Aziraphale paced, tugging at his sleeve. It was a bad habit he had gotten into lately (tugging at his sleeve, not pacing; Aziraphale had paced throughout most of the 17th century), and he quickly corrected himself before causing any more of the fabric from his camel fur jacket to come undone. Instead, he clutched his hands behind his back, looking out into the trees and the open fields of tall grass below. It was a pleasant day, shadows drifting over the countryside as puffy clouds coasted lazily above. But the angel was, sadly, not in the right mood to fully enjoy it.

Turning his back to the scene, Aziraphale regarded the trunk of the large oak tree. A fluttering sound floated through the air alongside a cool breeze, and the angel could clearly picture Umbriel sitting on the other side, her eyes wandering over 'The Importance of Being Earnest' as she turned the page. Aziraphale's expression brightened at the mental image, his eyes travelling to the base of the tree as another picture began to form. This time it was Crowley – the demon lying on his back with his nose in a book. Quite literally, since he was using it as a means to block out the sunlight; hands folded behind his head and one leg propped up on the other in slumber. The smile turned bittersweet as Aziraphale's imagery faded.

There was no telling where Crowley had gone off to, in all honesty. When the angel had stopped by his friend's apartment almost a week prior, he had picked up lingering traces of the demon that were so faint, he had no way of knowing how long ago anyone had last been in the residence.

The fact that the apartment was also in shambles upon the angel's arrival did little to help his nerves. Aziraphale had used a miracle to clean up the wine, get the stains out of the couch cushions, and reform the broken glasses about the kitchen. He was sure Crowley would appreciate the gesture ...

If he ever returned.

As it turned out, having those sorts of thoughts had been a little too much for the angel to bear. This resulted in a quick distraction via tweaks to the apartment's décor to help lift his spirits. The demon hadn't seen it yet, but the changes to the living room were child's play compared to the upstairs bathroom. Rest assured that a fit over lace curtains, bath salts, and hand towels with kittens embroidered on them was slated for the near future.

In the meantime, the fretful angel could only hope Crowley was still on the planet (or at least somewhere with decent cell reception).

The messages on Crowley's answering tape – and even more on his cellular phone – were the best the angel could do. Being himself, Aziraphale had also considered leaving a note, but second guessed the notion as he recalled his friend's general distaste for reading.

Despite being a member of 'the occult' – as Crowley would put it – Aziraphale had no better means of communication to rely on. Demons were able to do a fancy little trick where they could force their voices through various electronic devices, but getting a firm grip on technology in general for the angel was … touchy. Aziraphale had been rather impressed with the telephone when it came about, and just when he was starting to get a firm grip on that … space shuttles became a thing. To be quite frank: the angel had no confidence operating anything more complex than a hand-held calculator (and even then, he normally defaulted to the abacus he'd owned since the 5th century), much less trying to commit a miracle using any sort of device without prior consultation.

'Ooh, look at the old fuddy-duddy deciding to finally join the rest of us in the 21st century,' Crowley would say, grinning slyly. 'Maybe in another hundred years or so you'll be ready to see what the whole 'personal computation device' thing is all about, yeah?'

Aziraphale scoffed. "Even in my fantasies, he's laughing at my expense," he said to himself.

The thought that his internal dialogue may be the only way he'll ever have a conversation with his old friend again resulted in a feeling like a weighted blanket had been draped over his shoulders. Aziraphale tried to push away the notion that the demon may have gotten his messages; but simply wouldn't heed his call.

"Nonsense, nonsense," the angel muttered.

The footpath caused by Aziraphale's pacing stretched as he moved to keep under the shade in the shifting midday sun. Around the time his calves were beginning to ache and the balls of his feet were starting to burn in protest, movement near the far line of trees caught the angel's eye. Gaping in amazement, Aziraphale's face lit up as a familiar profile slowly ambled toward him. The object of his attention appeared to be in no rush, hands in pockets as a slightly hunched figure slithered between tall grass.

"Oh Crowley, thank goodness," Aziraphale said, relieved. "I was getting worried."

There was no answer, Crowley's face an emotionless mask as he crested the hill. Dark lenses roved over just about everything but the angel as the demon stopped at Aziraphale's side and took in the scenery.

"It took a while to decipher your stupid bloody message," Crowley finally said. "You could've just said to meet at the place where we had the picnic."

Aziraphale nodded in understanding, although he was well aware that Crowley was being less than truthful about his difficulty interpreting the cryptic communication:

'Meet me where the angel danced; the moonlight shining bright.'

"I didn't want to risk it," Aziraphale said. "The Archangels were aware that you had gone into hiding, and I was fretful they may have eyes and ears on you, even now."

"They don't," Crowley said. Aziraphale frowned, waiting for an elaboration that didn't come. Eventually, the angel cleared his throat before plowing on.

"Yes, well, I just wanted to fill you in on recent circumstances. There was a … meeting, of sorts, between the Archangels and myself. And, well, there are particular things that transpired that you should be made aware of."

"I know," Crowley cut in. Aziraphale did a double take, regarding the demon in disbelief.

"'You know?' How could you possibly know?"

Crowley finally turned his head toward Aziraphale.

"Banana plant."

"I beg your pardon?" Aziraphale said, certain he had misheard.

Crowley remained silent. Aziraphale peered at him, not sure what to make of the unfamiliar secrecy. He was also concerned over Crowley's mental condition, but his curiosity over what wisdom one could possibly garner from a member of the Musaceae family prodded him on.

"How much do you know, exactly?" the angel asked. Crowley exhaled with a dismissive shrug.

"I know the sword was destroyed," he said. He looked over the distance, clenching his jaw. His companion watched the symbol of a snake writhe at his temple, unsure if it was the underlying muscle or some otherworldly power that caused the small creature to squirm. The tiny snake grew still as Crowley opened his mouth. He second guessed himself, closing it, but changed his mind again as the words tumbled out.

"I know Umbriel's gone."

A pained expression touched Aziraphale's features. He reached out to give Crowley's shoulder a reassuring pat.

"She was never going to do it, you know – hurt you," Aziraphale said, doing his best to sound comforting. "She spoke out of anger then, not sincerity. I wanted to be sure you knew that beforehand so you won't do anything foolish."

Crowley nodded absently. "At least my eyes can finally get a rest from regarding that minging creature."

"Ah," Aziraphale said, looking about. "Might want to be careful about what you say, mon chou."

"She was like a wannabe groupie for an 80s hair band," Crowley continued, ignoring the warning. His tone, however, was much kinder than the insult should warrant, prompting the angel to waver between feeling touched and insulted on Umbriel's behalf.

Crowley's brow furrowed. "This place still reeks like her, though. Smells like one of those shops in the mall that sells scratch-n-sniff stickers and pens with the asinine puff balls at the end."

Aziraphale cleared his throat, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.

"Delightful as always, Mr. Crowley."

Crowley whipped about. A figure sporting a baggy red top and a large, velvet green hair bow stepped around the tree. If apple orchards had the same type of gaudy and obnoxious spokespersons as used car dealerships, this person would be the most memorable of the bunch (pun intended).

Aziraphale's previous imaginings hadn't been entirely wrong, but they did fall short, somewhat. The book which was tucked into the back pocket of the woman's jeans, for example, had less mistaken identity and romantic musings as Oscar Wilde's work, but more pumpkin pasties and owls delivering mail. She had swapped out the books when the higher angel wasn't looking, and an inner city London newspaper stand now sported a starkly out of place copy of 'The Importance of Being Earnest.'

A smug smile pulled back glossed lips as the woman puffed out her chest.

"I rather like my style, you know," Umbriel said, reaching up to adjust the bow holding her hair back. "And I think you do, too, Mr. Crowley; what else would you have to complain about if I changed it?"

The demon closed the distance between them in an incomprehensible blur. Crowley reached out … and socked Umbriel with a right hook that would make the likes of his favorite action heroes proud. Well, perhaps if it hadn't been a literal angel who he had just struck across the jaw.

Umbriel precariously wobbled to the side, throwing out her arms to keep her balance. Spots of color (which in this case she couldn't say she appreciated) floated before her eyes, and her ears were filled with a ringing sound that was almost drowned out by Aziraphale's exclamation of shock. Even that, however, was overridden by Crowley's hoarse voice.

"There're two reasons you deserve that, and you know exactly what they are."

Before Umbriel could reply, her face was buried in black silk.

Umbriel went stiff as a board. The shock of being held by a demon threw her for far more of a loop than the punch ever could. By the time Umbriel's frazzled brain caught up to what was happening, and that the polite response would be to actually hug him back, Crowley was already shoving her away with as much force as he had used to grapple her in the first place. This time Umbriel lost the battle against gravity and landed on her backside with a dramatic thud.

"Ow," Umbriel said. She was referring to … well … a lot of things.

Crowley was staring at her as he backed away with as much apprehension as if she had been the one to attack him. It was true, in a way, but her assault could be closer labeled to being chemical warfare if you judged by the stinging sensation in Crowley's eyes.

