Author's Note: Quick warning for non-graphic deaths throughout the work, mostly involving young children. There will never be any in-depth descriptions, but be aware that they are a plot point, and therefore mentioned sporadically.

I am taking a few historical liberties regarding dates and certain items.

The version of this work that includes footnote annotations can be read at AO3, under the same title and username.

A beating heart and a microphone
A ticking clock in an empty home
Still tells of these times so long ago
Even though I've come so far
I know I've got so far to go
And any day now I'll explode

Like the angel you are
You laugh creating a lightness in my chest
Your eyes they penetrate me (Your answer's always maybe)
That's when I got up and left.

- "Like the Angel," Rise Against

London, circa 1861 A.D.

The fog was always at its worst in November.

Thick, jaundiced smoke poured out from factories, arms outstretched towards the fumes offered up by the Thames, enveloping them in a passionate, melding embrace. On a good day, people coughed delicately into handkerchiefs and aprons. They stayed inside where the air was less obstructive and made charming observations about pea soup, and whether or not one could see their own hand in front of their nose. They waited patiently for spring, when the sun would return and steal through the damp and gloom on the back of warm breeze to grant reprieves from the Industrial Revolution's disagreeable side effects.

There were no good days on the East End.

Crowded residences were built back-to-back stretched as far as the eye could see, and their tenants spilled out into the streets, dirty, exhausted, and hopeless. Backyards were nearly indiscernible to the naked eye through the choking, ever-present smog, though every so often, someone would trip over a chicken, or a pig, or plow torso-first into a cow. At very least, their leavings were impossible to avoid, and most gave up trying. It was just another form of the excrement that overpowered their lives: they slept in filth, and consumed filthy meals served by filthy hands. Raw sewage saturated the streets, and above them, the remnants of pure, breathable oxygen surrendered in abject defeat, fusing with the putrescent haze of river offerings and Progress to form a semi-permeable gas that smelled of liquid feces and settled in the lungs with a comparably unpleasant feeling.

For the demon Crowley and his corporate rival Aziraphale, good days were the rule, not the exception. The time they spent together in the newly-purchased bookstore was nice, although Crowley would rather relive the 14th century on a loop than ever admit the sentiment out loud. It was easy, filled with afternoon drinks that became drinks long into the night, unimportant conversations devolving into what, between any mere humans, would be called inside jokes and fond, nonsensical ramblings. For his part, Aziraphale justified it to himself as, "keeping track of that wily serpent's plots, and gaining insight into the Infernal Campaigns of Hell so as to better thwart their insidious plans."

Crowley mostly called it, "Tuesday".

On this particular Tuesday, the pair found themselves at the British Museum. Aziraphale was always eager to view any new exhibits displayed in the sprawling institution, and Crowley was always eager to view Aziraphale viewing things that made him smile, really smile, even if he didn't understand it. This, of course, was not to suggest that happiness, or interest, or any other type of emotion was necessarily foreign or inexplicable to him, although he did so delight in pretending otherwise; rather, he simply could not fathom why Aziraphale would want to purposefully spend time gazing at objects that he had seen, personally, before they were considered artifacts and antiques. What was the point in looking backwards when all of eternity lay ahead? There was no mystery to these relics, not for them anyway.

It was all so… sentimental.

Still, as a whole, it had proven rather difficult to drag Aziraphale out of his bookstore now that he finally had it established and running exactly the way he wanted, and there was only so much literature that Crowley could abide before his eyes began to cross and his fingers began to twitch for want of something to do. The museum offered a reprieve, something that catered to Aziraphale's refined tastes and love of earthly things, even if that love didn't extend to respecting hours of operation. Anyway, breaking and entering is more fun, Crowley reasoned as the previously locked doors effortlessly opened under his ministrations, even if it's too easy, and just for more bloody books.

The look on Aziraphale's face as they walked into the King's Library in the East Wing wiped any and all objections, real or otherwise, from Crowley's mind. The Library had been handed over earlier in the century, but it still was Definitely Not Available to the public, which meant exactly nothing to either one of them. After all, they weren't the public, and besides, locked doors were a polite request at best, and a mild speed bump at most. The angel had taken a few hours of convincing, once Crowley presented the idea to him, but there was no real protest in his words – he made the Proper Arguments and Gasping Noises and looked Suitably Shocked at the proposal, then neatly justified the excursion to himself as only Aziraphale could, and off they went. For his part, Crowley nurtured a smug sense of superiority that he had tempted a servant of the Almighty to forbidden knowledge, and studiously ignored any other fluttering sensations that might have dared try to garner attention. It was just business.

