Disclaimer: Good Omens belongs to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.

Emergency Room

Crowley was a block past the wine shop when he sensed them. Two demons, not very powerful—minion class at best. They were following at a discreet distance, matching his pace, hiding themselves among the evening Soho crowd.

He shifted the bag of wine bottles in his arms, moving them to the right side so he could keep his left hand free. He patted his leather jacket, reassuring himself that his blade was there. Was Hell just keeping him under observation, or was this something else? And why only now, a little over seven months since Armageddon had been thwarted?

Perhaps they'd been biding their time, waiting until they could catch him outside alone. That made sense. The bookshop was warded against both angels and demons, and normally he and Aziraphale ventured out together. They ought to be together now, headed for one of London's many restaurants, but the angel had gotten it into his head that he wanted to try cooking dinner. That experiment was almost certainly doomed to failure since neither one of them knew a blasted thing about cooking, but it had seemed important to Aziraphale, so Crowley acquiesced.

Humming happily, the angel had set off for the grocery store with an enormous shopping list in hand, while Crowley had gone to get the wine. He'd lucked into five bottles of '49 Lafite Rothschild that should pair nicely with whatever culinary disaster awaited. The wine shop wasn't far, and the weather was decent, so he'd walked.

The demons were drawing a little closer. Crowley felt for his weapon again, a redundant gesture that nevertheless made him feel better. Assuming it would even work. Making weapons powerful enough to hurt a supernatural being was no small task, a job for skilled artisans with the resources of Heaven or Hell at their disposal. Stuck on Earth, he and Aziraphale had needed to improvise.

It had started with the warding. The night after the world didn't end, when the Earth was safe but the angel and demon were very much not, they'd retreated to Crowley's flat to hide and try to come up with some kind of plan. The possibly that either Heaven or Hell could attack at any moment was daunting. An angel's blessing could ward the building against demons, and a demon's curse could ward against angels, but the two types of miracles repelled one another. If Aziraphale blessed first, Crowley's curse simply bounced off, and vice versa. And when they tried blessing and cursing at the same time, they simply cancelled each other out.

"What if," Aziraphale had suggested after a string of failed attempts, "we try reversing it? You do the blessing and I do the cursing. We've both had plenty of practice…"

"What's the point of that?" Crowley had snapped, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "You think we're going to confuse the laws of physics into doing what we want?"

"Well, why not?" the angel had snapped back. "It's the only thing we haven't tried yet. Unless you've got one, single better—"

"Fine!" Crowley had thrown up his hands and sighed. "Together, then. On three…."

And to their considerable astonishment, it had worked. Instead of repelling each other, the opposing energies had drawn together and merged, created a stable barrier strong enough to keep out angels and demons alike.

("Like flipping magnets over," Aziraphale had theorized. "One set of poles repels, but the other attracts."

"Or bloody dumb luck," Crowley had countered.)

Whatever the mechanism, they had accidentally invented an entirely new type of miracle: not occult, not ethereal, but something in between. Something unique to them, born from their 6,000 years of shared history.

The warding was just the beginning. Twelve exhausted hours of experimentation later, they'd figured out how to use their new technique to swap their corporeal bodies, disguising themselves so thoroughly that neither Heaven nor Hell saw through it. It was the sole reason they'd lived through the following day.

Though they had fervently hoped that would be the end of matters, the next logical step was to use their new technique to arm weapons, ones they could use to defend themselves against either side if needed. They'd gotten hold of the oldest and most spiritually potent swords they could find: Aziraphale's, obtained from a black-market antiquities dealer, had belonged to a Crusader priest from the 11th century. Crowley's, swiped from the British Museum, had been used by one of Attila the Hun's soldiers. (If the Huns weren't officially Hell's representatives on Earth, several particularly unpleasant weeks riding with them in 452 A.D. had convinced the demon that there wouldn't have been much difference.)

The blades had been imbued with as much of the new miracle energy as they could physically stuff into them. But they'd had no idea if they would work, and no way to test them. Until today.

The demons were closing in. Best to just get it over with. Crowley slipped into an alley, easing the bag of wine bottles to the ground behind a dumpster (outrageous treatment for Lafite Rothschild, but it couldn't be helped). He carefully tucked his sunglasses in his pocket, drew his sword, and waited for the pair to come around the corner.

He heard a voice behind him at the same moment a new dark presence assaulted his senses. "Well, if it isn't the Flash Bastard himself."