It was going to be rather difficult for anyone to follow up Crowley's display with anything nearly as impressive. Luckily, Aziraphale's inherent nature saved anyone the trouble of trying.

"I wish I could attest for what became of your manners," Aziraphale said, looking the demon up and down, "but your form of greeting is rather taking the biscuit." He gave Crowley a final dismissive look before motioning for Umbriel to approach. "Come here, dear."

The Guardian pushed herself to her feet. The respectively less violent member of the group clicked his tongue in disapproval. It was unclear if the gesture was aimed at the sway to the Guardian's step, the dirt clinging to her jeans, the growing mark on her face, or all of the above.

"Let me take a look at that jaw … Crowley, you brute. I'll have to miracle that away to avoid leaving a scar."

Umbriel shot the demon a sideways glance as she mumbled something too soft for Crowley to hear.

"Nonsense, he's forgiven you for all that," Aziraphale said, as if he were the final authority on the matter.

Aziraphale ran his finger along the purple mark, the bruise disappearing beneath his touch. As he did so, Crowley noticed that the left sleeve of Aziraphale's jacket had a long, scorched-looking tear running up the inside seam.

"What the hell happened to you?" Crowley asked.

Umbriel shifted, her eyes flitting to Crowley before looking at his shoes. "Oh, uh –"

"Getting to that," Crowley interrupted, holding up a finger. He pointed at Aziraphale.

"Ain't that your jacket from Sicily? The camel one, yeah? You right botched it up."

Aziraphale appeared dumfounded. "You want to know about my jacket?!" the angel asked, looking between the object in question and Crowley in disbelief. "Out of all things, it's the jacket?!"

"S'very unusual," Crowley said simply.

Aziraphale balked. First there was the nonsense about a banana plant, followed by throwing punches out of the blue, and now this. He had to seriously consider if Crowley had sustained a blow to the head since their last meeting at the bookshop.

"As impressive of a garment as this is – was – no, no, still is – unusual doesn't mean you should be putting the well-being of a piece of clothing in precedence over the well-being of a friend!"

The angel seemed to have missed the point entirely that Crowley's inquiry was based off of him being so intimately aware of Aziraphale's habits and preferences, that this was, in fact, just that.

"Well, I know she's fine, obviously," Crowley said, gesturing to Umbriel. "Feels right solid to me."

This was not the correct answer, considering Aziraphale started to sputter like an overboiling pot of spaghetti.

"Alright, alright," Crowley said, lifting his palms in submission. "Putting a pin in the jacket thing for later."

Crowley smiled at the statement. "Heh, that turned out to be sort of a joke, dinnit?"

It was, but based on the expressions of his companions, not a good one.

"Tough crowd," Crowley said. He felt a sudden moment of solidarity in terms of how Aziraphale must feel towards Crowley's less-than-stellar reactions regarding his slight-of-hand.

"I'm all ears, angel," Crowley said, bowing slightly with a grandiose wave. He was more than ready to have all the attention taken off himself, at any rate.

Aziraphale's nod in acknowledgement was accentuated by raised brows and a stern look. The angel's expression softened as he gathered his thoughts.

"Well, I suppose I should start at the beginning," Aziraphale said. He put out his hands, gesturing them up and down as he spoke as if trying to stuff an invisible drawer.

"After you left, it was all rather … disconcerting. I tried calling you, of course – those messages you never returned, by and by – which was also quite distressing, mind you. And on top of all that, the two of you had made a horrendous mess of some of the books, so those had to be properly inspected for damages and reorganized right away.

"And ah – yes, after that it came time for Umbriel and I to collect our thoughts, as it were, and one can't possibly do so without getting into the right mindset. Now at this time, I had considered going for something a bit stronger than tea, but I had never been much of a coffee drinker, you know – gives me the wobbles, mostly. Umbriel had found old beans in the cupboard from some time back; didn't you, my dear? Oh but those had long since expired, so brewing a cup would require going to the corner market, which I certainly wasn't in the mood for at the moment. Umbriel – bless her soul – offered to pick some up on my bequest, but I dismissed the notion since I absolutely didn't want her leaving the shop without protection. We had a bit of a disagreement over that, but it wa–"

"You're waffling, angel," Crowley interrupted.

"Waffling?" Aziraphale said. "Umbriel and I did get breakfast a little later on, but it was bagels, I believe, not waffles."

"You're prattling on," Crowley said, bluntly. "We may not be capable of dying of old age, but by golly you're going to get us close if you keep goin' on like that."

Aziraphale looked a bit put out. Crowley winced, immediately feeling guilty.

"You should tell Mr. Crowley about your performance," Umbriel said softly. "That part was very exciting, wasn't it?"

"Oh!" Aziraphale said, his face lighting up at the prospect. Crowley's features relaxed. He regarded Umbriel for a moment, the object of his attention pointedly shifting her gaze to look elsewhere.

"Yes, yes, indeed I shall," Aziraphale said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "This part will most certainly be a good bit, I assure you!"

·

.

"The sword wasn't meant to be used against angels," Aziraphale sniveled. He kneeled in the hard grit of the footpath, tears dripping from his cheeks as his eyes drifted over the Archangels looking down at him in varying states of shock.

The glow of the streetlamps cast harsh shadows over Umbriel's unresponsive features as the angel slowly rocked her limp form back and forth. A pained whine escaped his lips before speaking again.

"I believe … I think it couldn't exist on this realm any longer after being used for something so against its original purpose," Aziraphale murmured. His grip on Umbriel tightened as he lowered his head.

Aziraphale buried his face in thick hair, his shoulders shaking as the laughter that had slowly been bubbling up from his gut finally made an appearance.

The hand attached to someone who by every right should have been dead moved just enough to give his stomach a painful pinch. A startled yelp was luckily mistaken for cries of sorrow by those witnessing the display.

"You knew," came Gabriel's harsh accusation. "You knew that the sword would disappear if we used it against you."

Aziraphale couldn't bear to lift his head, still having trouble wiping the smile from his face as he giggled.

"So that was your real goal, huh? To take away our opportunity to ever kill the demon Crowley by destroying the sword," Gabriel's voice continued. The Archangel let out a strained laugh. "You're a lot smarter than I gave you credit for, Aziraphale, I'll give you that."

"Even more so than you think," Aziraphale whispered. The smile disappeared, and Aziraphale lifted his head as his expression was once again one of pure sorrow.

"I couldn't trust you …" Aziraphale said faintly.

The Principality put on a rather dramatic display accented with snivels, gasps, and the improvisation of a particular psalm in Hebrew that left him rather smug of his ingenuity. A certain playwright Aziraphale had once been acquainted with from the 17th century would have given his performance an awkward clearing of the throat followed by an indifferent shrug.

"… they're not going to be pleased about it," Sandalphon's voice muttered.

"I know! I know! Just shut up!"

If the Archangel's dampening miracle hadn't been in effect, they might have caught Aziraphale's Hebrew momentarily diverting from a certain psalm to weave in a statement about Gabriel being a particularity indecent part of a horse. However, in Aziraphale's defense, he was under the impression that this was actually a rather tame insult translating to 'dimwitted aardvark.' One wouldn't need a lot of guesses to speculate who had originally taught him the slight.

Going off script again warranted another pinch to the gut. The angel responded by putting his forehead to Umbriel's and apologizing for getting a bit carried away.

"Let's go," Uriel said, her voice on edge.

There was the sound of crunching gravel which amplified as the other angel's followed.

"Come, there's nothing of importance left here," Gabriel's voice snapped.

Not a single Archangel bothered to look back with a pang of remorse. This was lucky for Aziraphale, who had broken character to stick his tongue out at the retreating forms. He squinted his eyes against the flash of light, and blinked several times to regain his vision after the angels' departure. The night sounds came flooding back in like a wave, and with a start, he noticed that it hadn't just been the sounds being blocked. He could now sense entities in the shadows of far less than angelic nature.

"Death must be so beautiful!" Aziraphale wailed, theatrically lifting a hand to his forehead. "To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow …"

At this point the entities lurking nearby were quite certain that they had all they needed. There was more than likely going to be a memo on the whole ordeal, anyway, and they scattered to the wind before they, too, would join the Guardian in the sweet embrace of death (theirs being less of the 'stabbing' variety, and more of the 'brought about by sheer boredom' type).

"To forget time, to forget life, to be at peace," Aziraphale continued, getting rather caught up in the moment. He lowered his hand, noting that his captive audience seemed to have mysteriously vanished before he could even get to the good part.

Well, best to be safe, the angel thought.

"You can help me!" Aziraphale howled, hoping his voice would carry to reach a few stragglers. "You can open for me the portals of death's house, for love is always with you, and love is stronger than death is!"

There was a wave of veneration from Umbriel that was the closest she could get to applauding without moving a muscle.

"Thank you, my dear," Aziraphale whispered.