What kind of illicit knowledge one might gather from Shakespeare's First Folio, or the Mainz Psalter, was beyond his scope, but also, he reasoned, beyond his pay grade. It was the Temptation itself that counted, not the impetus behind it. Or whatever. Although…

"Angel." His voice was low, but amused, and he shook his head slightly as he continued to speak, "Are you trying to hide the Vedas texts under your coat? That's not very holy of you now, is it?"

"Well!" Aziraphale sounded embarrassed, not at his actions, but at being caught out in the middle of them. "There's no use in them just sitting here, with no one able to read or appreciate them! They are the oldest layer of Sanskrit literature, and the oldest incarnation of the Hindu scriptures and… well… It would be sacrilegious to just leave them here, abandoned and alone!"

"Ooh, sacrilegious?" The demon sounded dryly amused, though a fondness crept into his tone that belied his affection in a way that his words never could quite convey by themselves. "You're just doing your heavenly duty by nicking a pagan text, is that it?"

"The spiritual devotion in that piece is an inspiring part of history, regardless of its origin. Beauty for beauty's sake is not a frivolity. It would be disrespectful to let them go to waste, Crowley."

Disrespectful, Crowley mouthed wordlessly in playful mockery, rolling his eyes in his usual dramatic fashion. He did not press his point further though, and acknowledged defeat with an overly exaggerated bow and a mischievous smirk. "Well, far be it from me to disrespect such an important artifact," he conceded, opening the door for his companion. "Can I tempt you to a nightcap? I have a bottle of that champagne from the St Hilaire Abbey back at my flat."

"Your what?"

Crowley paused at the sound of Aziraphale's shocked inquiry, hand lingering at the door. "My flat," he repeated evenly, though there was a strained quality to the words.

"My dear boy, since when do you have a flat?" The angel's voice sounded innocently curious, which always threw up a red flag. Innocent was Aziraphale's default setting, and as such, he rarely if ever sounded noticeably so. If it was obvious, then it was deliberate, and usually used to mask other, less innocuous intentions.

Until he knew what those intentions were, he'd have to proceed with caution.

"I acquired it oh, what, a good few decades ago." Right after you bought the book shop, he thought blandly, grateful as hell for the dark sunglasses that hid his eyes. While their colour and overall appearance didn't give him the same concerns and sense of profound disgust around Aziraphale that lingered with the world at large, the emotions that could never be fully concealed in them were a constant source of anxiety to Crowley. As it was, he was sure that his corporation's cheeks were flushed, and his usual resentment for the inner workings of the human body coursed through him. Bloody tattletale, the sympathetic nervous system.

"I had no idea you were staying locally! Why, I can't remember the last time you stayed in the same place for more than ten years! Rome, perhaps? Whatever made you decide to settle down and call London home?"

"That's – it's not – home?" Crowley briefly sputtered, the word falling from his lips with the same amount of sneering that other such four letter words were given. He stepped away from the door, releasing his grip and letting it close once more. "It's not home. It's a matter of, of convenience, Aziraphale, a base of operations."

"But why?" Aziraphale persisted.

Like one of those yappy dogs with a bone. Whatchamacallit. Terrier, Crowley thought, a bit uncharitably. He should have known better. The angel always took everything the wrong way, regardless of subject matter. He saw motives where there were none, and worse, assigned intentions to them without even a second's pause to consider if he was even correct, or whether he should be prying at all. Even when Aziraphale was questioning, he wasn't really asking – he charged full speed ahead, determined to find out what he wanted to know. One either gave up resistance as a bad job and told the Principality what he wanted to know, or… Well, there had to be another option, even if Crowley had never discovered it.

"The world is getting smaller," he began, carefully weighing his words. "Everything is connected now, in one way or another. A sodding sparrow drops in London, and halfway across the continent in Germany, they start designing defenses because it's a threat, or a message, or some-bloody-thing. Don't even have to really leave my doorstep to foment evil these days, so what's the point? Might as well relax."

"I see," Aziraphale said, and while his tone was mild, there was an air of finality to it. He had asked, Crowley had answered, and it was enough of the truth to be acceptable. The matter was now closed; the demon opened the door again, and this time, Aziraphale stepped through.

"Nightcap, then?" Crowley asked again as they made their way through the rest of the museum and out the front exit. Aziraphale paused for a moment to re-lock the door, though it was clear he was doing little more than stalling.