Crowley whipped around. "Hastur!" he growled. The two minions appeared on the sidewalk, blocking his escape. He had walked himself into a trap—terrific.

"I didn't think it was possible for you to disgrace yourself any further," the Duke of Hell sneered. "Losing the Antichrist. Ruining Armageddon." He inclined his head toward the wine bottles. "But now here you are, an angel's whore. We've been keeping an eye on you, you know."

"I don't know what's funnier," smirked Crowley, "that you think that's a devastating insult, or the thought of you sitting in Hell for six months struggling to come up with it." Hastur grimaced.

"Anyway, are you even supposed to be here?" Crowley continued, "Last I heard, Beelzebub ordered you to leave me alone."

"The Lord of the Flies will change her mind when I drag your screaming carcass back to Hell." Hastur drew a dagger from his coat; it was covered in occult symbols that dripped with something black. Behind Crowley, the minions drew similar blades. They had moved uncomfortably close.

"Definitely not supposed to be here, then." Good—that meant they didn't have backup. He and Hastur were eyeing one another's weapons, each trying to size up the threat. Crowley's wouldn't be radiating an angelic or demonic energy signature, so with luck, the duke would think it was just a human sword that couldn't do him much damage. With even more luck, he would be wrong.

"If you've come to finish me off," Crowley added with forced casualness, "I hope you've dipped those blades in something more potent than holy water."

"A new type of curse our specialists have been working on. Nasty stuff," Hastur replied. He waved the blade at Crowley. "But don't worry, it'll just discorporate you. Slowly and painfully, of course, but you won't die yet. I plan to have a lot of fun with you in Hell first.

"Of course, it'll destroy an angel completely," the demon continued cheerfully. "But I thought I'd give Ligur that honor."

Aziraphale—no!

Without another thought, Crowley slammed his sword backward into the stomach of the closest minion, then grabbed her by the arm and threw her bodily into Hastur. She was screaming, disintegrating as if struck by holy water—the weapon was working!—and Hastur reared back, coughing and choking on the dust. Crowley leapt after him and planted the blade through his chest. He didn't even have time to savor the duke's agonized death scream as he turned and ran after the second fleeing minion.

He caught up to the demon on the next block, dragging him into the alcove of a closed butcher shop and dispatching him quickly, ignoring his pleas for mercy, for which Crowley had neither the time nor the inclination.

He needed to find Aziraphale. Please, he begged no entity in particular as he miracled himself back to the bookshop. Please don't let me be too late!

At that moment, Aziraphale sat on the ground in a different alley four blocks from the bookshop, breathing hard. Around him lay the smoking remains of three demons, two minion class and one Duke of Hell, as well as several regrettably spilled bags of groceries.

He'd held his own. The former Guardian of the Eastern Gate had been trained as a solider, of course, but that had been six millennia ago, and he'd always worried that if it came to a fight, he would simply freeze. But he hadn't. Even as he'd mourned the senseless loss of life, he'd been able to defend himself.

He still held his sword, although he was using it less as a weapon at the moment and more as a means to keep himself from falling over. He was, to put it succinctly, a mess: his wings hung limply off his shoulders, with both metacarpus bones broken and possibly the left ulna. The feathers were ripped through in numerous places, and his ribs had been slashed on the right side. The edges of the cursed wounds were already turning black, and his whole body screamed in pain.

The angel struggled to climb to his feet, and when that proved unsuccessful, tucked the sword back into his coat and resigned himself to crawling. He couldn't stay here. He had to get back to the bookshop, had to call Crowley and warn him—the demons had taunted that they were coming for both of them. He held that singular goal in his mind as he crawled, for all of the thirty agonizing seconds until he blacked out.

"Angel. Angel! Wake up!"

Aziraphale jerked awake to find Crowley hovering over him, yellow eyes scanning him anxiously.

"Crowley! Thank goodness you're alright!" cried the angel. He managed to sit up with the demon's help, and they clasped in a brief hug.

"I'm afraid I'm in rather bad shape," Aziraphale said weakly. "These wounds…" he gestured at his wings, where the holes were slowly enlarging, their blackened edges crumbling like paper held over a candle. Crowley was already concentrating, blessing with all the energy he could muster, trying to heal them with no effect.

