If you were to ask Aziraphale his favorite time of the year, he would no doubt give you the respectable answer that most angels do. Either Christmas, or Easter, or none, because angels pay so little attention to the human calendar that they hardly know what year it is half the time. Aziraphale had given all of these answers at one time or another, but anyone who knew him knew they weren't true. His favorite time—his favorite day, rather, was one special day in September.

"The World Food Fair," he beamed, licking his lips as his eyes twinkled. He had fasted for three weeks in preparation after miracling himself a VIP ticket and arranging a day off from his phony job as a gardener. His pocket held a list of everything he wanted to try. Inside the tents and pavilions stretched across London were booths upon booths and tables upon tables of Earth's most delicious delicacies. Fruits and desserts, soups and stews, waffles and wines, pasta and pastries, vegetable medleys and meats and fish, cheeses and chocolate and smoothies and, oh, good lord, would they hurry up already? He had been waiting behind the entrance rope for an hour as hundreds of chefs were setting up, and it all smelled so torturously good. The crowd behind him was fidgeting with impatience as well; the line to get in stretched all the way down the street.

"What shall I eat first?" he asked himself. "Crepes from Paris? Sushi from Tokyo? Waffles from Belgium?" He shook his head. "Oh, it's all so good I don't know what to pick."

"How about none?" Aziraphale jumped. Oh, of course. Gabriel's smirking face was the only thing that could have possibly dampened his mood on this day, so naturally, there it was.

What do you want? Aziraphale thought crossly. He gave the polite smile though. Perhaps if he was lucky, he could deal with Gabriel quickly, before the fair opened.

"Gabriel, how are you?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"Good, good. Was just in the neighborhood to do a couple of blessings, and I happened to notice you in line with one of those." He pointed to the ticket sticking out of Aziraphale's pocket.

"Er—yes, I quite enjoy the World Food Fair. One of London's best traditions, I think, if not the best."

Gabriel's squinty smile never ceased to be annoying. "Are you sure that's a good idea? I understand the need to blend in, but this seems a bit much."

"What? Why?" Aziraphale began to panic. What if Gabriel tried to forbid him from going inside? Please no. Please, Lord. I've been looking forward to this for weeks.

Gabriel gestured to the tables. "Look at all of that. Humans don't need all of it. This is gluttonous and greedy."

"Oh, it's not as bad as all that, I assure you," Aziraphale insisted. He could already feel sweat forming at his temples, and his smile was stretching the limits of his cheeks. "I've been coming here for years. It's just a way for humans to learn about each other's cultures, that's all. Nobody actually expects to eat all of the food. Just a taste here and there."

Gabriel shrugged. "If you say so. In any case, I'll be working somewhere on the western side with Sandalphon, Michael, and Uriel."

"They're here too?" Aziraphale asked, biting back a scream.

"Oh, yes. This is an enormous event; it calls for a lot of angels. Lots of evil for us to thwart. Be on your toes," he said, punching Aziraphale in the shoulder. He laughed and then pointed to his left. "Ah! There they are."

Aziraphale followed Gabriel's finger and saw the other angels standing off to the side, clearly wishing they could be anywhere else. He looked away, deciding he would try the Italian pasta first since that was the farthest away from where they would be. His shoulder ached where Gabriel had punched it.

"Okay everyone, single file now!" The attendant heading toward them got the crowd cheering as finally the rope was lifted and the fair was open. Aziraphale's real smile returned as he practically ran to the pasta booth, leaving Gabriel far behind.

The next hour was the happiest of his life.

Sweet, sour, spicy, salty, sugary, savory; all of these flavors and many more danced across Aziraphale's tongue, tempting his taste buds. He moaned with delight at the paella from Spain and the flan from Mexico. He shut his eyes in bliss at the gelato from France. He grinned at the falafel from Israel and asked for seconds. Everything was beautiful, flawless, scrumptious. The chefs at each booth were more than happy to chat with him about their recipes, and fill his pockets with business cards for their restaurants back home. Aziraphale planned to make a list of them when he got back to the bookshop, though he didn't plan on going back for a while.

He had just made his way through the crowds and over to Germany when he noticed a familiar pair of sunglasses at the booth. "Crowley!"

"Hey Aziraphale, I figured you'd be here," Crowley said with a smile, opening the German beer he'd just bought. "Nice time, this. I always like the drinks."

