Crowley had known for aeons that not all angels were good.

The waters that had flooded Mesopotamia had been heralded by the singing of an angelic choir. And on that note, Sodom and Gomorrah hadn't been razed to the ground by Hellfire. They'd been purified by the holiest of flames, brought low unto the earth so that they could be born and raised anew.

Even that hadn't prepared him for how far the Archangels were willing to go.

From his head to his shoulders to his limbs, nothing seemed to fit right. It was as though he'd been put through the spiritual equivalent of a meat grinder than molded into something vaguely Crowley-shaped. The corporation was doing its best to accommodate for his essence as it stitched itself back together, no doubt bearing scars from the celestial lobotomy it'd suffered. His body had grown accustomed to the cardboard cut-out of him, the version that was restricted, contained so that it didn't quite fill the corners. There was some rapid expansion work in order on the metaphysical plane, which meant that pressing his temples wouldn't coat his fingers in molten metal, that his brain stem hadn't been dug out with an ice cream scoop - it just felt that way. All of it was the result of his corporation doing its darndest to communicate the rejoining of body and essence through sensations that could be felt and understood by a being that was neither a serpent nor the remnant of firmament breathed into life.

He thought of who Xaphan used to be, the fledgling that followed Lucifer's crowd without any real conviction, only admiration and a desire to please. It'd been his stroke of brilliance that set Heaven ablaze when they Fell, but after seeing what he'd become, little more than Hastur's immortal lackey, a demon that he could destroy as many times as he wanted without consequence, even Crowley couldn't help feeling a stirring of pity for him. It helped that the dagger sticking out of his torso, while the most immediately concerning, had to be the least agonizing injury of the lot.

Split a grain of rice down the middle over and over for a lifetime, and by the end of your days, there will still be rice to split. Teach your sons, your daughters, your grandchildren to do the same, and they will repeat the act until the end of their days, too. But there will still be rice.

That is to say that there was still a part of Xaphan that hadn't always been an imp. It was just so small and inconsequential after all his innumerable divisions and destructions that hardly mattered. If the Serpent of Eden hadn't ever spoken to the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, would a similar fate have befallen him?

Some musings didn't bear thinking about.

As per the angel's orders, Crowley remained entirely still until Aziraphale waved a hand over the weeping sores marring his cheek to remove any last traces of Holy Water from the puckered, angry flesh. In his periphery, the motion was a blur, a concentration of intent, and he flinched in spite of himself. Aziraphale froze as though his time had stopped, not even daring to breathe until Crowley, gritting his teeth against a wave of agony emanating from his middle, nodded roughly. Aziraphale hesitated a moment longer before getting on with it, and the pain abruptly receded. Angels couldn't heal damage inflicted by blessed things, but they could remove their presence, sending them elsewhere so that the wounds could be allowed to heal. A vain whisper in the back of Crowley's mind noted with no small amount of relief that there was a very real, very good chance his corporation wouldn't bear any physical scars after this. If he were being uncharacteristically honest, he rather liked the way he looked. It'd grown on him over the centuries.

Once that was done, Crowley's demonic healing abilities redirected themselves to the soles of his feet, discarding and repairing damaged cells as though the burns were the result of an exceedingly bad sunburn. Aziraphale rolled his pants up to the ankle to give the accelerated healing a bit more breathing room, exposing it more fully to the balming coolness of the conservatory. After catching sight of the bandage wrapped around Crowley's lower leg, he gingerly untied it to see if it needed redressing, but there was only newly regrown flesh where the dog's tiny canines had broken the skin. Still, it wasn't sanitary to reuse bandages, so Aziraphale set it aside, clearly torn between fetching more supplies and leaving Crowley on his own.

"I don't sense anything Infernal coming from the blade," Aziraphale said tentatively. The demon tensed, ready to bat his hand away if he tried to touch it. "I think it might just be a perfectly normal dagger now."

"Oh, good," Crowley chuckled darkly. "For a minute there, I thought I was in trouble."

Leaning heavily against the wall for support, a gusty sigh passed his lips. Even with all of his powers directed towards the wound in his torso, it wouldn't make a lick of a difference if the blade was still inside him. "Go get the supplies," he grunted, jerking his head towards the bathroom where disinfectant and a couple sutures could be found for occasions more or less like this one. "I'm not going anywhere."