Aziraphale worked to get a good hold of Umbriel's limp form. After a few instances of her arm slipping away, then getting her head to rest against his chest without lolling about, a strained sound escaped the angel's lips and he lifted her up to begin his walk down the empty path.

"Oh, I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; for grief is proud, and doth makes his–"

Aziraphale's grip on Umbriel faltered. He caught her legs before they fell out of his grasp, but a painful jolt shot through his back as he did so.

"Oh, sweet Heaven," Aziraphale wheezed.

"Are you sure you can carry me?" a soft, and somewhat concerned, voice asked.

"Hush!" Aziraphale hissed, looking about. He continued to walk, his breath growing more labored.

"For– for grief is proud and doth makes his owner … his owner stoop," the angel continued. His lips pulled back over his teeth as a burning sensation that had far more to do with idleness than hellfire ran through his biceps.

"I … I'm going to put you down now," Aziraphale whispered, ducking into a cluster of bushes beside the trail. He made it a few paces into the wooded area before getting to one knee and gingerly placing Umbriel among the grass and dried leaves. He took care not to break the physical contact that ensured the minor miracle hiding her presence wouldn't dissipate.

"Are you alright?" Umbriel asked, one lid cracking open.

Aziraphale answered the question by falling onto his rear with an 'oof.' Pearl buttons raised up and down, his chest heaving as he looked about the rocks and twisted branches. The angel's heart was pounding from both the level of physical effort that was far above what he was accustomed to, along with the adrenaline from his previous performance still coursing through his veins.

"Yes, ah, yes, perfectly fine," the angel panted. "But stay still for just a moment, please."

Aziraphale tightly closed his eyes, dipping his head. His senses stretched to see if he could pick up any more unusual entities, and detected no corporal forms within at least three quarters of a kilometer from their location. Whatever the Archangels' had done must have pushed everything in the area out other than the few supernatural entities attempting to eavesdrop. Aziraphale could only hope that whatever – and possibly whomever – had been around from the natural realm during that time would reappear somewhere pleasant.

"Ah, all clear," Aziraphale said, rapidly blinking. He pulled back his hand, and Umbriel's bright aura immediately popped back into existence. The higher angel couldn't so much see the aura as he could feel it, which was an odd sensation to describe since he was aware that he was feeling a myriad of colors. Sometime later in the future, Aziraphale would inquire if his own aura did the same; hoping for the answer to be a pattern of crisscrossed bands that he was particularly fond of. Umbriel would be forced to burst his bubble when she admitted that, no, his aura wasn't tartan.

Aziraphale's gaze lowered to Umbriel's abdomen and the burnt, tattered hole of peeling white linen around red flesh.

"Oh, oh my!" Aziraphale exclaimed. He put his hands over the lesser angel's stomach, and the seared, oozing skin immediately faded back to normal. "I'm so sorry, my dear! Oh no, let me see your poor hand. This must be horribly painful, I'm so sorry."

"It's alright," Umbriel said, wincing as she lifted the appendage. "Better than going 'poof,' right?"

Umbriel averted her gaze, feeling nauseous at the sight of scorched flesh and what she was sure was bone sticking out around the first knuckle.

"Oh dear. I believe we may have over-egged the pudding, as it were," Aziraphale said, sheepishly. "This is why I don't trust computers; that blogsite said we should use far too many sticks for that sparkler contraption."

Aziraphale waved his hands up and down the length of Umbriel's arm. In seconds, the flesh was as good as new. A relieved sound escaped Umbriel's lips.

"You did very well, staying so still among all that," Aziraphale continued, his expression brightening at the sight of Umbriel's relaxed features. "Very good job! I'm quite chuffed."

Umbriel pushed herself into a sitting position, more than a fair share of leaves and sticks clinging to her as she did so. "You should be the one getting praise, I think," she said. "You could be in theater."

"Oh, me? No," Aziraphale said, waving away the compliment. The self-satisfied grin on his face, however, more than betrayed his true feelings on the subject.

"You almost had me there," Umbriel said, her smile growing bittersweet. "When you said that you would forgive me. I could barely get out my lines, then."

Aziraphale smiled tenderly. He reached out to cup Umbriel's face. "All of that was sincere, my dear. You will always be forgiven, in my book."

Aziraphale finished the statement with a pinch to Umbriel's cheek before pulling away. The Guardian regarded the higher angel with a loving expression, but something out of place had caught her eye. Umbriel's gaze drifted downward and a soft gasp escaped her lips.

"Oh! Your coat!"

"Oh," Aziraphale said, following Umbriel's gaze. "OH!"

He lifted up the sleeve, regarding the new addition of blackened and tattered fabric with a distressed expression. He ran his finger along the material, dismayed when some of both the coat and underlying jacket fell away at his touch.

"You can fix it, right?" Umbriel asked.

Aziraphale didn't answer right away. His fingers slid over the unscathed portion of his sleeve as if memories over the past decades had been woven into each thread.

Surprisingly, his expression brightened.

"I most certainly can, if I wished," Aziraphale said. "But I'll always know it was there. So, I may as well leave it that way – it will be like a badge of honor, I believe."

The look on Umbriel's face seemed to convey that she found the statement dubious. Aziraphale chuckled.

"I do have another thing to be feeling right chuffed about, after all," Aziraphale said. He reached his fingers into his sleeve, taking care not to further rip the cloth. A metallic gleam reflected the moonlight as he gingerly pulled the golden pen from the garment.

"It's a good thing I was brushing up on my slight-of-hand, wasn't it?" the angel asked, a playful twinkle to his blue eyes.

"Yes, but we were still nearly done-in by a firecracker during the process," Umbriel said, fighting to hold back laughter.

"Ah, well, we only caught fire just a tad," Aziraphale countered. His smile grew thoughtful as he tilted the pen to-and-fro. The object balanced on his fingertips, but there was a weight to it that had nothing to do with its physical properties.

It was his sword, without question. The angel may not have properly had it in his possession for quite some time, but he could never forget the righteous aura and familiar thrum between his fingers let off by the holy weapon.

It had been complete codswallop – as he liked to put it – about the sword disappearing after piercing an angel. However, he had a feeling there was no one else other than the Almighty herself who would be able to dispute the fact. Aziraphale also had the distinct feeling the Archangels would never gather up the courage to ask.

"It's frightening, that thing," Umbriel said, pulling her knees to her chest. "Just holding it made me feel … formidable. Like I could do anything. The second it touched my fingers, I even had the urge to take on the Archangels right then and there."

"That would be the Justice part about it," Aziraphale explained. He gave the pen a final look over before stuffing the item into a pocket inside his jacket. When his hand reemerged, his gave his breast a reassuring pat. "The sword is meant to be used to enforce the will of the Just, so when you held it, the object was rightly a bit miffed over the idea of being used to murder an innocent angel."

"But not so much the Archangels?"

"Well, that's a bit of a problem with Justice," Aziraphale said, his smile turning sheepish. "The definition seems to shift depending on who you ask."

The two angels shared a forced chuckle. As their laughter faded, Aziraphale let out a long sigh and looked about. His heart rate had gone back to a normal level, and although sleep wasn't a necessity, he did feel the need for a warm blanket, a warmer cup of cocoa, and a good book.

"Mr. Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale pulled himself out of his daydream, lids fluttering. The dejected tone in Umbriel's voice caused him to consider her in concern.

"Are you alright, my dear? Did I miss a spot miracling away the burns?"

Umbriel shook her head. She began to pull sticks and twigs out of her hair more as an action to keep her hands busy than because they caused any bother.

"If Mr. Crowley comes back …"

The look that flashed over Aziraphale's face caused the Guardian to make a quick correction.

"When Mr. Crowley comes back," Umbriel said. "I just … I didn't want it to come out of the blue when I … that I'll be leaving."

This was a subject Aziraphale had been hoping to avoid that night. Or, at the very least, until they had returned to the bookshop, where he could have made the weak claim that he couldn't hear her over the sound of shaving chocolate for his cocoa. Aziraphale cleared his throat, nervously drumming his fingers along his knees.

"Umbriel," the angel said, tenderly. "Whether Crowley will forgive you or not is … ah, well, that is … that is a question." His expression fell further from the disappointing effect his sentiment appeared to have on the lesser angel. He awkwardly cleared his throat again.

"But it can't be ruled out entirely that he won't," he continued. "I, well, I've known Crowley for some time now." He gazed into the shadows over Umbriel's shoulder as if they were doing something interesting. "Yes, for quite some time. And I think you've also known him long enough to see that there is good in him."

Umbriel slowly nodded in agreement. Her eyes dropped in guilt.

"And there is some bad in you."

Umbriel's attention snapped back to Aziraphale. Despite the statement, it was spoken with no malice. The higher angel shot her a strained smile.

"Not to fret," Aziraphale said, kindly. "I think having some balance helps to widen one's perspective."

This did little to stop Umbriel from looking aghast.