"Never mind the drinks, look at the food!" Aziraphale swept his arm across the displays of pretzels, franks, chocolate, sausages, and schnitzel. "Endless amounts, and the best in the world. I tell you, Crowley, there is nothing better."

"Mm," Crowley took a swig of his beer and made a face. "Well, I don't know about that. Think I prefer the French wines to this stuff."

Aziraphale ignored him. "If you don't mind, I'd like to try some of everything," he said to the chef, eagerly handing her a plate.

"Everything?" Crowley's eyebrows shot up.

"Vonderful!" the chef exclaimed, smiling brightly. "Nothing better zen people who love to eat. I'll fix you a delicious plate, sir."

"Thank you," Aziraphale said, eyes widening in delight when she handed him a plate piled high.

"My pleasure! Please enjoy."

"I've no doubt I will." He moved away and snapped his fingers. The packed eating area suddenly had a free table, where he and Crowley sat down. "Mm-mm, this is the life."

"They sure loaded you up," Crowley said, eyeing the towering stack of sausages.

"I know, isn't it lovely?" Aziraphale asked, wasting no time in digging right in. "So have you tried anything?" he asked with his mouth full.

"Just the wines, mostly," Crowley answered. "And some chocolates from Switzerland. What have you had?"

"Hmm, let me think." The past hour had been a blur. "I've had most of Europe, all of North America, China, Japan, Mexico, Israel, Palestine, Morocco, Australia, New Zealand, the Bahamas, and one other I can't recall."

"You've had all that already?" Crowley leaned forward, mouth falling open. "And you say I go too fast."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "The fair only comes once a year, and it closes at tea time. Have to get it in while I can." He started to offer Crowley a chocolate when the demon jumped up from his seat and hurried off into the crowd. Aziraphale started to call after him, then stopped when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Got enough there?" That smirk only got more annoying. Aziraphale dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. Gabriel's hand was cold.

"It's quite good," he said, avoiding those eyes. "You might like it."

"I assure you I am perfectly content with my celestial cleanliness," he said. "All of us are," he said, nodding to the other angels coming up behind him.

"I see," Aziraphale said, not knowing what else to say. Honestly, why couldn't they leave him alone? Why did they have to bother him now, on his favorite day?

"So how much more food are you going to eat?" Uriel asked, raising an eyebrow.

As much as I damn well please, now piss off! No, no, that wouldn't do. "Um, well, I thought I would give Zanzibar a try. Maybe Brazil and Thailand."

"You know, there's a limit to how much a human body can hold," Michael said, tilting her head. "Mind you don't eat so much you explode. Wouldn't want you discorporated."

"I'll be fine," Aziraphale said. The angels nodded and, to his relief, began to drift away. As soon as they were a few feet off, Crowley returned.

"What'd they want?" he asked.

Aziraphale sighed. "Wanted to scold me for indulging in the pleasures of the flesh."

"Aw, to hell with 'em," Crowley said, waving them off. "This'll cheer you up. I was over by the UK booth, and your favorite bakery was there."

Aziraphale gasped. "The one on Noel Street?"

"That's the one. Got an angel food cake with your name on it."

Aziraphale practically inhaled the rest of the German food, leaving Crowley to gawk at how fast he was moving. "How come you never eat that quickly when you and I are out at restaurants?"

"Because there aren't hundreds of other restaurants inside them," Aziraphale said, standing up. "Come on, I'm getting that cake."

The cake was every bit as delicious as Aziraphale had expected. So was the ice cream. And the food from Zanzibar. And Brazil. And Thailand. And Haiti.

"Hey Angel," Crowley said, sounding cautious. "Not looking to spoil your fun, but don't you think you ought to slow down a little? The food's not going anywhere."

"Oh please, now you sound like Gabriel," Aziraphale said. That shut Crowley up.

They moved through a thinning crowd toward the South African booth, where Aziraphale filled yet another plate until it was completely covered. He happily ate every bite. Crowley followed him to the Chinese booth, looking a little worried. When they sat down with noodles, rice, and fortune cookies, they both noticed that Aziraphale began to eat every bite less than happily. Halfway through the rice, he put a hand on his belly and winced.

"You all right?" Crowley asked.

"Tickety-boo," Aziraphale said, enjoying the way Crowley's nose wrinkled whenever he said that. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You looked like you were in pain for a second there."