He tried to arrange his features into some semblance of reassurance, and since whatever the result of his efforts was convinced Aziraphale to hurry to the bathroom, called it a success. Now that the angel wasn't hovering for the moment, he poked and prodded carefully at the cursed dagger, weighing his options. Even if the Archangel's blessing and Hell's demonic energies seemed to have canceled each other out, he didn't want Aziraphale anywhere near the blade, let alone touching it. There could be some residual Infernal taint. It wouldn't do much for a creature already damned, but for an angel…

His mind conjured up an image of Aziraphale screaming, the blackened husk of his hand clutched to his chest as the corruption climbed up his arm. Crowley gripped the blade by the hilt and ripped it out, spattering the tile with his blood when he tossed it, then sagged to one side, black spots swallowing his vision.

Aziraphale didn't owe him anything. He'd already saved his life when he gave him that thermos in 1967, and in a million little ways ever since Eden, but as Crowley felt his consciousness slip away, he thought he heard his name being called, and couldn't help but hope the angel would save him again.

Arms full of bandages, gauze, needle, and thread, Aziraphale tucked in his chin to keep the bundle steady. It was absolutely imperative that this be the sole supply run, since he was hardly keen on leaving Crowley on his own. He'd been halfway to the conservatory when a metallic clattering reached his ears, and he broke into a run, bursting into the room to find Crowley lying slumped and grey, bloodied hands at his side as the dark patch over his abdomen continued to spread.

With a cry, Aziraphale collapsed beside him, setting the supplies down as carefully as he could manage. Then he laid a thick wad of gauze over the demon's chest and pressed down with both hands, babbling apologies when the demon writhed under him, neck snapping, back arching unnaturally. Nails lengthened, hardening into claws that scraped the concrete. Soon Aziraphale's palms were coated in the black, viscous ichor that wept from the wound. Something wasn't right. Crowley's corporation should have started healing itself by now. Golden eyes blinked languidly up at him, taking in the angel's frantic energy, the blood like pitch that covered him. Dizzy and exhausted, the demon managed a somewhat slurred, "'m not hurting you, am I?"

Relieved beyond measure to see that he awake and somewhat lucid, Aziraphale exclaimed, "Crowley!" Frustration bled into his features. "Why didn't you wait for me?" When the demon didn't respond, Aziraphale chanced removing the gauze, "I did not just spend every day thinking about how to bring you back so you could go and get yourself discorporated the second I leave the room," and was at least partially mollified to see that flow from the wound had slowed to a sluggish trickle. Now that the worst of it had passed, he unbuttoned Crowley's ruined shirt, threaded a needle, then began the careful process of pulling and tugging the string through the edges of the injury, coaxing them together with determination and a prayer.

When enough time had passed without a word from Crowley that the angel began to worry, a rasped, "You were supposed to leave me there," drifted up to him. The demon was staring resolutely at the ceiling with a complexion that was moderately better than before but still wouldn't have looked out of place on a corpse.

Irritation leaked through, "What in Heaven's name are you on about?"

Though it was difficult to tell through his shades, Aziraphale was under the impression that Crowley had rolled his eyes. "Beelzebub gave me their word that," he stopped, hissing through his teeth when the last stitch was pulled tight to seal the severed flesh closed, "they would leave you alone if I went quietly."

Aziraphale's brows shot up, his mouth parting in surprise. His head was already shaking in denial. "No. No, they kidnapped you!" He snapped the thread, set aside the needle, then wrapped the area tightly, ensuring that the stitches would shift as little as possible when the demon moved. The conservatory was a mess, covered in splattered ichor and the remains of the imp. Since Crowley appeared to have been stabilized, Aziraphale snapped his fingers, sacrificing another miracle, and the tile sparkled with freshly-mopped cleanness. "It's always the same with them. Threats and bullying, snide remarks and ultimatums. You know better than anyone that - that we're not meant to undermine free will."

Free will was Her gift to the humans, Crowley didn't say. It was never meant it for us.

"Hell keeps their bargains."

He tried focused on helping Aziraphale maneuver him into a close approximation of a sitting position, except his body refused to cooperate, sliding left and tilting right. Eventually, Crowley gave it up with a sigh, settling for resting his head against the wall while the rest of his body did whatever it wanted. It was humiliating to be so vulnerable.