"But I did something terrible," Umbriel said, voice breaking. "I was … I was going to do it, Mr. Aziraphale. If they had given me the sword–"

"You were doing it to keep me safe, my dear," Aziraphale said, attempting to shut down the line of thought. "You were under the impression that the Archangels would leave me to my own devices if you only – erm – 'took out' Crowley, as it were. It wasn't an ideal notion, but there was still some nobility behind it."

"But it wasn't just for you!" Umbriel countered, eyes wild. Aziraphale quickly reached for her hand, hoping to imbue enough positive emotions to keep the Guardian from spiraling into the level of … whatever that had been during the picnic. Such alien feelings were far more than he could handle, and without Crowley there to even things out, Aziraphale wanted to avoid the touchy subject at all costs.

"I was afraid for myself," Umbriel said, looking away in shame. "I was afraid of what would happen to me. I couldn't stand the idea of being cast out. But then … but then Mr. Crowley made it worse."

Aziraphale let out a sigh. "I apologize on his behalf, my dear," he said, wearily. "Those awful things Crowley said to you–"

"I was thinking how it wouldn't be so bad if I were to fall."

Confusion, anger, sorrow, and disgrace radiated from the Guardian in a dizzying array. Aziraphale had to fight to keep his grip. The level of bewilderment he was giving off wasn't helping, but he was too shocked to hide it.

"Demons can love," Umbriel said. Her eyes drifted over Aziraphale's face, pleading for an answer that he wasn't qualified to give.

"Mr. Crowley can't be the only one," Umbriel said, imploringly. "I reasoned that if I went against the Archangels and fell, then I could probably still feel love, too, couldn't I? It would be alright, if that were the case. I could still help the Almighty's children like I always do. I would just … when it comes to the Almighty, I …"

The bottomless pit was opening up again. Aziraphale shied away from the feeling, watching helplessly as a veil was thrown over Umbriel's eyes. His fingers loosened, and he pulled back his hand, relieved when the only emotions tumbling through his mind were his own.

Aziraphale was out of his depth – feeling like a diver lost at the bottom of the ocean. If he wasn't careful, he, too, could get turned around and never find his way back to the surface. What he was facing couldn't be solved with a smile, a cup of tea, or a reassuring pat on the back. Aziraphale wasn't capable of stopping time, nor could he tell Umbriel that what she was experiencing wasn't all that bad compared to other things.

Aziraphale was unequipped.

Aziraphale was unprepared.

Aziraphale was …

Soft.

'You've faced down Satan, you know,' a voice said in his mind, sounding resoundingly like an old friend. 'Is this really where you're going to come up short, angel?'

"No," Aziraphale whispered. Umbriel seemed to have forgotten he was there, her gaze unmoving from a spot near her knee.

The higher angel's brow knit in a steadfast expression.

"No, I most certainly will not."

Aziraphale threw his arms around Umbriel, pulling her close. He fell into the depths, gritting his teeth against the cold waves of fear and despair that pulled him under.

"I am done with being soft, do you hear?!" Aziraphale declared. "I'm going to get hard for you, Umbriel, starting right now!"

There was a pause.

After this pause, many things happened in rapid succession. Because he was certain he was missing something, but wasn't quite sure what, this was a difficult part of the story for Aziraphale to recount. He was even allowed to have some additional time to dwell on the matter, since it took Crowley approximately four and a half minutes to catch his breath and regain a semblance of composure before Aziraphale could continue (there were still a few false starts, since Crowley would break into giggles just as Aziraphale was about to pick up from where he left off).

The simplest explanation for the series of events is as follows:

The part of Umbriel's brain that was still processing outside stimuli felt the embrace, heard the words, and made an assumption based on having the memory of every human-made form of entertainment, both written and recorded, where a similar statement was professed with passionate energy.

The pit of despair within Umbriel's mind closed with such a sudden snap, Aziraphale was given emotional whiplash – also leaving him in a rather stunned state.

While this was happening, Umbriel was pulling forth second-hand information of what one who considers themselves to be of the prudish variety would do in such a situation. This resulted in her pushing Aziraphale away while simultaneously raising her right hand.

As the hand flew through the air, most of Umbriel's normally functioning mental capacities returned … and she had a thought. It was a thought that said:

'You ARE aware of who just said that, aren't you?'

At this point, Umbriel was feeling quite ashamed of the misunderstanding. This led to her shouting a rather heartfelt apology while simultaneously karate-chopping Aziraphale in the windpipe.

An object in motion … well, you know the rest.

A strained whoosh like an old tractor engine spurring to life escaped Aziraphale. This sound was quickly followed by the higher angel doing what he was ingrained to do whenever someone gave him an apology under any circumstance.

"Ahheeooo …"

The labored squeak that escaped the angel as he fell on his side was the closest he could manage to saying, 'I forgive you,' given his current capacities.

(Side Note: At this point during the reiteration – sometime after the demon had composed himself – Crowley remarked:

"S'pose I should be grateful all I got was slapped by a banana plant."

This was a turn of phrase Aziraphale had previously been unaware of. He would pick it up in the future as a reference for when one befalls a misfortune that was tame compared to someone else's. His usage of the phrase would never fail to baffle every person in earshot)

"No, dear … I'm fine, I'm fine," Aziraphale insisted between weak coughs. The blow had been more surprising, than anything, but Umbriel was blubbering over him as if she had chopped his head clean from his shoulders.

"I didn't mean to startle you so," Aziraphale said apologetically. "I suppose I got a bit carried away – forgive me."

If you've ever had the experience of rescuing a baby bunny, spending weeks nursing it back to health, releasing the creature with a bit of fanfare, then watching in horror as an eagle swiftly scoops up an afternoon snack – then you may be familiar with the sound which escaped Umbriel's lips.

"I … I don't … I've never …" Umbriel stuttered. "Why would anyone do that? I've never struck someone before! That was horrible! I was just … I just did what I thought I was supposed to do … and my hand hurts again! This is horrible! I'm horrible! I attacked you! I can't even begin to apologize enough! Mr. Aziraphale, I'm so sorry!"

Umbriel's stammering died away as another sound took precedence.

Aziraphale was laughing.

Well, it was a cross between a laugh and a wheeze, and seemed somewhat painful, but it was still a laugh nonetheless. Blue eyes rimmed with tears eventually opened and regarded Umbriel in glee.

"Really, my dear, do you think you could have killed someone?"

Umbriel's frantic energy drained away. She suddenly looked very uncertain.

Aziraphale regarded the lesser angel with a pride that made the object of his attention feel entirely undeserving of the sentiment.

"What I was trying to convey before, you know," Aziraphale said, softly. "Is that this whole time, I thought I couldn't relate to how you were feeling because I had never felt the same way. But … ah, that isn't entirely true. The truth is – I was too frightened to ever admit it."

The corner of Aziraphale's mouth twitched.

"The idea of falling … it's a terribly worrisome concept, isn't it? I believe the … the isolation is something I simply couldn't bear. The thought itself is so appalling … and then of course I'm reminded of the fact that my dearest friend has had to live with that feeling since the beginning of time."

A heartbreaking expression crossed the angel's face.

"He would blame himself, I think, if something of that nature were to happen to me. That notion doesn't hurt as much as the idea of my link to the Almighty being taken away, but it does pain me something awful."

Aziraphale inhaled sharply, shaking his head to rid himself of the thought. He cleared his throat before reaching out to Umbriel.

"You're not alone, my dear, is what I'm trying to say," he said, a firm resolve growing to his voice. "Even if … even if anything were to happen to either one of us, I will always hold you dear to my heart; there is nothing you could do to change that. No matter what either of us may be ... what we might become ... no, it wouldn't matter. Not one bit, I assure you."

Umbriel bit her lip in an attempt to keep herself from blubbering like a baby. The fear wasn't gone, not entirely. It probably never would be, no matter how much she or anyone else willed it. But now there was a steadfast certainty:

She would never, ever, be truly alone.

If the captain of the ship were to toss her overboard, there would be a passenger who would throw her a lifeline to ensure she wouldn't drown. In fact, that passenger would probably jump ship himself if he had an inclination that it would save her. That level of certainty was frightening, in a way. It was frightening, because Umbriel knew without a doubt that it would go both ways. Umbriel never imagined she could feel anything so strongly outside of her duty toward the Almighty's children. She had a definition of this feeling, and thought very much so that she had felt it before, but now she was fairly certain that hadn't been so.

This was kinship. It was love, and friendship, and loyalty, all rolled into one. Aziraphale had her back, as she had his. He was more her family now than anything outside the Almighty had ever been before.

Well, as long as she didn't do something to make Aziraphale disavow her. She had a feeling that despite his claim, certain insults toward wine, Oscar Wilde, and tartan could do just that. She rather liked two out of three of those things, luckily, so she didn't have much to be concerned about.

An appreciative smile grew on her face.

"I don't think someone like you has to worry about falling, Mr. Aziraphale."