"It would take Heaven's resources to fix this, I'm afraid. And I don't think they're interested in curing me." The angel swallowed, his vision beginning to waver. "But it's all right. I'm prepared for whatever comes next, as long as I know you're safe—"

"Shut up! We're not doing that!" Crowley jumped up and began pacing back and forth, fingers yanking throughout his hair. "Come on, think!" he muttered into the air.

Aziraphale tried to come up with something, anything comforting he could say to his friend, but his head was spinning and he was so very tired. He would just close his eyes for a moment…

He woke again, barely this time, as he felt Crowley lifting him up. "All right, Angel. Taking you to Heaven is out of the question." The demon inclined his head for a few moments, eyes closed as if scanning for something, then he nodded and turned them toward the south. "So we're heading to the next best thing."

The angel's eyes went wide. "Crowley—wait!" he protested, his voice barely a whisper now. "It's too dangerous—!" But the demon was already miracling them away.

The pain hit Crowley as soon as they landed, radiating upwards from the consecrated ground. It wasn't as bad here outside as it would be in the cathedral, but he didn't have time to think about it now.

He sensed humans inside the nearest of the smaller buildings on the grounds. Half carrying, half dragging Aziraphale to the door—the angel had blacked out again, which was probably for the best—he pounded on it and yelled. He remembered to replace his sunglasses just before the door opened, and was greeted by the sight of two startled nuns, one matronly and moon-faced under her wimple, the other younger and darker-skinned.

"This angel was attacked by the forces of Hell!" Crowley barked at them. "He needs help—holy water, blessings, whatever you've got. NOW!"

"Sir!" The older nun exclaimed in alarm. "We can't help you here—you need to get this man to a hospital!" Both women were eyeing the wings incredulously.

"He's not a man—oh bless it, we don't have time for this!" These idiots thought it was a costume. Crowley closed his eyes and concentrated. Demons and angels had some ability to influence the human mind, implanting temptation or moral fortitude as the job required. Now he focused all his will into blasting one thought into the nuns' minds: BELIEVE.

Their expressions changed instantly to awe. "An angel of the Lord!" the older nun exclaimed. "Go get Father!" she ordered the wide-eyed younger woman, who disappeared.

It was a little easier moving Aziraphale with the matronly nun's help, and together they wrestled him into the cathedral. Waves of concentrated pain hit Crowley as he stepped inside, growing worse with each step closer to the altar, but he forced himself forward. They stopped in the center of the main aisle between the rows of wooden pews. The nun pulled cushions off the seats and laid them on the floor, and Crowley gratefully laid the angel down. As the woman knelt and began to pray, he retreated to the foyer. The pain would be bearable here as long as he kept moving.

From a side door, the younger nun reappeared with an angry-looking middle-aged priest in tow. BELIEVE, Crowley shoved into his mind before the man could open his mouth to protest. The same look of sick devotion spread over his face. "Most Holy Angel!" he exclaimed as he kneeled before Aziraphale. Getting no response, he closed his eyes and began to recite a blessing as he made cross-shaped hand movements.

The younger nun ran to the foyer, eyes darting quickly until she spied a stack of leaflets on a table. She picked one up, rolled it into a cone shape and dipped it into what Crowley suddenly realized was a font of holy water uncomfortably near where he was pacing. He reared back just in time to avoid being splashed.

"Watch it!" he yelled at her. "It's dangerous!"

She stared at him in confusion. "Sorry!" she offered quickly before running back to Aziraphale. Crowley watched as the women propped the angel up and woke him long enough to take a long drink. Already he looked a little more alert, a little less deathly pale. Good, thought Crowley, daring to hope. This is working.

They repeated the process a few more times, with the younger nun running back and forth to get more holy water—the demon kept back a safe distance this time, although she took more care not to splash—and alternated between having the angel drink and pouring it over his wounds. The older nun kept up her litany of prayers, while the priest disappeared somewhere behind the altar.

It was hard to tell at this distance, but Crowley thought his wings looked less broken now, and the wounds looked smaller, with the ugly black edges faded to more of a dark gray. Aziraphale was able to sit up for a few moments, even speak a few words to the women. His eyes found Crowley pacing, and he smiled sadly. The demon grinned back in relief, realizing just how terrified he'd been that he would never see that smile again.

The next time the young nun returned for holy water, she had a message. "He said to tell you, 'You stubborn fool, get out of here.' He said you'd know why."

"Tell him I said, 'Shut up and heal so we can both go home, Angel.'" She raised an eyebrow quizzically, her eyes darting to take in his increasingly restless pacing, but said nothing further.

