It was past 8 in the evening, and he was taking a stroll down the high street. After the longest day of the year, the shops were finally all closed, and all the owners had gone home to their friends and families. It was a particularly cold night, and Aziraphale could feel the chill passing through his immaculate beige coat down to his core. You could spot little puffs of air coming out from his mouth, but his recently grown beard was proving to be really helpful to protect at least his cheeks from the glacial winter. Aziraphale was so engrossed in his thoughts that he almost didn’t notice the sound of steps on the pavement behind him. He was being followed, and when he eventually realised it, he turned around in one quick motion, startling the person who was approaching him. “Fuck, Az, you scared the shit out of me!” Aziraphale chuckled at his best friend’s colourful language, “I’m sorry, Anathema. You shouldn’t have been following me like a pickpocket, then.” Anathema narrowed her eyes cunningly, “It’s funny that you should mention pickpockets, because that might have something to do with what we’re about to do tonight.” “What I am about to do is go home and wallow in the misery of the distasteful, troubled, fragile existence that I’ve carved out for myself here.” Anathema scoffed, “You sound just like Crowley.” Yes, I do. So what if Aziraphale had spent the last couple of days reading all the pieces Crowley had published in the last ten years? What if he’d been inspired by his almost lyrical language? Sue him! “What do you want from me, Ana?” Aziraphale sighed in exasperation, and the fact that he’d just short-named her was proof enough of his distress. “It’s late, it’s cold, and I want to go home.” “No, you don’t. Because tonight you will be haunted…” Anathema moved her fingers in what was supposed to be a spooky gesture, “By Three Spirits.” It was Aziraphale’s turn to narrow his eyes at his friend, “What are you talking about?!” “Without their visits you cannot hope to shun the path you’re treading.” Aziraphale had known Anathema for years, and she’d never used those two verbs since she’d become a British citizen, not once. Good Lord, he knew British scholars who’d never used the word ‘shun’. But Aziraphale knew who did use it. “Why are you quoting Dickens to me, Anathema? You know I don’t like him that mu—” Anathema thumped her feet on the ground, “Will you just shut it and let me act?!” Aziraphale smiled tenderly at his friend and waved his hands so that she knew that she could go on with whatever silliness she was up to. “I am here tonight to warn you that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping a horrible fate.” “This sounds a little bit improv.” Anathema scoffed, “Maybe if you let me finish, Mr. Scrooge, you would understand!” “Right, sure. I can most certainly shut up.” “Thanks,” Anathema nodded hard at him. “Can I take the visits all at once and have it over, Anathema?” Aziraphale was deliberately misquoting the novel, now. But two could play this game. Anathema gave him a scornful look and mouthed a silent ‘fuck you’. Aziraphale replied with a whispered ‘love you’.

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.

1. If you want a movie themed AU, my very own silly Runaway Groom

Anthony J. Crowley has been writing a column about queer facts in The Guardian for 15 years, but lately he has lost his touch. One day, when he’s struggling to meet a deadline, he hears a story from a man in a pub, and he writes an unflattering article about Aziraphale Fell, a mechanic who has apparently left a number of fiancés at the altar in the small town of Tadfield, earning the unfortunate nickname of ‘The Runaway Groom’. When Aziraphale, who’s getting married again, has Crowley fired, the journalist has no other option but to travel to Tadfield in pursuit of vindication. But he will find so much more than that. A human ‘Runaway Bride’ AU.

It wasn’t so bad, misinterpreting the bookseller’s intentions. Sure, Aziraphale had a partner, and sure, Crowley had gotten his hopes up for a meet-cute straight out of one of his romance novels. But at least he’d walked away with an idea to break his latest spell of writer’s block. It wasn’t as if Crowley would ever see the angel again. No chance that Aziraphale would discover that he’d been the inspiration for N. Ashtoreth’s newest love interest. No possibility that Crowley’s creative gamble could come back to haunt him. ***** “Shit!” Crowley swore as the manuscript pages fluttered to the ground. “You?” Aziraphale asked with a laugh. “What are the odds of bumping into each other twice? I’m so sorry my dear.” Ohshitohshitohshit!

“You are not selling your books to try to get back what’s already yours! Listen, Aziraphale. I know you’re opposed to the idea of an arranged marriage—” “A fake marriage,” he clarified, voice like ice. Ana ignored him. “—but it’s time you see sense. You will find someone, and you will marry him. You will inherit your property properly, and after a reasonable amount of time to deal with any legal challenges, you will divorce. It won’t destroy anyone’s future, and hell, maybe you’ll actually fall in love.” Aziraphale snorted. “Don’t count on it.”