had condemned him to extinction, threatened him, but he was a fair angel, he could see in retrospect that was just part of her job. This, though—she was from his team.

On the other hand. To save Crowley. It wasn't really like he had any choice. He took a deep breath, feeling sick and giddy with fear. "All right."

Dagon laughed. "What use would your smudged little soul be to our Prince? You're probably going to belong to us eventually anyway. No, don't worry about that."

Aziraphale blinked, feeling relieved, and guilty to be relieved, and also a little insulted. "What exactly do you want of me, then?"

Uriel shrugged a beautiful shoulder, making her perfectly tailored suit rise and fall like the swelling of the sea. "I want to give you and your boyfriend a chance at redemption. After all, isn't that my job?"

"But fair's fair," said Dagon. "Balance and all that. There has to be a chance of failure, as well. An excellent chance."

"So what do you want of me?"

The angel and demon exchanged meaningful glances, and Aziraphale had the unsettling idea that they understood each other far better than he had ever understood any of the other angels.

"Michael has it in her head," Uriel said slowly, "that only a creature of love could survive holy water. That in some way your boyfriend must be capable of love, and therefore, redemption." Aziraphale felt the shock deep within himself. Michael. Michael who had poured out Crowley's eternal destruction with a smile, then stood in shock as Aziraphale survived. Michael who had looked at him as if every reference point she had was shattering from his survival... "Ridiculous, of course," Uriel said. "I don't understand it, she's usually so sensible. But she is, after all, the Prince of Mercy."

"She's delusional," Dagon said bluntly. "That little snake never loved anyone but himself. One of his best qualities. Lust, on the other hand..." They grinned at Aziraphale and he looked away, blushing.

"Nonetheless," Uriel said, "what matters is what you think, Aziraphale."

"Me?" He blinked again.

"Is the demon Crowley capable of selfless love? Because if you agree, you're gambling on it. Think on it well. We're not going to force you into anything. We'll be in touch. And remember—mention this to him, even hint at it, and all bets are off."

Aziraphale, alone in his shop, closed his eyes tight, and remembered. Six thousand years. So many memories. So many casual temptations and seduction attempts. Fingers trailed lightly up his thigh, lips and breath too close to ear or neck, meaningful glances, double-edged words. A fairly harmless game unless either of them took it seriously. Crowley always stopped pushing when Aziraphale showed signs of irritation, and after all, tempting was his job, just like thwarting was Aziraphale's. The angel had never resented it. He had, in fact, enjoyed it. There was no denying that amount of focused attention from a demon was flattering, or that Crowley was attractive. Of course, vanity was a sin, and so was lust, but there was only so long you could be around humans without accepting, as Dagon had said, a little smudging of the soul in the name of your work.

Besides, it was, he told himself, the price of having Crowley in his life. Best not to think about it too much, except when he was alone and couldn't help it, because of course these corporeal forms had their own needs.

Now it was vital to think about it. And more importantly—the surprisingly tender yellow eyes fixed on him, a gentle hand, a promise to stand by his side, a thousand tiny, half-shamefaced kindnesses, a kind of desperate need to please under the snarkiness, and then his face lighting up like a star when he did give pleasure. Always turning up like a bad penny, and with more and more flimsy excuses, until there was no attempt to make excuses at all. Always there when needed. Flashes of love. Anywhere you want to go. And then, Let's run away together. Eager, burning urgency.

Music. Music would help. Aziraphale preferred to change records manually, liked the tactileness of it, the way it was far, far away from the echoing, constantly resounding, uncontrollable music of the Spheres. His gramophone played exactly what he decided it would play, purchased with real money and put there with his own two hands, setting the needle in place. Right now, what he wanted was some Glinka. He set the needle to the right track, and Ruslan began to lament his despair over battle and the terrible waste of life.

Aziraphale wasn't stupid. He'd seen Michael's cool, smug expression as she poured out eternal death. Removing a threat to Heaven. Some ridiculous part of him had hoped that she had chosen to work with the demons so that she didn't have to see his own execution, she'd always been so kind to him, but he knew she hadn't intervened, either. She may have loved Aziraphale, as she loved all angels, but she had been willing to kill him.

Prince of Mercy. And Uriel was Prince of Redemption. Sometimes the Almighty really was ineffable. Not as ineffable as making Sandalphon the Prince of Music and Intercessory Prayer, he supposed, although the Almighty had, forgive Aziraphale for the blasphemous thought, appalling taste in music. It was something only humans really understood.

He was letting himself get distracted because he was afraid and confused, he realised, forcing his thoughts back on track. didn't know the stakes, he realised. But he also realised, he had already decided, the moment Uriel had made it a question about whether Crowley was capable of love.