During the Great Heavenly War, rebels and loyalists alike would sometimes beg for mercy when faced with the reality of their choices, their ethereal forms made from love consumed by anguish and pain for the first time since their creation, only to be met with suspicion and the end of a sword. Friends turned on each other when the alternative was too frightening to contemplate - that they would Fall with the others. Any angels who tried to help the rebels were dragged down with them into Hell, where trust and compassion were burned out from their essence.

Suffering. That was the reward for kindness.

The only angels that stayed were ruthless. Cruel. They could smite a demon like him without a second thought, without so much as a twinge of guilt or remorse, and he would be helpless to stop it. They-

A hand came to rest over white knuckles, warmth spreading through the contact. There were callouses on the palms and fingertips, but not from holding a sword. Any hardened patches were the result of hours spent with a quill and ink, pouring over manuscripts, unfurling scrolls, flipping pages by candlelight.

Worried blue eyes looked down at him, and for a moment Crowley was lost in the sky.

"I gave it away."

Air rushed out of Crowley's lungs, taking the coiled dread in his chest with it. Unaware of where the demon's thoughts had taken him, Aziraphale settled in beside him with an imperious sniff, "Ruined my favorite waistcoat is what they did."

The demon blinked uncomprehendingly at him, but before Aziraphale could repeat himself, snapped with sudden vehemence, "Because you wouldn't stop meddling!" It sent a shock of pain radiating through him and his body betrayed him, wincing without his permission.

Aziraphale tutted. "Are you quite finished, my dear?" Crowley fixed him with a sulky scowl. This wasn't over. Not by a long shot. "I may not be a Healer but I've seen a fair share of injuries in my time. We need to find you someplace to rest." Had Crowley been up to it, he might have pointed out that he already had someplace to rest - the floor was serving him quite nicely.

Wanting to make the trip as painless for the demon as possible, Aziraphale left to locate the bedroom, then returned to help Crowley lumber awkwardly across the main section of his flat, most of his weight balanced on the balls of his feet and toes. He slumped before reaching the bed, his knees buckling as his body began to shake. Aziraphale yanked the comforter from the bed, draping it around Crowley's shoulders like a cloak, then carefully lifted him onto the mattress. Once that was settled, Aziraphale climbed on with him. There was no telling how the weakened demon would react to his presence, whether it would heighten or hinder his healing, but Aziraphale didn't have the heart to leave him shivering, so he laid close to the demon, radiating heat until the trembling subsided.

"I'm here," he whispered, brushing sweat-soaked bangs from Crowley's creased forehead. "I'm with you." And the demon slept dreamlessly.

Crowley slept for a week.

During that time, Aziraphale fumed and fretted, furious that his friend's essence had been so thoroughly suppressed that the demon could unwittingly walk into a church. It had nearly destroyed him. And then Hell had the nerve to send an assassin, as though binding hadn't been enough of a punishment.

Even now, after seven days of watching Crowley remain past midnight, Aziraphale could barely shut his eyes. He was so afraid that if he blinked the demon would vanish, returning to the flower shop where he would greet him sweetly at the door, kind and cooly considerate, and without a trace of recognition.

On the last day, Crowley sat up with a groan, his styled hair sticking up at random angles. His jaw widened with a pop as he yawned, stretching out his arms and working out the kinks in his back. He stiffened, aware that he was being watched, then looked down to see an angel staring adoringly up at him.

An unintelligible noise escaped the demon. He swallowed, struggling.

"Good afternoon, Crowley," Aziraphale said with a too-bright smile. "I do hope you enjoyed your rest." He sobered. "How are you feeling? Any pain?" That got him back on track. Explained why there was an angel in his bed, too.

Bracing himself, he waved a hand over his face, brushing his cheekbone and forehead to gauge the damage. Whenever holiness was involved, healing tended to take occur at a very human rate, which meant that the sores and blisters were, if not entirely gone, much more bearable and less noticeable than before. The same could be said for the soles of his feet. Crowley had a feeling that if he walked on them now, any lingering burns from his ill-advised visit to the local church would hardly affect him. Even better, unpeeling the gauze and bandages over his abdomen revealed completely new skin. It was pinker than the rest of him, though that would fade with time.

He turned to Aziraphale with a crooked grin, "Seems to me like you would've made for quite the decent Healer once upon a time," and chose to ignore the odd slipping sensation in his stomach when the angel glowed at the praise, brighter than the brightest star.

