Crowley dreamed of Heaven.

The Principality Aziraphale was newly minted, glowing but not burning. Botis hadn't had much to do with the third Triad, and he was interested that they had been given forms similar to the humans. Only two wings—did the humans have wings? Hardly any eyes at all, though. It would be much easier to cover them against the glory of God if there were only two, so he supposed one pair of wings was enough too.

Principalities were completely different to any other angelic form he'd met, judging by this one. Softer even than feathered wings, but solid, somehow.

"Yes, I understand your point, your Grace," Aziraphale said patiently, "but I do think if everyone would just talk to each other it could all be sorted out without all this nasty Rebellion business."

"Since when has the Almighty answered anyone's questions?" Crowley asked bitterly.

"Perhaps Prince Lucifer is asking wrongly," Aziraphale said. He folded his hands primly. "Not that I would judge him. Still, I find a nice talk always helps."

"Look, we made the Universe for Her—"

"Not me, personally."

"I forgot, you're still new-born." Botis turned and twisted in his fire. "Well, some of us did. Great big stars and planets."

"The stars are very pretty," Aziraphale said politely. "Well done."

"Not close up, they're too hot even for me, and smelly. Anyway, that's not my point. My point is, we were Her creations and companions, and now what? We have to bow down to two corporeal beings on one insignificant tiny planet?"

"I'm rather looking forward to guiding them," Aziraphale said, a little pouty. "They are... interesting."

Botis directed the gaze of some of his eyes into the clear blue-green ones of the Principality ,and for the first time felt defeated. This child of an angel Questioned, he was sure of it. It was in the slightly worried brow, the careful lacing of his fingers together. But under it all was an unassailable faith and Love like bedrock. Botis felt that, this time, he was better off cutting his losses and going to talk to someone else. Lucifer would understand. It was just a Principality, after all.

He didn't leave.

"Look," said Aziraphale. "It's no good. My entire Created purpose is to look after and love the humans, do you really expect me to resent them? Don't worry your head over it, your Grace. Everything will turn out for the best, just wait and see." He smiled, and his smile was startlingly beautiful, in a completely different way to all the glory of Heaven. "It's all going to be quite fun."

It was hard to open his eyes. Such a strange dream. He'd never known Aziraphale in Heaven. Perhaps, if he had, things would have been different. Probably not, though. He'd never loved anyone or anything in Heaven, not even the Almighty, not until a shame-faced admission of disobedience by an unfallen angel, a wing kindly outstretched against the first rain. Would any of that have mattered to him when he was still held in the Almighty's unbearable burning Grace?

If he was going to dream about Aziraphale, he could think of several hundred more fun situations to imagine him in than Heaven.

His eyes hurt. His shoulders hurt. Serve him right for falling asleep on the couch when he had a perfectly, in fact obscenely, comfortable bed. Perhaps he should have sobered up first. He hadn't even drunk that much. Maybe his precious Seppeltsfield port had gone bad. It wasn't like Aziraphale had drunk much of it anyway. He peeled open one eyes and gave it a baleful look.

The atmosphere of the flat was still deliciously warm and golden. He wondered if Aziraphale was maintaining it now, or him. In the light, the thrones looked ridiculous, and he decided it was time to change them to something less showy. He could try clean and light instead of Gothic industrial nightmare. Time to browse some catalogues.

Crowley rolled onto his feet and slouched into the kitchen. Copious amounts of black coffee would help.

Six shots in his mug, he wandered into the atrium, hoping to take out his general unease on the plants. They showed him beautiful, flawless leaves, tiny starlike flowers. They were clearly just trying to annoy him. He snarled at them a bit and misted them like he was spattering them with machine gun bullets, but his heart wasn't in it without flaws to pick on. Maybe they were benefiting from a bit of residual Aziraphale-ness.

Aziraphale had always had a way with plants. No wonder he had chosen the role of gardener as cover. There was no leafy courtyard in the bookshop, though, and no monkeys. Struck by a thought, Crowley selected a particularly verdant monstera, the scales falling off the long-ripening fruit, the scent delicious. Had Aziraphale ever tasted one? It seemed like a significant gift for a demon to give to an angel, a deadly poisonous plant with fruit that had become wholesome and delectable with the long passage of time. Crowley wasn't sure where he was going with the metaphor and didn't want to pursue it in case it fell apart and left him stranded. Hopefully Aziraphale would appreciate it anyway.

Crowley drained his coffee, picked up the monstera pot, glared silently at the other plants as if to suggest he was taking the pot plant to its doom, and headed for the garage.

His beloved watch told him it was currently 11 am in London, but 6 pm in Hong Kong, which meant that he would already be late to pick up Aziraphale, if they happened to be in Hong Kong. That would do as an excuse. In any case, Aziraphale always let him into the shop at any hour. He came in useful for scaring away potential customers by drooping languorously over the stacks and glaring at them as if they were shoplifters, until they went away and gave Aziraphale an excuse to close up.

Crowley carefully nestled the plant into the driving seat and reached for some glasses from the glovebox. He'd give it to Aziraphale, as a kind of peace offering—had they quarrelled? He wasn't sure—and then take advantage of the very unEnglish sunshine to pester Aziraphale into coming for a drive on the coast before the concert. There was a little seafood restaurant he'd been meaning to introduce Aziraphale to in Whistable that served the most divine oysters.

