Author's Note: This idea sprang into my head one night fully formed and wouldn't stop badgering me until I had written it all out. Some of you may recognize it, and this is finally the rewritten one I promised! I hope you enjoy it.

It was a still, peaceful Thursday morning, and while there might not have been any nightingales, the birds were still singing in the square outside. The bell over the door jingled and, without looking, Aziraphale called out, "You're looking for next door, sorry..."

A cheerful voice replied, "No, I'm really not!" He had an actual customer? Well, this was new. Carefully replacing the volume of prophecy he had been holding, the angel climbed down the ladder and turned to face the door. He wasn't exactly expecting what he saw.

"You're Ezra Fell, yeah?" asked the man who had first spoken. He was tall and skinny, swaddled in a warm winter coat with his hands stuffed awkwardly into its pockets. At Aziraphale's silent nod of assent, he turned to the man next to him, his brown hair flopping with the movement, and muttered something under his breath that sounded like "That's my debt paid. Consider me gone." With a nod to Aziraphale, he pushed open the shop door and walked out into the sunshine. Disconcerted, Aziraphale shifted his own gaze to the man's companion. If possible, this made him even more confused. Something was wrong here.

"Er, yes, that's right, um, sir. How can I...help you?" he stammered out. With a smile, the man who had remained in the store said, "I'm on a bit of a manhunt, see, well, not a man hunt, not exactly, but that's close enough." Aziraphale stared at the man in silence, unraveling the sentence in his mind.

"I'm not sure I can be of any help to you, sir," he stated, already turning away from the man and back towards his books, when the man broke in.

"I'm looking for an angel. I think you can be of help in that regard."

Aziraphale blinked a few times, opened his mouth to speak, then changed his mind and abruptly shut it. He looked up at the ceiling and murmured, half to himself and half to whoever might be listening up there, "Have I missed another memo again?" Looking back at the decidedly unusual man standing inside the door to his shop—he needs to get a bit closer so I can get a read on him—he gently inquired, "And who told you such a thing, might I ask?"

He stepped forward—tweed jacket, but it's not tweed, that shirt is not cotton, his body's older than it should be, there's a double pulse in his carotid, what's going on—and burst out excitedly, "Me! I mean, I did, well, partially anyway, I must have made a note somewhere that said you were here and you could help, since I found one that said exactly that so I suppose I'll have to write one now, won't I? But I did, or I will, and so here we are, and—" Aziraphale held up a hand to cut him off.

"Before you go on, please tell me why you, a decidedly non-human yet non-ethereal being, are standing in my bookshop, and what exactly it is that you want?" The man—was he young? was he old? The angel had no idea—laughed delightedly and bounded up to Aziraphale to shake his hand.

"Sorry about that, old chap! I get frightfully excited when I meet new people I know I'm going to like. I'm the Doctor, see, and you're absolutely right, I'm not human at all, I'm a Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey in the constellation of Kasterborous, as I seem to keep having to say—" Aziraphale only had time to let out a faint "What?" before the man—the Doctor—had barreled on. "And I just knew you'd figure it out right off the bat! Bravo, sir."

Aziraphale found he was shaking his head in his utter bewilderment. With an effort, he attempted to collect his wildly scattered thoughts. "It's, er, very nice to meet you, Doctor, but that doesn't answer my question of exactly why you're here and how you've come to know who exactly I am." He crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

The Doctor only laughed, and explained, "I'm looking for an angel. A very particular one, who's been lost. I ran into some friends who had lost him, you see, and since I don't exactly have a close tie to the angelic host, I was so hoping you could help." Aziraphale blinked as he tried to wrap his head around this entirely unexpected development. Goodness, but this was all a bit too much. He halfheartedly wished he had just left the shop closed that morning.

Coming to a decision, he spun around and picked up a mobile phone from a cluttered table. "I believe I need to make a call before we continue," he explained over his shoulder. "Do excuse me." Hurriedly, he made his way into the back room before frantically dialing the one person he knew he could trust.

Ring. Ring. Ring. "Come on, Crowley, pick up!" Ring.

Click. "Nngf." Aziraphale let out the breath he had been holding. "Crowley! It's me! Look, my dear, I don't mean to alarm you, but I've got an alien standing in my bookshop and I don't really know what I'm supposed to be doing..." He trailed off. The other end of the line was silent. "Crowley?"

"Yeah?" The demon's voice was terse, clipped.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Kinda busy right now, angel. Got company."

"Oh. Oh no. What's going on?"

"These two...gentlemen are convinced I'm someone I'm not and are determined to make me tell them things I don't know. Can I go now?"