Once Crowley had finished showering the week-old grime from the fight off himself and Aziraphale had finished brushing out his lying-awake-horizontally-mussed curls, they decided it'd been long enough since they'd gone out to eat together. Apparently, there was a new cafe open close to the bookshop that the angel had been dying to take him to for months and a reservation had just opened up.

It was a rustic sort of place, with red brick walls and menu drawn in neon-colored markers on a slate. The waitress guided them to a small table for two with a centerpiece that consisted of a scarlet carnation poking out of a soda bottle vase. Idly, Crowley noted a flyer that boasted of a live local band playing that afternoon, and made a mental note not to stay that long. He ordered an espresso for himself - brushing his teeth for an hour wouldn't rid his tongue of the stale taste of demon blood, but a double shot might do the trick - then listened as Aziraphale ordered a cinnamon pastry, letting his words wash over him.

Sometime between Aziraphale's second scone and Crowley's last sip of espresso, the topic of his arrangement reared its head. "Why didn't you wait for me?" Crowley stared at him over the rim of his cup, then set it down. "I would have come for you."

Crowley couldn't help it. He laughed. "Couldn't exactly ask ol' Beelzebub for a fifteen minute recess, Aziraphale." When genuine hurt tainted the angel's expression at his callous tone, however, he softened. "You know my side doesn't work like that."

"But you do know that I would have come, regardless… don't you?"

Here was what Crowley knew -

Had their positions been switched, he would have razed Heaven until its ashes rained down upon the earth, he would have turned Hell's sulfur pools into ice skating rinks if that was what it took to get his angel back.

Here was what Crowley knew -

Aziraphale had never asked for his devotion. It was freely given.

Why did the moon orbit the Earth? When the alternative was drifting through the darkness without an anchor, revolving around another was refuge; it was safety. It was enough.

It had to be.

All he'd ever wanted was to be by Aziraphale's side, and short of that, to keep him happy, safe, and whole. He thought he'd at least managed to accomplish the latter before the angel had gone and mucked it all up.

Crowley gestured towards the steaming coffee, the television sets, a whirring blender, and above that, beyond that, "Aziraphale, look at this world we saved." He waved a dismissive hand, adding, "Well, I suppose Adam saved it, really, but we helped." He coughed. "Anyway, humans need all that stuff - hope, justice, faith, innovation. All those clever made-up things that humans believe into existence so that they can irrigate their land, harness electricity, land on the moon. That's where you and people with even a fraction of your goodness come in. But the bad stuff? Sins and temptations and all that funny business? They've got more than enough of that to deal with. Hardly need any more of it from the likes of me."

"What are you saying?" The mock-whisper wasn't enough to hide how Aziraphale's voice climbed, confused and frightened. "You couldn't actually be suggesting that… that your presence here is worth any less than mine?"

Several of the cafe's other patrons glanced their way, curiosity overriding courtesy. Crowley fought down the urge to snap at the lot of them, instead opting to pluck the carnation out of the vase. The end of the stem was sticky with sap, bleeding water and sugar and nutrients. Keeping his voice level in the hopes that the angel would follow suit, Crowley replied, "That's exactly what I'm saying, angel."

It wasn't an endearment. Not this time.

Aziraphale pursed his lips, leaning over the table to place a palm upon Crowley's temple. The demon batted him away with a hiss, "What are you doing?! I'm not blessed!"

"I need you," Aziraphale blurted. His cheeks flushed. "It's not… It wouldn't be fair to the humans to tip the balance towards either of our… towards Heaven or Hell."

"If you think that's the case," Crowley slumped in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest with a scowl, "then you really have been hanging around me too long."

The amusing thing, which actually wasn't all that funny, was that not too long ago an imp had made a valiant attempt at disemboweling him, yet in that moment it was Aziraphale who looked gutted. He wrung his hands nervously in his lap, trying to meet the demon's gaze in spite of Crowley's efforts to avoid his. Embers of anger revitalized came in on a whisper, on a breeze, and Crowley winced, unable to tell if the stirrings of wrath were aimed in his direction or born for his sake. He was still rolling scarlet petals in his hand when he noticed a smattering of spots on his skin. He stared at the marks on the back of his hand, realizing when he shifted and the spots moved without sensation that they were only shadows produced by droplets clinging to the windows due to a light drizzle outside. It wasn't too surprising since London was in the throes of its year-long rainy season, but it did make him think of something odd the humans had come up with:

When the angels cry, they make the rain.

