Author's Note: This is it, the final part! I really need to get better at ending my multi-chapter stories, and I do apologize for the ruggedness of this whole fic. :/

If you're wondering why my descriptions in here are so vague, it's because I honestly know nothing of eleventh-century Venice and did my best to avoid any sort of historical inaccuracy.

Anyway, this is it for this story; if you've been reading this entire time, thank you very much! Reviews are welcome, of course!

Despite all efforts at avoiding one another over the following centuries, they did have the occasional awkward encounter. Crowley would be sauntering down the streets of, say, Constantinople when suddenly he'd catch a whiff of heavenly essence and notice the angel walking along from the other direction. They tended to catch sight of one another at more or less the same instant, accidentally make brief, uncomfortable eye contact, and dart quickly away as if they hadn't seen each other at all.

The world was "so bloody large," as Crowley would put it to himself whenever these encounters occurred, how was it that they managed to run into each other so bloody often? He figured there had to be a higher power getting a kick out of pushing them into one another's paths and watching them scramble embarrassedly away.

And perhaps he was right, for fate seemed to grow tired of their evasiveness; one day chance shoved them together a little harder than usual.

It was the second decade of the eleventh century. Aziraphale was strolling along beside one of the many canals of Venice, humming contentedly to himself. His arms were piled high with scrolls, fresh from the San Giorgio Monastery—the bright, intelligent young monk he'd befriended there was always more than happy to make an extra copy of all works he transcribed for Signor Fell's sake.

He was watching a gondola—laden with crates and punted along by a tanned man whose bare arms shone in the evening sun—glide by when a figure suddenly careened into him with all the force of a meteor.

Aziraphale tumbled backward onto the hard cobblestones as he felt the wind whoosh from his lungs. Scrolls flew every which way.

"Oh, pardon me, so sorry," the figure was saying as the angel dazedly blinked the stars from his eyes. The man bent down to scoop up the rolls of parchment. "We should both watch where we're going next time, eh? Here, let me—oh. Shit."

Aziraphale finally focused on the being who had so unceremoniously bowled him over. He felt the air rush from his lungs for a second time as he found himself staring into a pair of glowing yellow eyes.

Crowley.

The demon looked as horrified as he was to be in this situation. Dropping the scrolls he'd gathered up, he turned to flee.

"Crowley—wait!" Aziraphale found himself gasping out as he found his breath again.

He wasn't sure what surprised him more: the words coming from his own lips, imploring his Enemy to stay; or the fact that Crowley obeyed.

The demon cautiously turned back again to face the angel.

"We—we can't avoid each other forever," Aziraphale said. Then, he suddenly realized that a couple of his precious scrolls were rolling unhurriedly along towards the edge of the canal. "Oh!" he exclaimed, and made a dive for them before they could reach the water, completely forgetting in his alarm the close proximity of his Adversary.

"Ugh, angel—here, er, let me help you with those," Crowley said, bending down again to pick some up.

Together they finished rounding up the scrolls, and Aziraphale got unsteadily to his feet.

"Thanks," he said awkwardly.

"Don't mention it," Crowley said, and then they stood in uncomfortable silence, not quite meeting each other's eyes.

Aziraphale sighed inwardly. All he wanted to do was head back to the nice little room he'd attained for himself and pour over these new manuscripts all night. But, well…they had to have this confrontation some time, he supposed. Best to get it out of the way now.

"Crowley, I must ask, and I hope you don't mind if I be blunt: do you intend to…fight me again, or are we through with those days?"

"I don't want to fight you." Aziraphale was startled by the earnestness in his opponent's voice, and looked up, meeting those golden eyes at last. They were gazing at him with an intensity that made the angel blush.

"Oh. Well. That's good," he said jerkily. He blinked, breaking away from that compelling gaze. He altered his voice to a more businesslike tone. "In that case, I think we really ought to work out what our intentions towards each other are."

Crowley's brow furrowed, as if the angel's words were hard to process. "Right," he said at last. "You got a place to stow those scrolls? I know where we can have a chat without being disturbed."

They walked through Venice in a palpably uncomfortable silence. When they reached the inn Aziraphale was staying at, he ran upstairs, threw the scrolls on a table in his room, cast them one last longing glance, and headed back out to rejoin Crowley.

Halfway down the stairs, he froze. What in Heaven's name was he doing? Walking side-by-side with the Enemy through Venice, agreeing to go someplace Crowley suggested to discuss—what, exactly? A new relationship, one that didn't involve thwarting the demon's wiles? This was ridiculous, it was foolhardy; if Heaven found out, why, he could only imagine what they'd say—yet somehow, Aziraphale felt just the tiniest bit…excited.

You'd better be on your best guard the entire time, he told himself sternly. No telling what that serpent really wants.

Crowley led him along winding alleys and down streets he hadn't even known existed and at last they ended up on the rooftop of—of all places—a basilica.

"This is where I like to go to think," Crowley said as they climbed the narrow staircase spiraling up through the belfry.

"A church?" Aziraphale panted disbelievingly. His lungs were on fire—did these steps ever end?

"What can I say, I like a bit of irony," Crowley said, smirking down at the angel from several steps above him. "You're doing great, Az, don't go collapsing on me now; we're almost to the top."

"Are you sure—sure we're—even allowed in here?" Aziraphale gasped, clutching at a stitch in his side.

"Probably not," Crowley conceded offhandedly. He flashed the angel a grin that was so serpentine it made Aziraphale's concealed wings ache with a remembered feeling of fangs sinking into feathers. "But who's going to stop us?"