Because if he wasn't, Aziraphale might as well step into the hellfire right now for all he cared. A world in which he couldn't believe that Crowley might, at least a bit, have a smidgen of love for him was not worth living in, because he had been head over heels in love with the demon at least since the end of Kukkutarma, since the soothing babble and cold arms around him and surprisingly hot lips on the skin of his shoulder. Pushing Crawly—Crowley--away at that moment had been one of the hardest things he had ever done and sometimes, in the dark of his own thoughts, he still regretted it.

The door jangled again, and the spoiled egg miasma of sulphur floated back into the room. Aziraphale looked up at Dagon.

"I'm sorry, can I help you further?"

"Can you help?" Dagon mimicked his tone. "You can do nothing to help me. But I can help you, if you like. For old time's sake. And in gratitude for all the lovely, lovely paperwork." They rubbed their hands together.

"Am I supposed to trust a demon?"

"Of course not. That would be stupid. But you have a record of being stupid that way, haven't you?" Dagon seemed to be amused. "Listen. Don't trust the angels. Sign no contracts. If Crowley asks, tell him the same. But most of all, remember this."

Dagon leaned down, and hissed in Aziraphale's ear, "Do not let the worm confuse lust for love, or he's doomed for good, and so are you." They straightened. "I mean, he's doomed for good anyway," Dagon said more loudly and more cheerfully. "Our side wouldn't have agreed to it otherwise. But you can't say I didn't play fair by you, old friend."

They disappeared in a cloud of foul smelling yellow smoke. Demons. Always so dramatic.

On the recording, Rusland had remembered his Lyudmila, and his voice rose in appeal to the God of Love.

Everything seemed less daunting at dinner. Crowley's mobile face was showing happiness and pleasure, and affection. It had to be affection. Nothing leering, nothing to set off warning bells. Just a soft glow. That was love, wasn't it?

Was it enough love?

Aziraphale really had no idea how to go about eliciting proof of affection. Divine ecstasy, yes. Sympathy, of course. Impersonal love for all of creation, like breathing. Seduction was straightforward, he'd been around humans long enough to know how it worked, but by the nature of it could lead to confusion, so to speak, the same confusion that Aziraphale could feel at the brush of a hip against his hand, a dark tone of voice, a face watching him far too intently.

Crowley had eased off on all the physical temptations many centuries ago and that, Aziraphale told himself, was certainly for the best and a sign of growing respect for their companionship, and not at all to be missed. It never really went further than an occasional flirtatious look, these days; the times when Crowley would openly sit at between his feet and wind his arms around his waist with clear implication were literally millennia ago. It had been rather fun, back in the day. But it had been wrong. He had been naive in those days, not really understanding how easily humans could doom themselves with their corporeal forms. And, right now, temptation could be dangerous.

The more recent lack of physical demonstration could prove, however, to be a disadvantage, when it was so terribly, terribly important to be sure Crowley loved him.

Small steps first. He placed his hand on the table between them. Surely, surely that was a clear invitation to intimacy. But Crowley just gaped at it, as if wondering what it was and why it was there.

Embarrassed, Aziraphale started to withdraw his hand, when a cool hand suddenly covered it. Almost grabbing, as if scared to lose it. Crowley's fingers coiled over his, snake like, and Aziraphale could have wept with relief. He blushed, instead, curling his thumb against Crowley's hand.

Demons couldn't detect love from others, could they? Or could they? They were of angelic stock, no matter how much the clamour of Hell had confused their senses. If Aziraphale loved enough... Maybe?

Crowley's fingertips were moving so faintly on his that Aziraphale was almost sure it was instinctive and unintentional. Tiny, cherishing little caresses, fainter than breath. He felt loved. It had to be love, surely. Aziraphale talked of music and books and thought of happiness, and hope, and sudden confidence he could face down any angel at all.

They would bring each other home safe. He was sure of it.

Notes:

1) The fragments left of the Apocryphal prophecy Apocalypse of Peter goes into horrendous detail about all the things Uriel is going to do to sinners—then, unexpectedly, says that even sinners will be eventually delivered from the fire by the prayers of the righteous anyway, but they're not to know that in case they decide sin is worth its temporary wages. Aziraphale would certainly have it in his collection.

2) Mikhael Glinka's opera Ruslan and Lyudmila, based on the poem Pushkin. Aziraphale is listening to Ruslan's aria from Act II.

3) Speaking of which, this was delayed because I decided it was absolutely necessary to make and post a playlist of all the music Crowley and Aziraphale listen to in my stories.  

4) May miss an update this weekend as I'm DMing tomorrow and haven't prepared yet. Also I actually slept properly last night, so there was no frantic insomniac writing. Love to you all, thank you for the support, and see you soon!