Did you cry for me?

Conversation in the cafe dulled to an indistinguishable murmur in the background, along with the clatter of silverware, the clink of glass, the occasional meeting of porcelain plates and wood. As the rest faded away, Aziraphale came into sharp focus, every silver curl that shone like starlight, every dimple. For a breath, for a blink, he was the realest thing in Creation. And then he took Crowley's hand, "Whatever was done to convince you of such silliness," the demon didn't bother suppressing a scowl, "whatever promises were made, wherever Gabriel or Beelzebub hid you or how they shaped you, it wouldn't have mattered." The pressure around Crowley's hand increased in increments, offering warmth and reassurance. "I would have found you at the furthest edge of the Universe. At the end of time. Always."

Crowley stared at the angel through half-lidded eyes, scarce daring to believe what he was hearing, while Aziraphale waited, saint-like in his patience, his skin never breaking contact. The cafe's ambiance grew louder, as if to underscore the point that they weren't alone, nor were they ever, really. There was always someone listening, Above or Below. Soon the sense of dread overwhelmed him, and Crowley blurted with a note of panic, "Universe doesn't have an edge." Confused, Aziraphale frowned slightly, but didn't interrupt. "Humans took one look at that big black thing above their heads and thought, 'Well, that's got to end somewhere," but it doesn't have to do anything." The confusion turned to understanding. Acceptance. Aziraphale's mouth quirked upwards in a fond, if somewhat sad, smile. Meanwhile, Crowley wasn't finished. He flailed his arms to illustrate just how enormous the expanse of space was, and would have sent his cup and saucer flying into the stratosphere if they hadn't mysteriously righted themselves. "That's not how infinity works, you see. The Universe goes on for as long as it wants, it's the stars and stuff playing catch-up."

"Even still," said Aziraphale, a twinkle in his eye. "You're stuck with me, I'm afraid."

Crowley wanted to believe it. More than he'd wanted anything. He didn't know if he deserved to have someone so good at his side, or if they'd be punished for it someday, but for now he wanted to savor the time they were spending together, and not think about tomorrow. "What was he like?" Since Crowley had opted to change the topic without preamble, Aziraphale hesitated to respond, so he elaborated with a limp wave of his hand and a long-suffering, "The me that thought he was an honest-to-Somebody human?"

"Sweet. Kind." Crowley winced, his whole body tensing with a retort burning like acid on his tongue. He swallowed it down. Let it burn his throat, instead. "Very much like you, my dear, but…"

When Aziraphale trailed off, his gaze distant, Crowley couldn't tamp down his bitterness any longer. "Minus six thousand years worth of baggage." It was ridiculous to be jealous of himself, yet he couldn't help begrudging this other blissfully ignorant him the carefree time he'd spent with the angel. What must have been like to walk with him and speak with him without the impending threat of punishment looming over their heads?

Crowley hadn't realized he'd begun tearing the petals from the flower he was holding until Aziraphale muttered, "That won't do," and waved a palm over the stem, causing petals to spring forth and roots to sprout from its severed parts. There was no point putting it back in the vase now. It wouldn't fit, and if they tried to force it, it would die.

Reverently, Aziraphale entwined their fingers, lifting their hands as one. "I missed you," he said, strangled. "This - us - took so many thousands of years to build." They'd walked through battlefields, attended plays and art galleries, celebrated countless of humanity's trials and triumphs together. The past, present, and future lived in their memory, and in that, the world. "Truly, he was very good to me. He was you, in a fashion, but also not." There was a lull in the conversation, long enough for Crowley to think he might have time to take a breath and try to process what the angel was saying, except Aziraphale thought it would be better to take a wrecking ball to his train of thought. "I think he might have even loved me," the angel pondered that for a moment, unaware that his lunch companion had short-circuited in a spectacular fashion, before adding with a wry chuckle," though I can't imagine why."

"He loved you," Crowley replied roughly. "I know he did." He'd placed the carnation down so he didn't continue ripping it to pieces and somehow his cup and saucer had found their way to the other side of the table so there was nothing left for him to break except his own heart. "He still does."

And there it was. The raw, undiluted truth of it.

Aziraphale had never asked for his love, his care, his affection, his protection. He'd never asked Crowley to fall for him, which was why he had - why he'd been falling for him for every second of every day for thousands of years. Aziraphale was one of the good ones. He was special. But most of all, he was kind.