The view from the top of the bell tower was breathtaking—or would have been, if Aziraphale had had any breath left for it to take. He threw himself down on the stone roof as soon as they'd reached the last of those wretched steps, simply sitting and gazing as his heart rate returned to normal and his lungs slowly stopped feeling as though they were being fried from the inside out.

Crowley plopped down beside him—taking care to keep a healthy two or three feet between them—and together they looked out on Venice, with its buildings rising up from amidst the maze of waterways and its colorful people making their way by boat or by foot as the clouds overhead blushed pink with the setting sun.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Crowley murmured, and Aziraphale looked at him, startled: that's exactly what he'd been thinking. Crowley caught the look, and grinned dryly. "Come on, just because I'm a demon doesn't mean I can't appreciate beauty. I've been on this planet as long as you have, you know."

Aziraphale wasn't sure how to respond, so he simply said, "Have you been in Venice long?"

"I only just got here from Rome, but I've visited plenty of times in the past."

"And what were you doing in Rome?" Aziraphale demanded suspiciously, the words coming out more aggressive than he'd intended.

"Hey, nothing I persuaded anyone to do there was any worse than what they do themselves," Crowley said evenly, refusing to go on the defensive. "Turns out my work isn't necessary over there for the moment; that's why I thought I'd come here for a while."

They were silent for a bit, but it wasn't completely uncomfortable—both could pretend to ignore it by watching the sun sink lower in the west.

Then Crowley spoke, sounding like he'd had a thought on his mind for a while but wasn't sure how to voice it. "Hey, Aziraphale…I wanted to say, about the last time we fought, sorry for…well, you know."

"What, for latching onto my wings with venomous fangs and causing me a whole month of agony?" Aziraphale said, rather more harshly than Crowley would have liked.

"Yeah…that. It was a gut reaction, seriously. You were coming at me so fast, my old instincts just sort of…kicked in."

There was another silence, tense this time. Suddenly, to Crowley's surprise, Aziraphale broke it with a wry grin. "I suppose it's no worse than some of the things I've done to you—didn't you once flee a fight with your hand half-off?"

Crowley shuddered and touched his wrist reflexively. "Yeah. That was not pleasant, let me tell you. It took ages for my essence to reattach the bloody thing." He felt a little sick thinking of his hacked-at hand dangling from his wrist by a few sinews. Before he could stop himself he blurted, "I've never wanted to fight you, Aziraphale, never."

Aziraphale looked taken aback, then his expression softened. "I'm not very fond of the smiting side of being an angel, myself," he said. "I've never enjoyed discorporating you; it's just been…part of the job."

They eyed each other—exchanging gazes with a being they'd been combating for centuries, and remembering that day in Eden when the thought of battle hadn't even entered their minds.

After a minute, Crowley decided that this sentimental moment, or whatever the hell it was, had lasted long enough. He shifted, and clapped his hands together. "All right then, angel. I don't want to kill you, you don't want to kill me, isn't that sweet? So how do you propose we work this little pact of ours?"

The sun sunk below the horizon as they talked, hour after hour, and the stars began to make their appearance among the clouds as they set out the basis of their arrangement.

Though it took a while to work it out, what they came up with was simple, really: they'd keep out of each other's way instead of thwarting and smiting each other; and on occasion they might even cover for one another. It was only logical, they agreed, to run the occasional errand for each other, to save time for the both of them as it were—"but I won't agree to do anything too immoral," Aziraphale clarified worriedly.

"Of course, of course," Crowley reassured him. "Just so long as you understand that I'm not about to do anything too pious for you."

Their discussion ended with Aziraphale saying, "And absolutely no more biting me, if you please."

"Deal," Crowley replied, smiling wide to reveal wickedly sharp teeth. "Now that that's all settled, I think it's time we had a drink—just, you know, as a gesture of goodwill."

He took the two goblets brimming with wine that had suddenly materialized from thin air and offered one to the angel. Aziraphale hesitated.

"Oh, come on," Crowley said impatiently; "if we're going to make this truce work you've at least got to trust me not to poison your glass."

"Of course," Aziraphale said, blushing, and accepted the drink.

"A toast: to…" Crowley thought for a second. To peace? Not exactly. Camaraderie? Not that, either, really. "…To not attempting to do each other in."

The goblets kept refilling themselves, and Crowley was very much surprised to learn that night that the angel shared his love of wine.

It wasn't as though their Arrangement transformed them into the best of pals or anything, of course. Apart from a fondness for the world of the humans, they really didn't have much in common. The demon's idea of a good time was gatecrashing banquets and parties and such grand events and nudging them into utter chaos; for the angel, the height of excitement was getting his hands on a good new book.

The one thing they had going for them was that, like two children who fit in with no other groups at school and so stick tenaciously to each other, they were both desperate for it to work.

And so it did work—they'd meet up every few decades to "compare notes," as it were; and why not do that from some nice pub or restaurant and get a decent meal and a good drink out of the event? Crowley came to look forward to their meetings, and he could have sworn Aziraphale did too, to some extent. Earth—despite the eternal bustling of its cities, the endless stream of humanity scuttling across its surface—could be a very lonely place.

As their relationship altered so significantly, from mortal foes to dubious associates to something almost like comrades, Crowley found himself at a loss for what to call Aziraphale in his mind. "Enemy" and "Adversary" weren't really appropriate anymore; nor was "stupid pompous bastard," he supposed. For the time being he settled on thinking of him simply as "the angel"—and he never did stop calling him that.

It wouldn't be for a long, long time, however, that he found the proper word for Aziraphale at last.

Friend.