It was mid-December and Crowley was reading the final draft of his manuscript. Even if he hadn’t properly finished (it still needed a huge amount of editing), he’d never been so proud of himself. On that memorable night, Crowley told Comma that he ‘would never forgive Aziraphale, never in 6000 years’; five minutes later, he wrote a very contradictory dedication at the beginning of the book. Crowley was still struggling with such an idiotic decision (seriously, what kind of masochist would come up with a dedication like that?), when he received a voice message from Beez. It had been a while. Back in October, after Crowley had informed his friend that he was fine but he needed time to himself to heal and forget (read: forgive), Beez had given up on contacting him again. Later, he hadn’t specified that he was writing a book. Apparently, tonight they had decided to interrupt radio silence and try again. It wasn’t that long, but Crowley’s blood ran cold nonetheless when he listened to it. “Hey, arse. How you doin’? Listen, I don’t know if you still read The guardian. Shit, it wouldn’t surprise me if you didn’t anymore...Anyway, Hastur wants me to cover for you with Rainbow Thoughts, and I’m trying to keep up the good work. Not your shitty articles of the last few years, mind, but…you know.” Crowley knew. And he couldn’t have left his column in better hands. He was glad that Beez was the designated writer to carry it on. “Well, that’s not why I’m sending you this. I’m calling in a favour. I really need your opinion on my first piece, it comes out tomorrow. I have a pdf proof copy, and I really want you to read it. If it’s not too weird, you know, with you being jobless and everything.” Crowley chuckled and reacted to the voice message with a thumb up emoji. A few minutes later, Beez sent him the pdf file of the following day's newspaper. The former columnist couldn’t imagine that a simple 4.580 Mb file would shake his whole world.

“When you get a reversed Ten of cups,” she wasn’t even listening to him, “it means that external matters may create chaos in your romantic life, including relatives that believe you are not meant to be together.” Aziraphale looked at her askance, “You’re making this up.” “I so am not!” “Then the cards lied!” “Cards never lie, and you know it!” Anathema complained. “Check this, if you don’t believe me.” She placed on his desk a book titled Madame Tabitha Magical Tarot: Your Essential Guide to Reading the Cards. She opened it on a page she’d already dog-eared and read directly to her friend. “It is important now more than ever to face criticisms from family as a unit; defend each other and avoid public arguments. Ensure that your partner feels loved even during this turbulent time. If instead of coming together you are pulled apart, you should learn to treat each other well, love each other and care for each other. This is the best way to ensure that you reverse your card to get it upright in the next reading.” Aziraphale was flabbergasted. Not because he really believed in tarots and magic and spiritualism. No, he was stunned because his best friend was still rooting for him and Crowley together, even if they had never talked about what had happened to make Aziraphale run (again). Anathema, always the loyal friend, had accepted his silent treatment, being supportive in any other possible way. Apparently, she couldn’t stand it anymore. “Maybe you just need to overcome this turbulent time and let him know that he is loved.” Aziraphale’s eyes were wet, “How?” He whispered. Anathema provided a second card, and her friend realised that she would make a wonderful magician. “The Hermit. That’s the second card I got on that reading.” “It figures, solitude and loneliness, that’s what I deserve.” “No, no, Az,” Anathema smiled sadly, taking his hands in hers, “The Hermit foresees long periods of solitude, that’s true, but only because you must be on your own to gain your inner voice. And to hear it, you must disconnect from all the voices and desires which threaten to overcome your own.” Aziraphale was starting to understand, now. Maybe Anathema was too fond of tarots and their meanings, but he had to admit that her reasoning was legit. “You just have to get your ducks in a row, Az.” Maybe Anathema hadn’t completely hit the mark before, but she obviously did it with an expression involving ‘ducks’ among all things. (‘Let me guess, you like ducks, too?’ ‘Feeding them is one of my main hobbies, angel.’) “Thank you, Ana,” Aziraphale said, sincerely. “Love you, Az.” She walked towards the door, leaving him behind with his thoughts. But the mechanic needed some kind of reassurance, now. “You think he still loves me?” Anathema turned around (oh, she could be all smugness when she wanted). “The third card was The World, Aziraphale. And cards--” “--never lie,” he completed her sentence.