Money was placed on the table. A barista thanked them and wished them a nice day. At some point, they must have left the cafe, because the next time Crowley looked they were standing outside under a canopy too small to sufficiently shield either of them, and Aziraphale was looking at him differently, elation and relief and trepidation and longing all mixed in a blender. The distance between them was yawning, yet he darted in effortlessly, sealing Crowley's lips with a kiss.

It tasted of cinnamon and coffee, the salty tanginess of oysters, and the sweetness of crepes. It was slow and tender, exploring in a way that Crowley had always imagined; desperate in a way he hadn't. When they parted, Aziraphale was blinking rapidly, swiping at his cheeks to keep the tears at bay. Crowley found his hands and held them. "How long did you miss me?" The words tore from his throat in the form of a ragged half-whisper.

Gradually, Aziraphale explained that he'd been imprisoned in Gabriel's gilded cage for about a year on the outside. "It took a considerable amount of tries before I was able to locate the exact dimension you were bound to, and they switched it up a few times afterward to, as the kids say, trip me up." There were so many variations to sort through in the multiverse, overlapping and entangled. That he was able to find Crowley at all, let alone within a hundred years, was about as likely as humans roasting marshmallows over the sun. One couldn't help but wonder if there had been some intervention of a rather Divine sort involved, but that was a question for another time.

Crowley leaned against a storefront window, ostensibly watching the cars drive past though his mind seemed to be elsewhere. The angel came to stand beside him, brushing up against him, and suddenly Crowley was all too keenly aware of the contact, like fire running up his side. Aziraphale had always been a tactile creature, but so very rarely with him. "I'm glad you found me." It felt like a selfish thing to say. Their former sides would have left Aziraphale alone, he was certain of it. Beelzebub, at least, would never break a contract. Still, Crowley was a demon, and demons were allowed to be selfish. "It would have been far too boring without you." He noticed Aziraphale was stubbornly looking in the opposite direction, but even the set of his shoulders and a hint of red around the tips of his ears was enough to know he was pleased. Unfortunately, if they didn't start moving soon, Crowley was certain that he was going to spontaneously combust. Pushing off the window, he exclaimed, "Honestly!" Then strode down the pavement while Aziraphale scrambled to follow. "Putting a blessing in a demon's head." He made a noise of disgust. "What'll they come up with next? You'd think that sort of thing'd be against the Gehenna Conventions or something."

Aziraphale side-eyed him. "I… I don't think that's a real thing."

"Well, clearly it should be. I walked into a bloody church!"

They were heading in the direction of the bookshop. Crowley turned up the collar of his coat up against a cool breeze, hunching. Shortly afterwards, a tartan scarf was draped over his shoulders, and while his brain did whatever the mental equivalent was of stalling-out, Aziraphale took advantage by entangling their elbows, banishing the chill from his bones.

The demon watched where their bodies touched more than where he was going, but his legs knew the way. They'd take him where he needed to go. "You realize," Crowley quietly began, "that I'll have to go back eventually, don't you?" Aziraphale stumbled, held up only by his grip on Crowley's sleeve and the demon's frantic attempts to right him.

He looked up at Crowley with wide eyes. "Why ever would you?"

"It's still my shop. I can't just abandon it." It may have been created by Gabriel, but it belonged to him, and the plants there hadn't been complicit in his imprisonment. When push came to shove, they'd even protected him. He shuddered to think what either the Archangel or the Prince of Hell would do to them if they discovered he'd flown the coop.

"I have a spare flat," Aziraphale was saying in a rush. "You could keep them there for as long as you like." He moved to snap, to turn the idea into reality, but Crowley stopped him.

"They've been absorbing Infernal energy for ages," he said, not unkindly. "No telling what an angel's miracle would do."

Aziraphale's shoulders slumped, then his head shot up, nearly catching Crowley on the chin. His eyes blazed. "Then I must insist that you take me with you." There was determined set to his jaw, as though he were bracing for an argument.

"Sure," Crowley agreed easily. He sauntered towards the bookshop, letting the crowd part around him without knowing why. "Doubt I'd get far on my own, anyway."

The flower shop, as it turned out, had been officially named, Serpent's Eden. Most likely by an Archangel that thought he was being rather clever. Crowley studied the looping cursive, the serpentine S that curled around the other letters as though holding them hostage. The vines creeping over the sign were, he begrudgingly admitted, a nice touch.