"Ah, well," Aziraphale said, flashing her a coy grin. "I'm far from innocent, myself, if that hasn't already been made apparent."

Umbriel giggled. "You did call the Archangel Gabriel a horse's penis," she said, looking at him shyly like a child toeing the line to see what they could get away with.

"Language," Aziraphale warned. "And I most unquestionably did nothing of the sort! Really, my dear; I don't know where you get these notions."

Umbriel covered her mouth with her hand as she let out a snort. The higher angel rolled his eyes, getting to his feet while letting out more strained groans than he would have later liked to admit (which he didn't, if you were wondering).

Lips pulled back in a wince, and Aziraphale placed a hand on his lower back. His expression softened as divine intervention was grossly misused to heal a pulled muscle.

"Come along," Aziraphale said, tugging Umbriel's hand. He helped her to her feet, strengthening their grip when the lesser angel made to pull away. He offered her a comforting smile that was returned with a grateful expression. The pair slowly made their way hand-in-hand out of the foliage and back to the trail.

"Would you surmise the sushi establishment down the block is still open at this hour?" Aziraphale asked.

"It's 3:00am, Mr. Aziraphale."

"I was just wondering," Aziraphale said in defense. Umbriel shot him an endearing look.

"There's a 24-hour diner not too far off," she said. "Edmond is waiting tables, and he'll serve us the freshly-baked pastries if we get him talking about how his son is doing in kindergarten."

"Oh!" Aziraphale said, eyes alight. "I have been wanting to try that 'cronut' thing you mentioned the other day."

Umbriel nodded. "We'll have to go back to the shop and change, first, I suspect. Unless we want the Almighty's children to think we're trying to start a new fashion trend, that is."

It took Aziraphale a moment to realize Umbriel was attempting a joke. He chuckled, regarding the gaping burn marks to their clothes.

"It wouldn't be the oddest thing I've seen," the angel said, his eyes growing clouded as a memory resurfaced. "Humans do like to come up with the most inexplicable things to wear. At the very least, I'm grateful they moved away from the powdered wigs, because you wouldn't believe how difficult it was to keep those in decent condition …"

·

.

"Did you really have to add in that last bit about cronuts and the wigs?" Crowley asked. He lounged at the foot of the oak tree, watching Aziraphale with a bored expression.

"It adds flavor, Crowley," Aziraphale countered. His companion tilted his head with an unamused groan. Aziraphale huffed, turning his back to the tree.

Umbriel had retreated some distance down the hill while Aziraphale relived the tale. She sat with knees pulled up to her chest as she regarded the field of swaying grass. Despite Crowley's earlier display of affection (if one could call it that), Umbriel still seemed tentative on being in his proximity.

Aziraphale turned to peer at Crowley out of the corner of his eye. The demon's head was slightly lowered, and at first glance he appeared preoccupied with a stalk of clover as his fingers danced over the delicate leaves. But Aziraphale knew better.

Crowley had tried to hide it, and probably would have succeeded fooling just about anyone into thinking he hadn't glanced in Umbriel's direction a single time during the tale. But the angel had spent a very, very long time getting a sense for where the demon was really looking behind dark spectacles. There seemed to be some concern from Crowley that Umbriel was really there; warranting occasional checks to ensure her appearance wasn't some sort of trick. Not being the doting type by any means, it was one of the most endearing things Aziraphale had seen his old friend do. It was at this point, when the angel caught another quick glance, he finally lost the fight to keep the sappy smile off his face.

"What the hell are you grinning at?" Crowley snapped.

Aziraphale chuckled, turning to face him fully. "Nothing really, mon chou. I suppose I'm just happy to have you back."

"I never left," Crowley said, his tone dismissive. Aziraphale's expression grew thoughtful before nodding.

"Of course not," he agreed. "I can't recall whatever gave me the thought."

"I can," Crowley said. "But it's probably 'bout time for you to stop believing me when I say I'm gonna bugger off somewhere."

"Well, you did, I would assume," Aziraphale replied. "Just not somewhere as far away as Alpha Centauri, would be my supposition."

"Traffic was horrendous," Crowley said, placing his palms beneath his head as he laid back. He propped one leg up on the other, his foot swiveling about. Aziraphale recognized the behavior, waiting patiently while Crowley collected his thoughts.

"You should've waited 'till I got back," Crowley finally said. "That plan of yours was risky – lot of ways it could've gone wrong."

"Contingencies were in place, I assure you," Aziraphale said with a wiggle of his brow. Crowley frowned before speaking.

"Like what?"

Aziraphale loudly cleared his throat, breaking their gaze. "Oh, you know. Plans B through … ah, T or something … yes. There were most certainly lots of backups. I was 'on it like a car bonnet,' as it were."

Crowley silently mouthed the phrase before his jaw dropped in disbelief.

"You didn't have shit!" he exclaimed. "What the hell got into you?!"

"But it was a good plan!" Aziraphale said, pleading his own defense. "And it worked, as you can see."

Crowley returned to a sitting position, waving his arms as if gesturing to a mountain of unseen issues.

"What if they called your bluff, huh?" Crowley asked. "What if they agreed not to have the feather duster stick you, and take you back through the pearly gates?"

"Oh," Aziraphale said, amused. "They most certainly wouldn't do that. Your performance with the hellfire caused quite the scandal, I'm sure; they wouldn't risk a repeat of the situation."

"Or what if they had brought another Guardian?" Crowley said, gesturing toward Umbriel. "If they figured there was an issue with that one, they could've just fetched another."

"Well, quite so," Aziraphale agreed. Despite the concurrence, a playful nature hung about the angel.

"But I know Gabriel."

Aziraphale paused, letting the statement sink in.

"They had no reason to doubt Umbriel was still loyal," he continued. "Or, at least that she would follow orders. And even though finding another Guardian wouldn't take long, it would still take time."

Crowley sat in contemplation, wracking his brain over why the angel was looking at him so expectantly.

"Gabriel can be very impatient, you see," Aziraphale said with a wink. He watched in glee as Crowley finally nodded in understanding.

"'Shut your stupid face and die already,'" Crowley quoted in the strained, annoyed tone of the Archangel who had first snapped the declaration.

"Precisely," Aziraphale said, puffing his chest. It was notable that the only difference between the angel and a preening peacock was the color. Crowley finally consented the issue with a groan and defeated wave.

"Alright, alright, so you're clever; big whoop."

"Inform me of something I haven't previously been made aware of," Aziraphale said, putting his own spin on a phrase he'd picked up from Umbriel.

"And it wasn't all me, you know," the angel added. "Umbriel had the idea to make the switch with the sword after watching me practice my magic tricks. Because someone …"

Aziraphale regarded Crowley from the corner of his eye.

"… has the ability to recognize genuine talent."

"Makes sense she'd say that," Crowley agreed. "The feather duster is the biggest liar I know, after all."

Despite being aware the remark had been made partially in jest, an unpleasant feeling squirmed in Aziraphale's gut in a way that reminded him of the one time he went to a less-than-reputable seeming sushi restaurant. He made to nervously fiddle with the cuff of his sleeve, stopping himself midway. Instead he clasped his hands behind his back, bobbing his head as he stared at tawny leather oxfords.

"Spit it out, angel," Crowley drawled. He leaned his head in his hand as Aziraphale looked up to regard him as if he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Watching you fidget like a preteen waiting for a bloke to ask her to dance is downright painful."

Aziraphale pursed his lips at the comparison. Crowley only raised a brow, waiting.

A large puff of air escaped the angel's nostrils. "Ah, yes, well," Aziraphale fussed, eyes darting about. "I, um, I believe … I think I owe you an apology."

Crowley's posture straitened. An intrigued frown drew across his face.

"Doth my ears deceive me?" Crowley asked, tilting his head to the side as if his hearing was more attuned to the canine variety than the serpentine. "Say that again, since I'm not sure if I quite heard you right."

Aziraphale's eyes narrowed, but he did as Crowley requested.

"I owe you an apology, mon chou," he said, as if the words were being drug out. "I didn't … I didn't handle things well, between you and Umbriel. I shouldn't have been so quick to dismiss your concerns."

"Damn right," Crowley said. The demon looked away, tapping at his knee. He made an irritated sound before looking back to the angel.

"I goaded her," Crowley admitted. "I shouldn't've done that."

"You were scared," Aziraphale said, picking up the subtle slump to Crowley's shoulders.

"So were you," Crowley countered. He let out a soft grunt as he rose to his feet. "But you at least kept most your wits about you; I went straight for the jugular."

It now seemed Crowley was doing everything he could not to look in the Guardian's direction. The sight made Aziraphale's heart sink.

"It was dreadful what you did, Crowley – I'm not going to sugarcoat it," Aziraphale said, fidgeting with the ring on his pinky finger. It was pointed on one end, which made the action a little painful, but it at least kept his hands away from the frayed suit. "You need to keep your composure in such delicate situations," he continued, looking down the hill at the last remark. "I don't believe lashing out in anger has ever helped anyone."