"Not tonight, I don't think," he eventually responded, refusing to meet Crowley's gaze. "I'll need to reorganize my shelves, after all, to make room for the, ah, new edition."

There was another pause.

"Of course. Another time, then." It was not what Crowley wanted to say. He wanted to roll his eyes, to call out the lie, to demand to know just how difficult it could be to fit one pilfered text in with the hundreds of other books scattered about the shop in what may have been an organized fashion to Aziraphale, but was just a blesse – an unhol – a bleeding mess to everyone else. Crowley had seen nightgowns less flimsy than that excuse, and it left him feeling just as stupid as Aziraphale must have thought him, to feed him a line like that.

Yet still he swallowed it. Bitterly, resentfully, although it was poison and it choked him, he swallowed it as he did every other pretext thrown his way, because at least it was something. At least he was being fed.

Aziraphale opened his mouth, but suddenly it was all too much for Crowley, and he cut him off rather abruptly. "Well, must be off. Discord to sow, souls to corrupt, all that. You know how it is." The words were forced, caught up in the tightness of his chest that, had he actually been human, would have strong-armed all the oxygen from his lungs and left him desperate, gasping for breath. Even now, demonic and immortal as he was, Crowley couldn't trust his voice, his knees, his damned heart to do their jobs and keep him steady.

"Oh. Oh! Yes, yes, of course," the angel agreed, flustered. "I completely understand. I suppose I should rather be getting on home, as well. Your ah, your flat, is it…?"

"That way," he replied succinctly, pointing in the exact opposite direction of both Aziraphale's bookshop and the neighborhood where his flat did, in fact, reside. It didn't matter. It didn't matter where the damned flat was, or which way he went, or where he ended up, as long as it was somewhere away from here. He saw the other's mouth open one more time, and his resolve shattered. Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away, sparing only one more shred of emotion to throw up his hand in a brief farewell.

Back at his flat, Crowley could not get the image of Aziraphale's expression out of his mind. He flung himself rather angrily into the throne-like seat that had the rare distinction of being the sole chair in the entire residence – indeed, apart from the enormous, custom-made bed, a few bookshelves that contained some reference books about astronomy, medicine, and horticulture but mainly held various phials and jars of things best left unidentified to the casual viewer, and a rather handsome desk that sat in front of the aforementioned throne, filled with various writing utensils and accessories, all relatively unused.

Even in the familiar, comforting solitude of his dwelling, the demon was on edge and unsettled. No matter how he sat, or where, he could not relieve the coiled tension that strung itself through every fiber of his corporation's muscles, drawing him tightly inward against himself, like a flexed bow at the ready. There was no rest to be found, heh, no rest for the wicked, Crowley mused, his inner monologue rolling its eyes even as it processed the thought. He unfolded from the chair, resuming his agitated pacing around the flat, dark glasses discarded haphazardly on an empty counter and topaz eyes glaring at every shadow.

"I completely understand. I suppose I should rather be getting on home, as well…"

He didn't though, that was the whole damnable point! Aziraphale didn't understand, he couldn't possibly, not when even Crowley had such difficulty grasping the concept! If he had any inkling, even the faintest clue of how much the demon – well, how terribly essential he was to Crowley, then….

No. If he had any idea, then everything would be ruined. If one thing had been made clear throughout the course of their shared history, it was the fact that Aziraphale's patience and companionship went only as far as Crowley's ability to be useful. When Aziraphale needed amusement, Crowley was amusing – when he was doubtful, or insecure, or lost, Crowley reassured. That was the real Arrangement, forged from grief and isolation and the desire to be understood, when the concept of Eternity was newly formed and not yet a heavy, dragging burden sitting solidly on their shoulders. Whatever Aziraphale needed, Crowley would be, and nothing more.

Oh, you're an angel. I don't think you can do the wrong thing.

It was enough. It had to be.

"Home," Crowley sneered at the nearest jasmine plant, which had been noticeably avoiding eye contact with the demon and, under his withering glare, immediately began to shake. "Oh, yes, must run along home, as if… as though…"

As though Crowley's home hadn't been standing next to him the entire time.

The explanation he had given Aziraphale was not a lie, at its core. The world was smaller now, the ripples of the discord he fomented reached nearly to the edge of the pond, so to speak. The Industrial Revolution had been a roaring success, both professionally and in his own personal life. Things were easier now, and there were more of them. Complacency was effortless now, and material comfort readily available.