"Would you look at that?" He motioned to the sign, face split into a grin. "Looks like they wanted you to find me, or at least to stare sadly through the windows." For his part, Aziraphale did not seem to find it remotely amusing. It wasn't until Crowley spotted the license on the storefront that his countenance similarly soured. According to the sheet of paper taped to the glass, the shop was registered to Gabriel. There was no last time and the date of birth was crossed out, replaced by a question mark that either expressed confusion or alluded to a creation preceding the construct known as Time. Not that Crowley cared in the slightest. He snapped his fingers - the license burst into flames - then flipped the sign to Open with a defiant and prickly, "Screw Gabriel. This place belongs to me. Even says it on the sign."

After about a minute or ten of assurances that he would leave the instant he began to feel the least bit strange or forgetful, they entered the shop, prompting a startled and delighted gasp from the angel. Sunlight shone down from a skylight in the ceiling, its rays alighting upon the greenest, healthiest leaves in London. The plants quivered at their approach, their stems and petals stretching to catch their clothes and hair as Crowley proudly displayed the stream running through and over the soil, trickling over stones and pebbles, along with a small waterfall that had replaced the irrigation system. There was a rock garden filled with sand and grooves, and an apple tree with a broad trunk whose branches brushed against the ceiling.

The shop was bigger on the inside now, bigger than it had any right to be. Unless, of course, Crowley was taking advantage of certain extra-dimensional properties.

"It's not such a bad place, is it?" Not wanting to appear too eager to know what the angel thought, he peered over his shades, though there really wasn't any reason to put on airs between them, anymore.

"I think it's splendid, my dear." Aziraphale bent to study singed vines of ivy and was pleased to discover new growth among the burns. "But… surely you don't intend to stay here forever?"

"Not forever, angel. Heaven and Hell have better things to worry about than one lowly demon. Give 'em a decade or so and they'll forget all about little ol' me." Standing in a place of his creation with the love of his eternal life, Crowley believed this was true. He believed it with every ounce of his being, all the way down to his core, where it began weaving itself into reality, into a song that was not a prayer, yet reached Her all the same.

And so it was.

Time crawled past. It also trotted, galloped, trudged, raced, and sauntered, as it tends to do for human-shaped beings. The bookshop down the street in Soho was closed indefinitely, which admittedly wasn't all that different from when it'd been in operation, and a flat in Mayfair was sold.

A demon and an angel sat together in the living room of their cottage in the South Downs. It was filled to the brim with the most luxurious, most verdant flora in England and stuffed with to the gills with rare books of prophecy and manuscripts. A fire snapped and popped from the slightly damp wood it'd been fed, kicking up smoke, though neither of them seemed to notice. Beside the demon's armchair was a snake plant, an evergreen perennial that released oxygen and was said to ward off the evil eye. It had been given as a gift the day his shop had finally closed for good, and he'd been playing favorites with it ever since. It was now the sort of plant that was treated well and kindly, but lived in constant fear of its envious brethren.

At this moment, the demon was half-asleep, warm and comfortable with his fingertips occasionally ghosting over the angel's knuckles. He thought about Shakespeare, curious customers, and questions. "They say he is fair, and virtuous, and wise," he mumbled drowsily, prompting the angel to peer up at him. A mischievous glint entered the demon's dark eyes, "...but for loving me. By my truth that is no addition to his wit."

"Nor no great argument of his folly," Aziraphale quoted with a dazzling smile. "My dear, if I be wise, as you say, how ever could I not?" Their hands found each other, fingers interlacing. The angel returned to his novel, a hint of pink in his cheeks, while the demon drifted, knowing that when he woke he'd be exactly where he was always meant to be.

To capture their feelings with language known to Man would be akin to the act of shoving galaxies into a fishbowl, but between them was a small, high table whereupon a clear glass vase sat, within it a meticulous arrangement of ambrosia, globe amaranth, and tulips, as well as a single yellow daffodil that through some miracle never withered, never faded, never died.

A/N: That's all, folks. As always, thank you so much for your support, and have a fantastic day!

Red Carnation - My Heart Aches For You, Admiration
Ambrosia - Your Love Is Reciprocated
Globe Amaranth - Immortality, Unfading Love
Tulips (Yellow) - There's Sunshine In Your Smile
Tulips (Red) - Declaration of Love