The priest reappeared carrying a small brass object on a chain, and knelt on the floor doing something to it next to Aziraphale, hunched over with his back to Crowley. The angel turned to look, then suddenly reared up and shouted, "CROWLEY, RUN!" just as the priest hefted the brass object and freshly lit smoke filled the air—

Incense! Crowley turned and fled the cathedral, coughing and choking as his lungs burned. To a demon it was tantamount to inhaling mustard gas. Outside, he fell on his hands and knees on the grass, wheezing and desperately sucking in the cool night air.

The ground wasn't as searing here as in the church, but it still hurt—everything hurt—so he got up and kept running.

"Oh dear, is he all right?" Aziraphale craned his head up as the young nun returned from the front door.

"He's in the park across the street," she reported. "I think he's OK. He's mostly stopped coughing now."

"Thank goodness," he sighed, lying back down. He had worked to keep the humans from perceiving anything odd about Crowley's behavior, but this one had been too far away to reach in his current condition. Well, it couldn't be helped now. At least the others seemed not to have noticed.

She knelt beside him and applied more holy water to the wound on his ribs. They were alone at the moment, the older nun having drifted off to light votive candles while the priest had returned to the altar. "Your friend," she murmured. "He's not an angel like you, is he?" She paused, swallowed. "I mean...not anymore."

Aziraphale hesitated. "No, he's not," he replied softly.

"But he said the forces of Hell attacked you—"

"He's not with Hell." He tried to put it into put into terms that a human would understand. "I suppose you could say, he's of a different political persuasion. He's on our side."

"Oh." She pondered this, dabbing at the wound. "So you're saying he's…a good demon?"

"Yes, exactly!" Aziraphale beamed. "But please don't tell him I told you. He's very sensitive about it."

There was a pause, and then the nun laughed, which confused the angel since he didn't think he'd said anything funny.

Crowley sat on a park bench, breathing in and out quickly, trying to expel the last particles of incense from his lungs. He rubbed his watering eyes and glared balefully back the way he had come, hating that Satan-blessed cathedral with every fiber of his being. At least until he remembered that it was the only reason Aziraphale was still alive.

The park was a relief. He could sense echoes of drug activity from earlier in the day, and a few days ago a man had committed adultery with a prostitute. The demon inhaled deeply, letting the ambient sin wash over him, soothing his shredded nerve endings. Much better.

Crowley turned his senses back to the church, where he could feel Aziraphale's presence, a bright pool of energy amidst the three dimmer humans. The angel was still very weak, but all the curse energy had been purged now. It was going to be all right. Soon he would be recovered enough to move on his own, and they could go—

Something caught his attention. A new presence—no, two—high in the atmosphere, descending toward the building. Bright enough to eclipse everyone inside.

There was only one type of being with that much ethereal energy.

"No, no, NO!" Crowley shouted as he sprinted back toward the cathedral.

"Most Holy Angel—" the priest began as he knelt down.

"Please, call me Aziraphale," the angel countered. The nuns had helped him sit up again, hovering to either side in case he collapsed, but so far he was managing to stay upright this time.

"Most Holy Aziraphale," the priest continued (the angel gave up at that point). "I've prepared Communion for you." He presented a small wafer and a cup of wine, holding each one up in turn and reciting "The Body of Christ."

Aziraphale had never taken Communion, had no idea what the proper ritual was. "Thank you!" he responded brightly.

The wafer was dry and unappetizing, reminding him of the unleavened bread the Hebrews ate at Passover, and the wine was a cheap table red that he would never have bought for himself. But the potent holiness more than made up for the taste of both, and as soon as he swallowed them he felt stronger. Still a long way off from recovered, but better.

The humans seemed to have run through their repertoire of holy rituals, and now all three knelt nearby, waiting to see if there was anything he needed. It seemed a good time to thank them. "I'm most grateful for your kind actions tonight," he began. "If it weren't for you, I don't think I would have…would have…" His attention was drawn by a growing feeling of…something…a familiar pair of presences, headed downward toward them….

There was a brilliant flash of white light as two archangels, massive wings extended, alighted on the altar. As the flash faded, Aziraphale's eyes took in Uriel, then Gabriel, and he went cold with dread.

Crowley, stay outside, he begged numbly, willing his friend to hear him. If you come in here you're done for. Please!

"Church humans!" Gabriel addressed the priest and nuns heartily. Uriel coughed. "Er, blessed children of Heaven! You've done very well taking care of our angel." He clapped his hands at them slowly, while the humans gazed at him in nearly trancelike awe.