‘So, you can count Crowley plus two.’ ‘Only two?’ ‘Yep. Beez and my friend Erik, he’s coming, too.’ ‘What about your parents?’ ‘Oh, they are very excited at the thought of their only son getting married to a man he’s known for a grand total of two weeks.’ Aziraphale chuckled at that, ‘I’m sorry they won’t be there.’ ‘Well, they know. Which is enough for me. Also, I’ve convinced them to meet you as soon as we happen to be in London.’ “That’s nice of them. And who’s Erik by the way?’ ‘He’s the owner of my favourite pub.’ ‘The one you were at when you met Kushiel?’ Crowley was silent for a while after that question. ‘Uhm, yeah? In fact, Erik was the one who actually convinced me to use his story, so this whole mess is all his fault, angel.’ Aziraphale heard his partner’s defensive (and only vaguely worried) tone, but he smiled in return, ‘I’m looking forward to thank him, then.’ ‘Thank him?’ Now he’d gotten incredulous. ‘Without him, we wouldn’t have met.’ Another silence. ‘Bloody angel.’ ‘What?’ Aziraphale asked, chuckling. ‘You can’t say these things when we’re that far apart! I can’t squeeze you all up as the - the…the cuddly cinnamon roll creature of pure love and joy that you are’. Aziraphale smiled again, ‘You will, tomorrow.’ ‘See you there, angel. I’ll be the one in black.’ Aziraphale laughed hard at that, ‘See you there, dearest.’

Aziraphale shrugged, taking Crowley’s hand in his and playing with his fingers, “Am I a bad person?” “Whot?!” Where the hell is this coming from? “I know what people think of me. And my mother. And after your column, half of England, probably.” “Probably,” Crowley nodded, indulging in the insane thought only to see where the angel was going with it. “I left three men at the altar. And I left a fourth when I realised that I was fall--” he stopped his rant to reconsider his wording. “That I wasn’t in love with him.” “So?” Crowley asked. “You didn’t love them, so you changed your mind. Doesn’t make you a bad person.” “Crowley,” the angel looked at him hard, but then he averted his gaze. The journalist took the other man’s face in his hands, “Angel. Look at me.” He almost regretted asking, because now Crowley needed to find some strength to concentrate and not lose himself in that ocean. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he digressed, but it was so worth it to see his lover’s cheeks get so red for something he’d just said, “Ok, listen. You are an angel.” “Oh, please, do be serious for once, Crowley.” “I am!” he complained. “I’m trying to make a point here.” “Ok, make your point,” Aziraphale mocked him. “Angels usually see things in black and white. That’s the trouble with you lot.” Aziraphale chuckled and asked, “What lot?” “People who are incredibly kind. People who go the extra mile to help others, and never ask for anything in return. You know, angels!”

“Come on, sunshine. Follow the music.” Gabriel’s annoying voice filled the air, and Aziraphale blinked to try and get rid of it. When he opened his eyes again, he realised that the music had stopped, and Gabriel was talking directly to him. “All right. All right. Maybe we are taking this too fast,” and then he went into full coach mode. “You need to relax; you’re too tense. Crowley, come here and be me.” Before any of the other people in the room could say anything against it, Gabriel pulled Crowley to the groom’s spot. “Take off your glasses so that he can see you.” Crowley obliged. He was so quiet and silent that it felt completely out of character. Anathema and Muriel looked at the journalist with worry, afraid of the outcome of this experiment. Gabriel walked up the aisle and held Aziraphale’s arms from behind. “I’ll walk with you, ok? You just focus on me.” Aziraphale turned his face and looked straight at Gabriel, trying to accept his advice for once. “No, not me here, me-there!” He pointed at Crowley, who was standing there, being an unfairly marvellous creature looking back at him with those beautiful amber eyes of his. “Ok, Theresa, play.” The instrumental music resumed, and Gabriel pushed Aziraphale from behind, so that he could reach the stage area. “Visualise. Focus!” Aziraphale was visibly relaxing now. But not because he felt safe in Gabriel’s hands. Because he could see Crowley’s eyes. Every step took him closer. Every step he’d taken in the last couple of weeks, actually. ‘You want a man who will take you to the Ritz and pay the bill while you taste the wine.’ “Great, it’s game time. Just focus!” Gabriel kept repeating as they got closer to the stage. ‘Someone who will just be with you in silence, because you don’t need words when you understand each other with a look.’ Aziraphale and Crowley’s gazes locked, and neither of them would look away even if they had to. All those things left unspoken were communicated with a single look. The affection, the longing. ‘Someone who will accept you just the way you are, because that someone-- will have been in love with you since the beginning, angel.’ The love. “I see the goal,” Aziraphale murmured, not really knowing what he was saying. “Yes. Great!” Gabriel beamed when he noticed Aziraphale’s eager arrival in front of Crowley. “Keep focusing.” “Oh, I will,” Aziraphale reiterated, and incredibly, ineffably, Crowley smiled at him. And he realised that the other man, just like him, knew.