"Oh yeah? Fuck you."

Aziraphale's eyes snapped back to Crowley, his jaw dropping.

Crowley met his gaze with a wicked grin. Aziraphale scoffed, but it was quickly followed by an amused expression.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I know," Crowley said, tilting his head back on his shoulders. "Self-improvement is a monumental task for a demon, mind you. I'll probably need a few more millennia before I stop feeling good in any way 'bout making people suffer."

"I'm more than certain you'll get there sooner than that," Aziraphale said. His smile grew bittersweet. "I apologize for not saying anything."

"Wah?" Crowley said, meeting his gaze. "'Bout what?"

"When Umbriel said those things," Aziraphale said, his lip twitching. "About you being evil. About you not being able to love. I shouldn't have let that slide without reprimand."

Crowley waved dismissively. "You were just tryna keep the ship afloat. It sunk anyway – in a damn near spectacular fashion, I might add – but you didn't have time to dwell on it."

Crowley stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "And I'm a demon, so that shit ain't far off."

Aziraphale shook his head. "If the look on your face when Umbriel stepped out from behind this very tree is any indication," the angel said. "Then I do believe you are more than capable of love, mon chou."

The demon crossed the distance between them in two swift strides. He roughly grasped Aziraphale's ear, tugging it downward as the angel yelped.

"If you ever insinuate that I feel anything more than an idle tolerance for the feather duster," the demon growled, "you're gonna have a striking familiarity with Van Gogh."

Aziraphale's pained expression fell away as he frowned in thought. "Is that so? I don't believe I'm the type to start a courtship with a prostitute who will later drown herself in the Scheldt."

"You're insufferable," Crowley snapped, yanking back his hand. Aziraphale grinned as he rubbed his ear.

"I apologize," Aziraphale said. "That was rather cheeky. I'm not sure what came over me – must be something I picked up from a bad influence."

Crowley snarled and turned his back on the angel's impish expression. After a few steps, he came to a stop.

"It really doesn't worry you?" Crowley asked. He didn't turn around, unsure if he could continue while looking Aziraphale in the eye.

"Worry me?" Aziraphale asked, not following this new line of thought.

"What you said to Umbriel about falling … even knowing that you might, you know … hanging 'round the likes of me and all … it doesn't bother you?"

"Ah," Aziraphale said, the sound escaping him as he contemplated if his answer should contain too much, or too little, of the truth.

"Well, sometimes," Aziraphale admitted, finding a middle ground. "But it's out of my hands, as it were. I made my decision years ago, and I can only wait and see what the Almighty deems fit to do with me. In the meantime, I'll just be a good person. And I … well, honestly believe that you help me along with that endeavor. Having wiles to thwart, and all that, you know."

A chuckle accented the last statement. There was a sound like Crowley was going to make a retort, but it died on his lips. After a pause, the demon went in a very different direction.

"Missed you, angel."

"Naturally, you did," Aziraphale said, a chipper tone returning as he adjusted his bow tie. "I simply can't imagine what you would do without me around to keep you on your toes."

"Ah, right," Crowley drawled, looking over his shoulder. "Dunno how I'd spend my days if I didn't have something riveting like feeding the ducks and watching you fill out a crossword puzzle to look forward to."

"Precisely," Aziraphale said, beaming. Crowley returned the expression with a devious smile.

"You're almost there, angel."

Aziraphale's brow furrowed. The expression grew more puzzled as Crowley chuckled.

"But not quite," Crowley said, looking out over the hill. "The feather duster called you human, but you're still picking things up. One of these days, you'll realize that there's something more you want from me … but not just yet."

The angel was utterly lost. Crowley was already the most important thing in the world to him, so he couldn't imagine what more could possibly be.

"Well," Aziraphale said, uncertainly. "To start, it would be nice if you were a little more pleasant to the baristas at the coffee shop by the park. They've begun to give us that look whenever we stop in."

"Just doing their bloody job doesn't mean they deserve a tip!" Crowley snapped, the topic enough of a sore spot to throw his train of thought right off the rails.

"Oh, but there's so many buttons on those machines," Aziraphale countered. "It looks terribly complicated."

"Oh now, don't you start," Crowley warned.

This went on for ten minutes.

It also wasn't the first – nor would it be the last – time the angel and demon would have this conversation. Despite some tutting and gesticulating, both parties were unadmittingly enjoying themselves to the fullest extent.

"… s'communism."

"Closer to socialism, actually," Aziraphale countered.

"See, I dunno 'bout that," Crowley said, waving lazily. "You're proposing everyone in the retail sector should be paid the same, mind. That's ah– shit."

Aziraphale tried to decipher the meaning behind Crowley's expression, but the demon had suddenly grown pensive as he looked ahead. Aziraphale turned to follow his gaze, his eyes landing on an impossible to miss splash of red and green.

"I gotta talk to her," Crowley said, slowly, "don't I?"

Aziraphale turned back to find Crowley regarding him with a cocked eyebrow.

"You can do what you like," Aziraphale said, lifting his hands in surrender. "It's none of my business whatsoever."

"You're the nosiest goddamned creature on this planet," Crowley said, as if stating a fact. "Anything that isn't your business, you want it to be."

"I like to think that it's due to me being 'inquisitive,' not 'nosy,'" Aziraphale corrected, taking slight offense. Crowley made a disbelieving sound as he strolled past the angel.

The silence that drifted over the valley as the steady sound of voices fell away caused Umbriel to turn and look up the hill. She kept her eyes on the approaching demon for a moment before returning her gaze to the waving fields of gold and green. She didn't speak as Crowley came to a stop at her side.

"This bloody suit is ruined."

Crowley took a seat, muttering to himself as he swatted away the taller blades of grass. Umbriel dug long, red nails into her arms. She sheepishly regarded the demon out of the corner of her eye before taking a quick inhale of breath.

"Just shut it," Crowley snapped. Umbriel regarded him with a wide-eyed expression. She dropped her head, tears forming.

"I've probably thought about killing you more often than you've thought about killing me, if it means anything," Crowley said. His companion slowly looked up to meet his gaze.

"And they all weren't just passing fantasies, either," the demon continued. "When you first showed up, I had some serious strategies in the works concerning the best way to go about asphyxiating you with one of those repugnant hair ties."

Crowley mimed plucking something from her hair before driving his arm downward.

"Right down the windpipe – nice and smooth."

Glossed lips curled into a repulsed expression. Crowley shrugged, looking away.

"If anything, I would say you were probably more conflicted over the idea than I was," the demon said. He turned back to regard her with a raised brow. "And I don't think you'd have the balls to go through with it, feather duster; both literally and figuratively."

Umbriel nodded in agreement. She hastily wiped the dewy corners of her eyes as she sniffled.

"Here," Crowley said, reaching into his breast pocket. He produced a pocket square, black as night, with the initials 'A.J.C.' stitched in red thread in one corner. Umbriel regarded it as if it were an alien entity.

"These things always come with the suit and I never use 'em," Crowley said. He tossed the cloth onto her lap as Umbriel continued to stare at it with a stupefied expression.

"I figured you go through about fifty or so of the angel's bloody things a week, so I might as well come prepared."

Umbriel tentatively reached out for the cloth. She lifted it up, running manicured nails over the black silk.

"But if you thou–"

Umbriel's voice drifted away. Crowley hadn't used a demonic miracle to produce the handkerchief, which meant that he had gone through the trouble of adding the accessory. He had done so despite previously thinking she was dead. Umbriel decided not to press the matter, knowing that there were some questions better left unanswered.

"It's much nicer than the kind Mr. Aziraphale has," Umbriel said instead. "I'd feel a little worse ruining it."

"Don't let the angel hear you say that," Crowley said, glancing behind him. "You know how worked up he gets about his clothes being from the 'South of France' this, and 'Barcelona craftsmen' that."

Umbriel laughed rather unexpectedly. She regarded the handkerchief with a watery smile before finally bringing it up to dab her eyes.

"I'll be expecting that back dry cleaned," Crowley added. Umbriel chuckled, although her cheery expression waned slightly when it became clear that the statement wasn't in jest.

Crowley watched her with a blank expression as she wiped her face. His demeanor softened as she gingerly folded the handkerchief in her lap.

"So you're free as a bird now, yeah?" Crowley asked.

"Yes," Umbriel affirmed. She lifted her gaze, taking in the fields and the minuscule farm houses that could be seen in the far distance.

"It sounds like that thing worked, then," Crowley said. "The whole 'ordering you to not follow orders' bit, as convoluted as that is."

"It's not really all that complicated," Umbriel said, turning her head. "It's just … a bit of a loophole, I suppose."

"One that I would assume you didn't tell the upper brass about?" he asked, raising a brow. Umbriel quickly shook her head. Crowley nodded, looking away.

"That, and the fact that they now believe you went 'poof,' gives you a lot of options for your prospective future, don't it?"

"Not really," Umbriel said. Crowley regarded her with interest.