"I'm all right." Yet he held the chopsticks still, turning them over in his hands instead of bringing them to his mouth. He was fine. He had to be. Angels didn't get sick.

Crowley looked through the tents to the darkening sky, then back to Aziraphale. "I can give you a lift home if you like," he said, sounding hopeful.

"Thank you," Aziraphale said. "Just let me at least finish this plate." He didn't move to eat anything, though. Again his hand went to his belly, and he grimaced, longer this time.

"You know, it's okay if you can't finish it," Crowley said. "No law against that."

"But it's wasteful, and it's bad manners," Aziraphale insisted. "I'm sure I have enough room—ow!" He shut his eyes and leaned forward, dropping the chopsticks and groaning.

"Come on." Crowley stood up and took the plate and chopsticks from Aziraphale, dumping them both into the nearby rubbish bin. "You should get home." This time the angel didn't argue. He took Crowley's arm and followed him outside to where the Bentley was parked, looking pained the whole way.

"Don't worry, I'll get you home quick—aw, shit!" Crowley ran around the tent.

"Where are you…oh, hello, everyone." He couldn't bring himself to smile this time as the angels surrounded him, looking very pleased indeed.

"What's the matter?" Sandalphon asked.

"Got a tummy ache?" Michael crooned mockingly, holding her stomach and biting her lip.

Aziraphale put his hands by his side and straightened up. "I'm fine." He didn't even sound convincing to himself.

"Now now," Gabriel said, holding up a hand. "I'm sure Aziraphale has learned his lesson. No doubt the next time we're here, he'll skip the gluttony and start jogging with us instead. He could use it," he said, patting Aziraphale's stomach—owww that hurt.

He was in too much pain to bother with excuses. All he could do was nod and mumble meaningless platitudes until the angels finally disappeared. As soon as they did, Crowley returned to his side, and they got in the car.

"Annoying wankers, aren't they?" he asked, starting up the Bentley. Aziraphale didn't say a word. His stomach gurgled loudly, and he leaned back against the seat, dreading the twists, turns, and sudden brakes that were sure to come with Crowley driving.

God, please make it stop, he thought. He felt like a hand was squeezing his middle too hard while a storm was brewing inside it. Queen's "I Want It All" began to blast from the stereos, and Aziraphale hoped the music would cover up his moans and grimaces.

Crowley drove surprisingly slowly and gently this time, pressing the brakes gingerly rather than slamming his feet on them like he usually did. Soon they were back at the bookshop, where Aziraphale slowly and painfully got to his feet and inside.

Unfortunately, Crowley followed him.

"Thank you for the ride," Aziraphale said. "Was very kind of you."

"'Course," Crowley said. He came closer. "You don't look so good."

Aziraphale was too exhausted and in too much pain to lie. "I feel awful," he said. "I'm going to bed."

"Anything I can do?"

Leaving me alone is what you could do. "No, thank you. I'll be fine once I lie down. Good night." He headed to the back of his shop and shut the door, still clutching his stomach, which was churning something awful. Worse, his head was beginning to pound. He was never happier to swap out his street clothes for a loose nightgown (left over from the Victorian age, but still in good condition, like most of his clothes) and get under the covers.

"Ow, ow, owwww," he whispered, clenching his teeth as a sharp pang passed. "How long is it going to hurt?" He really must have overdone it; this had never happened before.

He lay still, not daring to move for fear it would hurt too much. Sleep always came so easy to Crowley, but never to Aziraphale. Even when he felt fine, it eluded him at every turn, and now it seemed impossibly far away.

Something bubbled up in his throat, and he leaned forward, bracing himself…until it passed. "Am I really going to throw up?" he muttered. "I'm an angel, I shouldn't be capable of throwing up."

Some angel. He could practically hear Gabriel's voice in his head. Gluttonous and greedy. Aziraphale closed his eyes, trying to shut out their faces, their hands, their stinging tones. Instead, he focused on trying not to throw up. Or maybe he should throw up. Humans often said they felt better once they did. Maybe if he expelled some of the food he'd eaten, his body would be able to handle the rest. He hoped so. It would be a terrible shame to ruin his white cotton sheets for nothing, which was inevitably what would happen since he didn't own a toilet (another trick that kept customers away) and didn't think he could move.

"How did this happen?" he mumbled. "Was it the cheese?" He groaned at the thought of cheese. The image of any food, any drink, made him feel even worse. He wouldn't be eating again for a while.