“Good evening, angel.” “Hi,” Aziraphale was struggling for air, but for once his shortness of breath wasn't due to an imminent panic attack, “Where have you been?” he asked, trying to act as casual as possible. “Missed me, huh?” The Smirk made another appearance. Yeah, right, casual. “I see that you’ve done everything to deserve the nickname, tonight,” Crowley stated, giving a slow, excruciating once-over to his angel outfit (Aziraphale wondered briefly if this was how Crowley had felt that morning in his hotel room, when he’d practically ogled him in his nightly attire). “And who are you supposed to be, dressed like that?” Aziraphale asked, already dreading the answer he might get. Crowley made a few steps forward and pinned him against a wall, keeping an almost socially accepted distance from him. “I am a demon. Sent here to tempt his hereditary enemy,” he whispered. Fuck. Aziraphale blinked for a second and a vivid image of the dream he’d had a few days ago tumbled back into his mind. “Aren’t demons supposed to have horns and a pitchfork?” Crowley smiled that devilish Smirk of his, “Not modern demons who live in Mayfair and love tormenting silly angels.” And then Crowley smelled him. It was subtle, and almost undetectable. But he did. “You’re stunning tonight, angel,” he murmured. Aziraphale was gasping like a fish caught in a net. How was he supposed to answer that?

“I’ve never said this to anyone, but…when I was at uni, I did want to become a novelist.” Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled with curiosity whilst he smiled at Crowley, “Really? Were you ever published?” “Uhm, no, no.” Crowley shrugged. “But I…uhm, I still have a draft of a book saved, uhm…somewhere.” “What was it about?” Aziraphale was probably showing too much appreciation for the single fact that Crowley had produced something of his own, an original Anthony J. Crowley. But he didn’t care. “You’ll laugh at me.” “I won’t.” “You will.” “I won’t, I promise.” Aziraphale tried his puppy dog look and pouted, knowing that it usually worked with Anathema whenever he really wanted something. “Oh, fine.” Crowley gave in after a quick glance in his direction. “It was a fantasy romance.” Aziraphale gaped at him, “Fantasy romance like…Twilight?” he joked, stifling a chuckle. “See? I knew you’d laugh.” Crowley scoffed all the same. “I’m not laughing, I’m not!” “No, it was more an angels-demons themed kind of fantasy. Heaven, Hell, Armageddon…” “And where did the romance fit in that?” Crowley smiled, and it reached his sharp cheekbones, “The main characters were an angel and a demon of male appearance…who fell in love.” He sighed.

“Uhm…Nina asked me to deliver your dinner.” He pointed at the bag. “Ngk.” (was that sound even a word!?) “Thanks.” “Don’t be so surprised, I can be a decent person. And…uh…I’m sorry for the intrusion.” Aziraphale walked across the room, taking the opportunity to caress Comma once more before leaving. Crowley smiled tenderly at that gesture. “Aziraphale.” He called him before he could leave. He turned around. “Yes?” “Are you…okay?” Crowley asked. And for the first time in his adult life, Aziraphale got the feeling that this man, who was supposed to be his enemy, his adversary, his antithesis, really meant it, when he asked if he was okay. That he really cared for his well-being. And it scared him immensely. Knowing that he could rely on someone he’d met less than a week before. Realising that it felt right to be around him. Feeling that he could trust him. He inhaled deeply, letting out a sigh to steady himself on his own two feet. “I’m good. Thank you…for asking.” “Yeah, mmm…anytime.” Crowley replied shyly.