"Crowley, what..." There was a shout from the other end of the line and the angel heard the distinct noise of the phone being dropped. An irate male voice bellowed, "What the hell d'you think you're doing? Sam, now!" Another voice chimed in, with words Aziraphale recognized all too well.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas..." A hoarse yell interrupted his chanting, and Aziraphale stared at the phone in horror.

They were exorcising Crowley.

He had to help him.

He dashed back into the front room and frantically spit out, "I'm terribly sorry but my—someone I know is in terrible danger and I've got to go at once just stay here for just a minute until I get back I'm sorry I really have to go!" Crowley's shouts—no, they were true screams now—had gotten louder, and Aziraphale knew he couldn't waste any more time.

He jumped into the phone line.

Behind him, the mobile thudded to the bookshop floor. "Well," commented the Doctor thoughtfully. "That was interesting."

Crowley had been having a perfectly pleasant day in his flat, talking to his houseplants and generally terrifying them in every way he could, when he felt the tug of a summons within his frame (right behind his navel, actually. It was a decidedly uncomfortable sensation). "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered, and throwing his hands up in the air, he disappeared with a pop.

He hadn't been expecting the reception party.

The room was dark, and seemed like it was in some sort of abandoned warehouse. Crowley looked around curiously, and stepped forward to get a better look around.

With a sharp crack, he was flung backwards off his feet in a most undignified manner. His back hit the cement below, causing his sunglasses to fly up off his face and land on his chest. "What the—" he groaned, and replaced them as he got to his feet once more. Then he looked down.

He was standing in a devil's trap.

"For Go— Sa— Oh, for the love of Pete, what's going on here?" he demanded, and was met with a sardonic chuckle. Two men strolled out of a side doorway and approached the spot where he stood. They were carrying knives.

"Where's Cas? What've you done to him?" demanded one, the shorter of the two. He looked profoundly annoyed.

"I'm sorry, what?" Crowley asked, extremely puzzled. "What's a cas?" The big one—and he was big—snorted.

"I see you've found yourself a new body, Crowley. Did you lose all your memories when you switched?" Crowley stared at him, even more confused (if that was possible).

"I'm not quite sure who you are or how you know me, but I've had this body for over five thousand years, and I certainly haven't forgotten anything. Ever. Now. Who are you, and what's a cas?"

The shorter one actually growled under his breath. "You think you're so funny, don't you? We'll see how much you're laughing when we're done. Where. Is. Cas?"

Crowley spread his arms helplessly. "Look, I think you've got the wrong person here. Yes, I'm known as Crowley, Anthony Crowley, in fact, lovely to meet you, but I have no idea who or what or where you're talking about. Can I go now?" The men had started to respond when a ringing came from inside Crowley's suit pocket. It was his personal mobile phone. "I'm just going to get this, shall I?" he asked, and not waiting for an answer, reaching in and flipped open the phone.

"Nngf."

"Crowley! It's me!" Of course it was the angel. Who else would it be? "Look, my dear, I don't mean to alarm you, but I've got an alien standing in my bookshop and I don't really know what I'm supposed to be doing..." Crowley wasn't sure how to go about responding to that, so he stayed quiet. The two men weren't looking very pleased. "Crowley?" The angel sounded plaintive.

"Yeah?"

"Are you listening to me?"

"Kinda busy right now, angel." He paused. "Got company."

"Oh. Oh no. What's going on?"

"These two...gentlemen are convinced I'm someone I'm not and are determined to make me tell them things I don't know. Can I go now?"

"Crowley, what..." Apparently, the men had had enough of Crowley's conversation. The big one gave a shout and Crowley was forcibly slammed to his knees in the middle of the devil's trap, dropping the phone in the process.

The small one bellowed, "What the hell d'you think you're doing? Sam, now!" The big one—Sam—began to chant, and Crowley could feel his hold on reality weaken.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas..."

He wasn't exactly sure when he started screaming. He only knew he couldn't stop.

Aziraphale surged his way through the electrical currents connecting his phone to Crowley's. It had been quite some time since he had been fully ethereal, but he gritted his (metaphysical) teeth and pushed forward. He could still hear the sound of Crowley's pain even now. Hold on, he thought desperately. Hold on just a little bit longer, I'm coming, Crowley, I'm coming—

Whoomph.

Something exploded into being directly in front of Crowley. It was huge, and bright, and almost incandescent, and even he had to squint through his glasses to be able to look at it. As its shape became less blurry, he thought he recognized—

Oh. Of course.

"YOU WILL NOT TOUCH HIM!" thundered a voice, and the glass of the building's windows vibrated so much they shattered. The two men were thrown backwards, and a violent wind whirled around them, scattering glass and dust all around the room. The smaller man dragged himself across the floor to the tall man called Sam, where they seemed to be arguing about something. Crowley was mainly concerned with the radiant figure standing in front of him, its arms and wings outstretched as if to shield him from harm.