Divine. That word had popped into his head with no discomfort at all. Perhaps it was because he was thinking of the angel, but then, when did he not, lately?

He pulled the Bentley over at random on the sidewalk, leapt out with the monster in hand, and pushed the door open without checking if it was locked. It didn't matter either way, it would still open.

"We're closed!" Aziraphale called from the back room. Crowley ignored that. It was only a reflex every time Aziraphale heard the bell on the door jangle, anyway. His few customers had long ago learned to ignore it as well.

The gramophone was playing, hissing as it turned. Tchaikovsky, an English recording of None But a Lonely Heart from the 1920s, if he was any judge, and he knew Aziraphale's musical tastes well enough to be. Crowley had often wondered why Aziraphale was resistant to updating to a system with more crystalline sound, but somehow the tenor's voice was textured and even more melancholy for the distortion.

Heaven's boundless arch I see
Spread out above me.
O what a distance drear to one
Who loves me

"Not closed for me, angel," he said, pushing the velvet curtain aside. "I brought you something."

Aziraphale looked up from book on his desk, his hands in white gloves, spectacles perched on his nose. That was unfortunate. Aziraphale was much harder to tempt away when he was immersed in a new treasure. Under the spectacles, his bewitchingly round eyes were even rounder than usual, startled.

"Angel? I—oh." His expression cleared, although there was something wary, almost like fear, behind it. "The seraph Botis, isn't it? It has been a long time. What brings me this honour?"

Crowley stared blankly at him. "That's not remotely funny." He put the plant down on the desk.

"Funny?" Aziraphale blinked at him. "You must excuse me, I didn't mean to make a joke. Oh, what an attractive plant." He stripped off the gloves and got up, nervously. "Can I make you some tea? Do you take in corporeal matter?" He moved to the kettle plugged in the corner of the room.

"Hilarious. I actually came to take you out for an early lunch and a chat."

"A—a chat?" Aziraphale nearly knocked over the mug he was reaching for.

"Don't look so scared," Crowley said, irritated. "I won't bring up anything awkward. Nothing more threatening than a bit of hand-holding over lunch."

"Hand-holding?" squeaked Aziraphale.

"Oh, no, don't play it this way," Crowley snapped. "Hand-holding is fine, we established that."

There was utter bewilderment in the angel's face. Then the doorbell jangled again, and the confusion deepened to terror.

"You have to leave, right now," Aziraphale said suddenly. "No, by the back door. I'll explain later, I promise. Just—please." He shifted his wait from foot to foot. "Give me an hour, and I'll explain everything. Go. Please—trust me."

Crowley was nonplussed and resentful, but faced with that sweet anxious face, he felt he had no alternative. "All right," he said, and headed for the back door. He opened it, hesitated, and then closed it again, slipping into snake form, the tiniest snake form he had yet assumed, and slid quietly behind a cabinet. He felt guilty, but Aziraphale had clearly not noticed.

"You're early," Aziraphale said crisply to whoever had entered the main room.

"Have to keep you on your toes," replied a pleasant voice.

Gabriel. Well, that made sense. Crowley felt a bit stupid, as he was aware he had probably just foiled Aziraphale's attempt to protect him and put himself in danger, but that was overwhelmed by a furious, protective, righteous rage. If that bastard laid a hand on Aziraphale...

He was, in fact, laying a hand on Aziraphale. An affectionate boop on the nose that was probably actually a hidden threat. Crowley began to think through his options. It was unlikely Gabriel was actually carrying holy water, and after all he was supposed to be immune to it, but he probably had weapons of some kind under that beautiful cashmere suit. A fight wouldn't be easy. But he'd be damned over again if he let Gabriel drag Aziraphale back to Heaven.

"Well, your timing was dreadful, dear. You only just missed someone from Headquarters. I think we're being checked up on."

Gabriel gracefully cast himself into a chair facing Crowley's hiding place. In a sense of sick, dizzying panic, Crowley saw Gabriel removed mirror lensed glasses from his perfect face to reveal the blue, multi-faceted eyes of a demon.

Crowley slid through an open window into the back alley and transformed back, his lungs aching, his heart hammering so hard that he had mist in front of his eyes. He reached to his chest to clutch at his chains, but they had vanished. Behind him, snowy white wings spread open.

Through the open window, the tenor's voice crooned mercilessly on.

Alone and parted far
From joy and gladness
My senses fail
A burning fire devours me

Notes:

1) Lyrics to Tchaikovsky 'sNone But the Lonely Heart by Lev Mei, based on a Goethe poem, translated by... Wikipedia. If you're interested, the recording I was listening to was by John McCormack and is incredibly beautiful.

2) Monstera have experienced a 150% rise in sales in London in the last year. Symbolism side, Crowley at least tries to be fashionable.

3) Thanks to those who expressed sympathy, I slept the migraine off, thanks possibly to the magic of sleeping pills.

4) I suppose I should say don''t get used to this pace? But I am feeling like a writer again, and it is oh so fun.

5) Title from the Eurythmics song.