Wait a minute. His eyes flew open. Maybe he could miracle all of the food back like he and Crowley did with alcohol. That would stop the pain right away. He quickly closed his eyes again, concentrated, and oh god it was coming back—

His head pulsed so hard it blurred his vision, and he was retching all over his bed, disgusting orange vomit splattering his sheets, pillows, blankets, and nightgown. His stomach gurgled again and squeezed with a vengeance until he was doubled over next to his own smelly mess. Trying to do the miracle had taken too much out of him, and like an idiot, he had waited too late to do it. He was going to be in pain for God knew how long, and it was his own damn fault.

Aziraphale began to cry.

"Everything okay?" He started as the door opened and Crowley, sans sunglasses, strode in to stand next to the bed. "Hope you don't mind I hung around for a while, I thought you seemed pretty bad off…is that vomit?" Aziraphale turned away so Crowley wouldn't see his tears. "It is. Who would have thought an angel could make that?"

That statement made Aziraphale sob. Crowley started to move toward him, and he pressed his face into the pillow.

"Angel, it's okay. Even if you can't miracle it away, it'll pass."

"It still hurts," Aziraphale whimpered into the pillow. "Even after I threw up. Why does it still hurt?"

Crowley was silent for a minute, then Aziraphale heard him moving around. He blew onto the bed, and the smell of vomit disappeared. Crowley then left the room and came back quickly, holding a glass of water to Aziraphale's lips.

"I think this is supposed to help with that," he said. "Miracled a few pills into it. Humans have these things called pain relievers, supposed to be good for upset stomachs."

Aziraphale slowly swallowed the water and wiped his eyes. Not that it did any good. The tears were still coming.

Crowley stood there looking awkwardly sympathetic for a moment, then moved to the other side of the bed. The mattress dipped, and Aziraphale's breath caught as he felt Crowley wiggle close to his back.

"I noticed Warlock's mum doing this for him one time when he had a stomachache, and it seemed to help," Crowley said. "Figured…well, it might help you too."

Carefully, as if he expected Aziraphale to wrench away at any moment, Crowley put his arms around the angel and started to massage his aching stomach. Aziraphale stilled, surprised at how gentle and warm the demon's hands were. Loving, he would have thought, if he hadn't known better. He lay still, taking comfort in the touch. As Crowley grew more confident, he moved closer and rested his head on the pillow next to Aziraphale's. His hands moved more deliberately now, up and down, up and down. To Aziraphale's surprise, the pain did start to subside.

"That feel better?" Crowley asked. His voice was softer than Aziraphale could remember hearing it.

"Yes. Thank you."

"The pain pills should kick in soon. After that, you'll be fine. Just so long as you don't do it again."

Aziraphale sighed. "No fear of that. I'm not going back to the World Food Fair. In fact, I may never eat again."

"Sure you will," Crowley said. "Once you start feeling better, you'll get peckish again."

"Well, I appreciate the vote of confidence," Aziraphale snapped.

Crowley's hand stilled. "I didn't mean anything by it," he insisted, sounding wounded. "You love food. There's nothing wrong with that. You just had a little too much too fast, that's all."

"Yes, there is something wrong with that." He squeezed Crowley's hand as an apology, and the massaging resumed. "Crowley, I'm an angel. And this is not how an angel is supposed to act."

"Says who?" Crowley asked. "Oh, right, says them. Honestly, Angel, who cares? What do you want to be like them for?" When Aziraphale didn't answer, Crowley added, "You saw the look on that German chef's face, didn't you? You made her happy. For my money, you made all the chefs at that fair happy by showing them how much you loved what they made."

A few minutes passed in silence. "You really think so?"

"Sure. Eating food doesn't hurt anything."

"Except my waistline," Aziraphale said. "Gabriel said I should go running with them sometime." Crowley groaned comically, and Aziraphale smiled for the first time in hours.

"It's up to you, I suppose, but personally I can't think of a worse punishment. Besides," he scooted just a little closer, running a hand over Aziraphale's middle. "I like your waistline. Nice and soft."

Soft. Aziraphale liked the sound of that. He was soft.

He wiped his eyes again, and this time, they stayed dry. "Crowley?"

"Mm?"

He took his friend's hand in his, feeling soothed enough to sleep. "Thank you," he whispered.

Crowley smiled into his shoulder. "Any time, Angel. Any time."