He shot an icy glare at Aziraphale. "I mean, who would have expected him to turn up in this weakened state, on consecrated ground? We couldn't help but notice." His lips widened into a smirk. "And now, we'll be taking him home to, ah, finish the job." He took a leisurely step down from the altar, relishing the moment.

Aziraphale stared at the floor, limp with fear, not even trying to hide it. It's OK, Crowley. I'm prepared for whatever they do to me, as long as you're all right. Just stay outside!

The humans, still kneeling, continued to stare reverently at the archangels. But the younger nun took a moment to glance over at Aziraphale, and her awestruck smile faltered. Her eyes took in the angel's terrified expression, then swung back to Gabriel, descending the altar steps with a smug grin. Understanding slowly dawned, and a look of horror overtook her.

She stared at her hands for a long moment. Then, slowly, hesitantly, she rose to her feet, moving to stand in front of Aziraphale. "M-most Holy Angel," she addressed Gabriel, her voice shaking. She bowed her head. "Respectfully, sir, this angel is still very weak, but our blessings are helping him." She swallowed fearfully. "I, I believe it would be better if he stayed here."

Gabriel granted her an indulgent smile. Then he waved his hand in the air. The young woman was swept sideways and forcibly seated in one of the pews. "You don't get to give me suggestions, kiddo. Be silent!" he growled, his cheerful smile gone. Her hand moved reflexively to her throat as she began to gasp.

"Stop it, Gabriel, I'm the one you want! Leave them alone!" Aziraphale cried. He tried to struggle to his feet, but his knees buckled and he collapsed. Damn this weakness! Next to him the priest and other nun, still in the grip of holy thrall, only looked back and forth in confusion.

But from the cathedral entrance came a sound of fingers snapping. The young nun sagged back in her seat with relief, coughing and taking deep breaths. All eyes turned to stare at the red-haired, black-clad demon who strode inside.

"Crowley, no!" Aziraphale shouted weakly from the floor. "Get out of here!"

"Just hang on, Angel," the demon smiled at him.

This was bad. Could not possibly be worse, in fact. Crowley had no plan, no leverage, couldn't miracle a blasted thing on consecrated ground, and was in searing pain. He was no match for even one archangel, even with his sword, and couldn't hope to protect Aziraphale or himself. But he smirked anyway, striding boldly toward the altar as if the archangels were on his turf and he held every advantage.

"Choking the faithful now, are we Gabriel? That's low even for you." He turned to the young woman as he passed. "I prefer a chattering nun to a silent one, myself." He gave her a wink, and she broke into a smile despite the circumstances.

He paused before the altar and drew his weapon, boldly staring down both archangels, keeping himself between them and Aziraphale. "You remember what happened when you tried to kill us before? You haven't even begun to see what we're capable of. Leave."

"Why if it isn't Crowley, the demon who survived a bath in holy water," smirked Uriel. "And here you are in a church! You know, I've been wondering—why don't we find out just how much holiness you can stand?"

She raised her arms and her body began to glow with white light, brighter and brighter until it hurt Crowley's eyes to look. The pain radiating up from the floor, already difficult to bear without flinching, increased tenfold, twentyfold, filling the air.

Gritting his teeth, he put everything he had into remaining standing, refusing to show weakness. But the edges of his vision shimmered and began to darken; he wouldn't be able to withstand this for much longer. Just as everything began to go completely black…

…he felt a gentle touch on his back, and a burst of strength flowed through him, pushing back some of the pain. His vision cleared, and he turned in astonishment to find Aziraphale standing by his side.

The angel met his eyes and smiled. Of course—Uriel's weaponized holiness was having the opposite effect on Aziraphale, reviving and recharging him. Now he brandished his own sword in his right hand, keeping his left hand pressed against the demon's back, sending healing curse energy through him. Crowley nodded and returned his smile, understanding.

If the archangel wanted demonic holiness, she was going to get it. Crowley put his right hand on Aziraphale's shoulder, summoned everything he had left and channeled blessing back at the angel. The two energies drew together and merged, coursing through their bodies, strengthening them both. In their hands, their swords began to glow with silver light.

"What is that?" Crowley heard Gabriel's voice. He had retreated back up onto the altar next to Uriel, and both archangels were staring at the pair in confusion. Uriel's assault faltered, then sputtered out entirely.