"There's only one thing I can do, now," Umbriel continued. "Well, two, technically, if you consider my original job of looking after the Almighty's children."

Umbriel took a deep breath of the clean air. Crowley almost envied her for it, knowing that the same action of taking a deep whiff of air a little too pure of pollutants would cause him to choke.

"Mr. Aziraphale and I have a theory that I might be able to do the same thing he can," Umbriel said. This declaration lead Crowley to wonder if the lesser angel had bothered to learn over 50 colors in the "taupe" category.

"Guardians don't normally interact much," Umbriel explained, "we sort of just move around to fill in the gaps of where we're needed. So, as far as I know, we never really try to order each other around. But that doesn't mean we can't."

A thoughtful look fell over Crowley's face. He tilted his head to the side in contemplation. "So, you'll be searching for other angels, then setting them free."

"Yes and no," Umbriel said. "I just want to be able to give them the choice. If they choose to follow the upper angels, then I have no right to tell them they can't; but at the very least, they should be allowed to choose."

"You know …" Crowley said. He reached up, sliding the sunglasses off his face. The sentiment behind the yellow eyes was like night and day compared to the previous time the Guardian had seen them clearly.

"The last time anybody started talking like that," Crowley said, solemnly, "they ended up with eyes like these."

Umbriel grinned, lifting her chin as she spoke.

"They're lovely, I think."

Crowley cleared his throat, turning away as the sunglasses made themselves reacquainted with the bridge of his nose. The pair didn't speak for a moment as Crowley looked off into nothing. Umbriel regarded him warmly, their hair bouncing lightly as a slight breeze drifted through the valley.

"I'll probably be leaving, soon," Umbriel said. Crowley didn't look at her then, but his head tilted slightly in her direction.

"We're going to need a lot of recruits for Earth's Army," Umbriel continued, her voice growing firm.

"Earth's army?" Crowley asked, studying her as if she had started speaking in an unknown language.

"That's what Mr. Aziraphale named it," Umbriel replied matter-of-factly. "I rather liked, 'The Humanity Defense Force,' since that's really the main goal. But Mr. Aziraphale insisted that there's the possibility that we'll be called into committing acts that an army would be asked to do, and so he doesn't want to 'sugarcoat' it."

A pang shot through Crowley's heart. The demon shook his head. "Earth's Army is fine and all that," he said. "But the angel's smart. He'll figure out a way to save 'em all without bloodshed, I'm sure."

Umbriel's heart warmed at the sentiment. She gave Crowley an appreciative glance before continuing.

"The Archangels will learn that I'm still around soon enough, so I have to get in as much work as I can. Hopefully I'll be able to reach a few other Guardians during that time."

"You do that, feather duster," Crowley said. His expression grew firm. "But the second you get the notion that the Archangels are on to you, you call me and I'll come join you."

Umbriel frowned, wrinkling her brow. "Join me? Why?"

"You're a weakling, for one," Crowley stated. "You could barely stay on your feet from that right hook."

Umbriel scoffed at the indignation. Her companion smiled at the familiarity of the gesture, comparing it to someone else he knew well.

"Two," the demon said, holding up two fingers, "unlike the angel, I'm bored out of my bloody mind with nothing to keep me busy. Going around and planting some radical ideas into the heads of lesser demons every now and then wouldn't be a huge waste of my time, as I see it."

The line between Umbriel's brows faded. She nodded in agreement.

"No, probably not a waste," she said.

Crowley glanced behind him before resuming. "Just don't tell the angel, because I'm sure he'll throw a tantrum at the idea of having no one around to get pissed with and listen to him drone on about the history of tea cakes."

"Oh, no, he won't take it well at all," Umbriel agreed. "The two of you are like peas in a pod."

The demon winced. "Start saying cutesy things like the angel," Crowley stated, "and I'll retract my offer of keeping you from being obliterated."

Umbriel chuckled. "No need. I do appreciate the offer, but I think you can stick to rooting up demons around the greater London area. Mr. Aziraphale is going to let me borrow his sword, which should be more than enough for me to keep a handle on things on my own."

"You're joking."

Crowley whipped his head around to regard Aziraphale. The angel was leaning against the large oak tree, a dreamy look on his face as spots of sunlight from the leaves danced over him. Crowley seemed to have caught him in the middle of regarding a preening wood thrush high in the oak's branches.

"Can that dolt seriously not keep a hold of that bloody thing for five minutes?" Crowley spat. He shook his head in disbelief as he turned back to Umbriel.

"I don't think he would be very comfortable using it, to tell the truth," Umbriel said.

"And you would be?" Crowley said, dubious. Umbriel's smile turned queasy.

"I … I'll figure it out," she squeaked.

"That thing isn't for roasting marshmallows, feather duster," Crowley said. He fought the urge to groan when he spotted Umbriel's eyes going slightly out of focus as she contemplated the idea.

"You need to be prepared to use it," Crowley said, drawing her attention. "Really use it, mind. If the guys from my old head office track you down, they'd be willing to kill you for it, no questions asked."

A green hue touched Umbriel's cheeks.

"Ah, see, look at this," Crowley said, gesturing at Umbriel as if she were a particularly distasteful lawn ornament. "This couldn't even use the sword as a bug zapper. You heading out alone is just asking for trouble."

The hands in Umbriel's lap balled into fists. The Guardian gazed behind her for a moment before speaking with a steadfast canter.

"I'm going to take care of myself; I can't let you leave London again."

Crowley laughed. "You my parole officer now? I gotta say, I've been missing my last one since he burned up in the Bentley."

Umbriel didn't seem amused. "He missed you," she said, somberly. "He missed you terribly."

"It was four bloody days," Crowley said, waving dismissively. "And he had you to keep him company; couldn't've been all that bad."

Umbriel glanced at Aziraphale again. The fire behind her eyes cooled down to a smolder.

"We weren't sure if you were coming back," Umbriel said, her tone laced with the echo of an unpleasant memory. She frowned as Crowley pointed at her.

"This one's a freebie, since you're new," Crowley said, cocking an eyebrow.

"I always come back."

Crowley withdrew his hand, watching Umbriel thoughtfully. "You better also make that a habit, for the angel's sake," he added.

A weak smile graced Umbriel's features. She nodded adamantly.

A devilish grin adorned Crowley's face. He had an idea to keep tabs on the Guardian for Aziraphale's peace of mind (only his, mind you. Not Crowley's in the slightest. Not at all). He figured he could coerce a certain banana plant into doing him a favor, if he could reach her. He'd figure it out – the angel didn't call him a 'wily serpent' for nothing.

The look went unnoticed by Umbriel, who was busy watching Aziraphale with an endearing smile. "Mr. Aziraphale was in a bit of a mood during the time between you storming off and now, you know," she said. "He's doing much better."

"I didn't storm, I sauntered," Crowley corrected, dryly. "And the angel doesn't get into 'moods.'"

"He does so," Umbriel implored. "He's always so meticulous, but he became very scattered over the past few days. He'd make tea when he meant to make cocoa, cocoa when he meant to make tea, and a four-course steak dinner when he went back to the kitchen to fetch biscuits."

"Wah?" Crowley said. "How?"

"You know, I want to say he used a miracle, but all of the dirty dishes were there," Umbriel said, her brow furrowed. "He wasn't even gone that long; I'm still trying to unravel that one."

A smile crept up Crowley's face. "Was it at least good?"

"Everything tasted like bubblegum," Umbriel said, leaning back on her hands. "Looked like regular food, though, even down to the potatoes and brussel sprouts – the texture wasn't even off. Mr. Aziraphale ate his entire portion without a word, and when I asked him about it later, he didn't think a thing was out of place."

"Hopeless," Crowley said with a chuckle.

"Sometimes," Umbriel agreed. "That seems to be what happens when the one he's all 'googly-eyed' over is giving him the cold shoulder."

Crowley's eyes snapped to meet hers. A sly smile spread over the Guardian's face as she traced the letter 'L' in the air with her finger.

"Try sticking to subjects you know something about, feather duster," Crowley warned. The teasing smile fell from Umbriel's face. She lowered her hand, shoulders drooping.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Crowley," Umbriel said. "When I told you that you couldn't lo–"

"Would you lot stop bringing that up?!" Crowley snapped. Umbriel rapidly blinked at the sudden outburst.

The demon made a dismissive sound as he rose to his feet. He brushed the grass off his dark trousers before offering Umbriel his hand.

"Look, about what ..." Crowley trailed off, uncomfortable. "Just ... I'm not wasting any breath on it, so feel for yourself."

Umbriel stared at his hand in apprehension. She was like a child studying a stovetop after having her first run-in with a hot pan handle. And like a hot pan handle, her last emotional link with the demon had left a deep burn.

"I … I don't …" Umbriel whispered.

"Just take my bloody hand," Crowley said. The declaration caused Umbriel to look up in surprise. Although the demon didn't show it, there had been a hint of something melancholy in the statement.