"Nice entrance. I liked the whole thundering thing."

"Be quiet, dear," hissed the angel from the corner of his mouth. "I'm trying to concentrate. Do you know how hard it is to keep this up? You could at least be grateful."

"Oh, I am," assured Crowley, struggling to his feet. "I'm very grateful. A few more lines, and I'd be without a body again."

"Nobody discorporates you but me," muttered the angel, still glowing like the sun. "I'd like to know what's going on here."

"So would I, angel," murmured Crowley, taking off his shades and polishing them on his jacket. He tried not to notice how wobbly he felt. "So would I."

"HEY!" The men had gotten to their feet. "I don't know who or what you are," began the short one, "But you're in our way and that's not gonna stand. Move. Now."

"You will not harm him." The thundering voice was back. "I would advise you to leave." Sam leaned over and was whispering in the shorter one's ear. "Dean, I don't think this is a good idea. Look, he's got wings—I don't recognize him, do you? Maybe we should—" The shorter one—Dean, apparently (Sam and Dean. How quaint. They just had to be Americans)—shrugged him off. "I don't care who he is, he's getting in the way. Listen, buddy," he spat out as he advanced towards the glowing figure, "That demon you're protecting has something I want. And when I want something, I get it. Understand?"

Aziraphale was growing more panicked by the second. He had hoped that Crowley's assailants would see sense and run off once he appeared, but they didn't seem to be fazed by the sudden arrival of a burning figure with wings. Perhaps it was time to try some of the older methods. He cast his awareness out into the room, searching for something suitable...

Ah ha. That would do quite nicely.

He gestured with his right hand, and an iron poker detached itself from an assortment of knives and guns in the back of the room and flew over to land with a satisfying smack in his palm. He held it out in front of him like a sword and concentrated fiercely until, with a hearty whoosh, the poker burst into flames.

"He may be a demon, but he is under my protection," he rumbled as threateningly as he could. "And I say you will not touch him. Leave. Now."

"Really, angel?" muttered Crowley behind him. "A flaming poker?"

"Well, I'd like to see you do better!" snapped the angel, becoming irritated. It was incredibly draining to maintain a visible aura and the wings and a protective field around the weakened demon and keep a poker flaming. "I'm terribly sorry I couldn't come with a sword and preserve your sense of decorum, dear, but I work with what I have!"

"Keep your trousers on, angel," Crowley sighed. "It just all seems a bit ridiculous, that's all."

"Well, I agree with you there." The angel, momentarily distracted, brought his focus back to the two men in front of them. "Crowley, they're not leaving!"

"So send them somewhere. Go— Sa— Oh, for—you know I can't do it, not right now. You'll have to." Aziraphale waved his flaming poker in dismay.

"But I can't control—"

"Just do it!" roared Crowley, and with a jump, the two men were simply no longer there.

"Oh dear," said the angel regretfully, and let the flames on the poker die out with a hiss. The glow surrounding him began to fade. "I hope they're somewhere safe."

"They were going to exorcise me, angel," reminded the demon. "I'm more than fine with them not being somewhere safe." Aziraphale shook his head and made a tutting noise, at which Crowley turned on his heel and tried to stride away. He didn't get very far before his legs simply gave out under him and he landed flat on his face.

"Crowley!" gasped Aziraphale as he dropped his poker with a clang and half-ran, half-flew over to the fallen demon. "Are you all right?" The angel grasped his shoulder and gently rolled him over onto his back.

"Nngh. No. Don't think I can walk," admitted Crowley reluctantly. Aziraphale pressed his lips together as if trying to stifle a grin and slipped his arm under Crowley's shoulder, pulling Crowley's arm behind his head to hang over his other shoulder. Curling his arm around Crowley's back so his hand rested on his waist, the angel hoisted the only slightly concussed demon to his feet.

"Come on," he said with fond exasperation. "I'll take you home."

He curved one wing around the limp Crowley, and the two vanished.

Whoomph.

With a rush of air, the two appeared in Aziraphale's bookshop, staggering slightly as their feet hit the floor. Crowley was hanging bonelessly on the angel's shoulder and had one arm clutching the fabric of his sweater, while Aziraphale still had his wings out and was glowing slightly.

They both noticed their audience at the same time.

"Well, I certainly wasn't expecting this," the Doctor remarked.

"Oops," muttered the angel guiltily. "I forgot."

AN: Thanks for reading! Despite my initial plans when I wrote this piece quite a while ago, I can't honestly see where the story progresses from here, so I think it's best to leave the rest up to your imaginations. After all, that's where the best stories are told, and I certainly couldn't do this one justice if I tried carrying it on myself, especially given my much more hectic IRL situation at the present. Hope you enjoyed.