They were afraid—good.

"As my friend told you," Aziraphale spoke up, "you haven't even begun to see the extent of our capabilities. I suggest you depart immediately."

Gabriel attempted a sneering laugh, which sounded measurably less confident than his initial speech. He looked back at Uriel, who gave a barely imperceptible shake of her head. After a bit more sputtering, he folded his arms over his chest and sighed in disgust.

"Fine," he spat. "You two failures aren't worth Heaven's time. Run along and do…whatever it is you two do down here. And stay off our consecrated ground. You won't be warned again."

There was another brilliant flash of white light, and the archangels vanished.

As the humans blinked in confusion, Crowley turned to Aziraphale. Their eyes met with a smile.

"Nice work, Angel," he said softly. Then he passed out.

"Oh Crowley, do wake up," Aziraphale pleaded, shaking his friend's shoulder to no effect. He had managed to drag the demon to just outside the cathedral door, no small feat considering he wasn't anywhere close to full strength—Uriel's power surge had acted as a sort of stimulant, but it was already starting to fade—plus the fact that he had an angry middle-aged nun and priest following and demanding an explanation for what had just happened. They had seen just enough to understand that neither he nor Crowley were in Heaven's good books.

The younger nun remained conspicuously quiet, hanging back in the church reassembling the seat cushions and wiping up spilled holy water. The angel had the impression that the older clergy, despite not having a clue of what had just transpired, believed that the young lady had acted impudently and that there would be a reckoning later. Well, he could help with that part at least.

"Yes, if you'll just head back inside the cathedral, I will explain everything," the angel promised, ushering them back into the building. He stood in the aisle and gestured toward the pews. "Why don't you all just take a seat. And...just relax."

When all the three humans were settled, he smiled sweetly at them. "Now, when you wake up, you'll have had a lovely dream about whatever you—"

"Not me!" the young nun blurted, jumping to her feet. The other humans looked up at her in drowsy confusion. "Please, don't make me forget! I won't tell anyone, I swear."

Aziraphale stared at her in surprise. "Well, all right," he conceded. "You acted very bravely, and I'm grateful that you tried to protect me. I suppose I owe you that much." He waved his hand at the other humans, who fell asleep.

With a relieved grin, the younger nun followed the angel out the door. When he bent to pick up Crowley, she took one side and helped carry the demon across the street into the park.

"So…I guess this means there are different political factions among angels too?" she asked thoughtfully. Aziraphale nodded. "But how do you know who's right?" she continued.

"I suppose we don't," he replied as they eased Crowley down to the grass. "We muddle through, making what we hope are the right choices. Just like humans do."

"But…you're angels! Doesn't God weigh in?"

"No," the angel smiled sadly. "She doesn't."

There was a long moment of silence. "Oh," said the nun. Her eyes seemed to have taken on a permanent look of wonder.

"Well, you'd better get back to your colleagues. They'll be waking soon," Aziraphale finished cheerfully. "Thank you for your help tonight, my dear!" He would have to do something nice for these humans later, although right now he was too tired to come up with any ideas, and really just wanted to get home.

He knelt down and put his hand on Crowley's shoulder—the poor thing hadn't even opened his eyes yet—and with the very last of his strength, miracled them back to the bookshop.

They landed more or less in a heap in the center of the bookshop floor. But they were alive and safe, and home.

It had taken every bit of energy Aziraphale had left to get them here. The trip had jostled Crowley awake, at least somewhat, although a groan suggested he regretted that fact. They both tried to climb to their feet, repeatedly and unsuccessfully.

"Guess we're stuck here for awhile," Crowley mumbled. He was visibly drooping.

"So it would seem," Aziraphale sighed. Though he rarely slept under normal circumstances, he was struggling to hold his eyes open. "All right, hold on a moment."

He shifted himself around behind Crowley, then turned to press his back against the demon's. Now at least they could relax while propping each other up. That was much better.

The angel felt his eyes begin to drift closed.

"Hey Angel," Crowley added sleepily. "Let's never do that again."

"Amen," said Aziraphale.

A/N: I was aiming for Westminster Cathedral as the location, but took some liberties since it doesn't have a lawn or a park across the street. Anglicans, please take no offense from my bypassing the Church of England—I was raised Catholic and it's the only type of holiness I know well enough to write about.

I guessed and made Aziraphale right-handed and Crowley left-handed, no idea if that's correct.

Thanks for reading! Please leave a review! :D