Umbriel reached out. Crowley pulled her to her feet, but instead of standing on the hill, Umbriel was suddenly plunged into darkness. She gasped, trying to pull away from the hand holding fast like a vice.

"Quit squirming and gimme a moment," Crowley's voice said. "Gotta get all the details right."

Although Umbriel could still feel Crowley's hand, what was presumably the grass beneath her feet, and the gentle breeze from before, a pitch-black void was all she could see when looking in her companion's direction (or any direction, for that matter). She tried to stay composed despite her heart pounding in her ears. Repeating the mantra 'it isn't real' over and over within her mind seemed to help.

"You know," Crowley's voice drawled. "I could actually take you here, if I really wanted to. But I'm a lazy bastard and this is much simpler."

Umbriel was about to ask him what he meant, when the world suddenly exploded in color. White, blue, and green lights danced in the distance; glowing behind towering clouds of gold and pink. It was like the essence of a sunset and been captured and sculpted into rolling hills and high peaks that created an ethereal mountain range the likes of which Umbriel could never imagine. Her feet rose from whatever invisible surface they had previously been planted on, and the angel's skin tingled like she was floating through a thick fog. The churning feeling in her stomach from the weightlessness was distressing, but not enough to distract her from taking in what she could only describe as something … indescribable.

"Is this …" Umbriel said, breathless. Her eyes roamed over a column of bronze haze that appeared like a majestic archway stretching miles above, the top only just visible as she craned her neck.

"Is this what Heaven looks like?"

Crowley's voice let out an insulted sound.

"They wish," he said. Umbriel flinched as something popped up beside her, and Crowley was suddenly quite visible.

"They call it Carina, now," Crowley said, waving his free hand about. "Spent a long time working on this one. The humans got some pictures of it, but the nebula's something else up close, innit?"

A look of awe fell over Umbriel's face. Crowley was able to sense the emotion, his lips curling in a prideful smirk.

"You made this?" Umbriel asked, breathless.

"Does a cat have an ass?" Crowley responded, fingers flitting to-and-fro like a conductor directing an orchestra. Distant lights of pink and clouds of blue popped into existence with each point and flick.

"It's amazing you can do this," Umbriel said, following his gaze. "Your monochromatic color pallet has always led me to believe that you were generally uncreative."

Crowley's face twisted as if he smelled something repugnant. "Rude," he spat.

"I've made a personal vow to no longer lie to you, Mr. Crowley," Umbriel said absently, craning her head about.

"There's still a level of tact you need to lace in when talking to people," Crowley said, watching her with a displeased expression. "You're right piss poor at that, considering how much experience you've got."

"I said that I was no longer going to lie to you," Umbriel said, meeting his gaze. "That doesn't include anything about the delivery of said assertions."

Crowley looked unamused.

"You're the worst, feather duster."

"Coming from a demon," Umbriel replied. "I'm going to take that as a compliment."

Crowley grunted. Yellow light flashed within one of the distant peaks of golden-orange haze, causing the cloud of gas to swirl and expand in delicate tendrils. Umbriel's eyes followed the twirling colors, taking care to commit every last thing to memory. Her own memories never used to take much precedence over human affairs, but this was one she wanted to hold on to for as long as she could.

"This is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," Umbriel whispered.

Crowley shrugged.

"Can't be," the demon said, dismissive. "You've seen the Bentley."

Umbriel snorted in surprise. A spark of an innocent, wondrous joy traveled through the link. The sensation was partially painful, reminding Crowley of a time long past when he was crafting the very nebula being projected into the Guardian's mind. Even so, he tucked the feeling away as a reminder that his hope of once again being capable of experiencing such emotions had not yet faded.

"Thank you for forgiving me, Mr. Crowley," Umbriel said.

"That's not what this is," Crowley snapped, the words coming out harsher than intended. He cleared his throat, adjusting his tone.

"The angel was right, as always," he continued. "When he said I'd already forgiven you for all that ... ah ... this is ... erm, the other way 'round. To make up for earlier. With uh ... the, you know ..."

"I do know," Umbriel said, saving him the trouble. "And I know you didn't mean it. We both did things we didn't mean."

"Yeah, yeah," Crowley agreed. He sniffed, tilting his head. "We even?"

"Yes," Umbriel said, beaming.

The nebula ebbed away like paint thinner melting an image from a canvas. As the oranges, golds, and pinks dissolved, the very Earth-like blue sky, white clouds, and waving fields of green grass came into focus.

What was left between the link was a feeling like smoldering coals warming cold hands. It wasn't the high-spirited, jolly sense of affection that buzzed from Mr. Aziraphale – yet something about it was more satisfying, in a way. There was a fragility that implied for it to be handled with care, and an air of significance that suggested that not just anyone was allowed to even make the attempt to do so.

When Crowley made to pull away, the Guardian tightened her grip. She smiled at him gratefully, and for a moment the demon took in the bright, rejuvenating feeling enveloping his hand.

"Bugger off already," Crowley grumbled, swinging his arm. Umbriel loosened her grip, shooting him a playful wink as she turned. Crowley rolled back his head, and an irritated sound escaped his lips.

"Angels."

"Yes?" Aziraphale said, having begun his descent down the hill when a wave from Umbriel caught his attention.

"Not you," Crowley snapped. "Well, yes you, but not … ugh."

The demon waved his arms in frustration as he began walk. Aziraphale stared at the back of Crowley's head in utter confusion.

"Probably best to head back," Umbriel said, catching the other angel's attention. "He gets a bit shirty after spending too much time out in the sun, doesn't he?"

"Hair tie," Crowley said, looking back over his shoulder. He mimed grabbing something out of the air and shoving it forward. "Windpipe."

"What in the world is he going on about?" Aziraphale asked, looking between the two. Umbriel shrugged, lifting her eyebrows. She began to stroll, keeping a slower pace than normal to stay abreast with the fellow angel.

"Either way, I do agree that it's time to head back," Aziraphale said, regarding the position of the sun. "Crowley can give us a lift, since I'm not sure if the bus will be coming back since I sort of … compelled the driver to make a slight detour outside his usual route in the first place."

"He might still be in the area, actually," Umbriel stated. "His childhood home is out here, and Mark is a curious enough person that he would throw a bit of caution to the wind and stop by the old house. His family moved away when he was sixteen, but his best friend Henry inherited the house next door after his father passed. I'm sure the two of them have a lot of catching up to do."

"Speaking of taking a break, you know, I'm rather peckish," Aziraphale said, characteristically taking any opportunity to twist something into an excuse to grab a bite to eat.

"Do you know if there's a quaint little place out here, my dear? Sometimes you can find the most scrumptious hidden gems in the country. We can all certainly have a good chinwag over a light lunch before heading home. Do you have a preference for anything, Crowley?"

"As long there's wine, I don't give two shits," the demon replied, not bothering to look back.

"Well, that settles it," Aziraphale said, blue eyes sparkling as he regarded the Guardian at his side.

"Lead the way."

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

In the beginning, there had been an angel, a demon, a couple people, a flaming sword, and an apple. Fast forward a bit – you'll find an angel, a demon, a few more people, a flaming sword, and an apple. Although, the sword and the apple look a little different, this time around.

Like before, the apple still has seeds of knowledge to plant, and branches to grow out into the world. The apple also has an angel looking out for it, to varying degrees of success, depending on who you ask. And in a move similar to sometime prior, the angel saw it fit to endow his flaming sword to another. There are those that would argue that this might be a bit irresponsible, but a good counterargument would be to think of how many bad things have ever come about from an apple wielding a sword. Not many, as one would imagine.

But the angel's influence and the flaming sword weren't the only things the apple had been provided. There had also been a demon, who encouraged the apple to look beyond how things were, learn to adapt, and – most importantly – to ask questions. And when the apple was finally plucked from its stem, it was ready to do just that. It may not have been a piece of burning weaponry, but the demon had armed the apple with something that could easily be just as formidable. Only time could tell.

But at this moment, three ethereal beings (or occult, however you liked to see it) spent the afternoon chatting over bottles of aged Chardonnay paired with a duck confit which thankfully met a certain angel's expectations. It was toward the end of this meal that said angel raised a glass, offering to make a toast.

It was unclear if it was hope or carbonation bubbling up in the angel's chest, but either way it gave his following announcement the desired optimistic effect. The declaration was parroted by his companions – one raising their glass with enough enthusiasm to nearly spill its contents, while the other showed less outward exuberance, but still sported a sly smile.

And so the moment defining the very fate of the world was set around an unassuming table garnished with a vase of daisies and overlooking the English countryside. It was accented by the sound of laughter and tinkling glass, which may have seemed a bit blasé considering what's at stake, but looking on the bright side of the situation seemed like a good default option to the (almost) three angels.

"To Earth's Army!" a ball of sunshine, smiles, and tartan declared.

"To Earth's Army!" his companions repeated, the three glasses coming together with a clink.

A/N: Thank you for reading! ^_^