None of that had ever mattered to him, of course. While he appreciated the creature comforts that he had acquired and installed in his living space, it was hardly a collection and barely qualified as meeting basic needs, from a mortal perspective. It had, quite honestly, been more of a burden to call London home than it would have been to simply continue his nomadic lifestyle. It had kept him from stagnation, from sitting still, from the constant twitching in his fingers that demanded something happen now, now, now…

But then Aziraphale bought that blasted bookshop, and settled quite happily into a routine, and that was that. The same day Crowley had learned about the angel's intention to have a "home base", he had found the flat he paced restlessly in now, and the rest simply fell into place. If London was going to be Aziraphale's home, then it would be his, too, twitching fingers be damned. He would adjust, as he always did. After all, if one could become accustomed to the sensation of hellfire convulsing through their veins, metaphorically speaking, then most anything could be tolerated. If an angel could tolerate the company of a demon…

He blew out a shaky breath, suddenly bereft of the energy that the rage and embarrassment of rejection brought him, and he sagged against the kitchen counter. He'd let his emotions get the better of him, and while it was not the first time he had succumbed to the ugly feeling that Aziraphale's tolerance elicited in him, it never became easier to face himself afterwards. He knew this dance by now, after all. He knew what the cost of Aziraphale's fri – compan – tolerance was, and although it burned inside him at times, there was never a question of its worth. For profit in one thing, payment in some other thing – as a contractor of Hell, Crowley knew it better than nearly anyone. If knowing the ugly side of tolerance was the price of also knowing the smile in those blue eyes, or the way the angel's alabaster curls could resemble a halo in the proper lighting, well… He was the Serpent of Eden, after all. He and the pain that knowledge brought went way back, right to the Beginning, and he earned his free will in the Fall. He chose, damn it all, he chose, and he would not resent it now.

"I should apologise," he muttered to the empty room. Now that the final vestiges of turbulent emotion had drained away, Crowley could think clearly. At the very least, he should probably nip back to the Museum and replace the now-missing Vedas with a copy, so that there wasn't an uproar the next time someone happened into the Library and noticed it missing. He just never thinks of the details, he grumbled to himself as he skulked down a suspiciously empty street, vowing to take the longer way around to avoid passing by the book shop, and knowing as he did so that it was a futile effort. He was drawn to the angel like a moth was to a flame, and –

No, hang on. That was an actual flame.

Fear gripped Crowley's heart as he neared the bookshop, adrenaline urging him forward faster and faster, have to get there, have to get to him, and –

Oh.

"ANGEL!"

Crowley could see the figures clearly now and was flat-out running, bellowing for Aziraphale as he reached the burning pile that lay but maybe eight feet from the bookshop's door. He knelt beside them, desperately trying to miracle away the fire that engulfed the bodies of two small children, but the flames refused to dissipate and, indeed, seemed to climb higher than ever, perhaps out of sheer spite.

"Crowley? Whatever is the mat – oh!" Aziraphale's voice cut off abruptly as he reached the bookshop's entry and caught sight of the scene happening on his doorstep. He recovered his wits quite quickly, and in the blink of an eye, had both disappeared then almost immediately reappeared, this time holding a bucket of water. While it did not completely douse the blaze on its own, it dampened the fire's spirits just enough to rend it susceptible to Crowley's frantic efforts and, in the end, succumbed to its betters.

It was silent now, save for the faint sound of panting gasps from they who never actually needed to breathe in the first place. Crowley's face was tight, while Aziraphale was the picture of grief-stricken horror. There was no hurried attempt to heal the young boys that still smoked before them – it was obvious that any efforts would have been in vain. No one spoke, though as Crowley rose from his kneeling position on the street, Aziraphale stepped forward to grasp his arm in support. Neither was sure whether this comforting gesture was meant for the angel or the demon, but both appreciated the contact in the moment.

After a moment, Aziraphale drew in a shuddering breath, released his grip from Crowley's arm, and rubbed his hand over his mouth in muted distress. "Crowley..." His voice was small, and he sounded just as lost as the demon felt. "Crowley, why couldn't you put out the fire? What is going on?"

"I don't know, angel," he answered, barely audible despite the cold, dark silence of the nighttime. "I was just – I was going to... I wanted to make sure no one found out about the Vedas, and I saw the fire. I thought..." This time he allowed the words to trail off, not wanting to add his own private horrors to the very real tragedy that lay before them. His eyes rested on the children in front of them once more. The oldest could not have been more than eight, the youngest maybe five. A surge of anger went through him at the sight, and he felt his hands twitching again, this time into the shapes of fists.

"I don't know," he said again, this time with anger strengthening his voice, "but I am bloody well going to find out."