What matters most

Is how well

You walk

Through

The fire.

The night drapes over Crowley like a heavy cloak, and as he stumbles up the stairs, the weight of fatigue and the remnants of intoxication cling to him. His usually sleek hair is tousled and unruly- a contrast to the sharpness of his face in the moonlight. The disarray speaks volumes of a night yet to be spent wrestling with thoughts that refuse to be confined to the shadows.

With each step, his movements carry a languid grace, a dance with a drowsy atmosphere. The sharp angles of his usually composed countenance soften, and his sunglasses, perpetually perched atop his head, now lay forgotten on a side table in his lofted room. The soft glow of ambient streetlights filters through the chiffon curtains, casting a muted tableau across the room. The tailored elegance of his clothes gives way to a more disheveled appearance, an unspoken testimony to the journey he's undertaken, both physically and emotionally, into a person's mind that is not his own. As he finally succumbs to the embrace of the bed, Crowley sprawls across the sheets with an almost feline nonchalance. The moonlight drifting through the curtains paints a delicate chiaroscuro[1] on his features.

In repose, Crowley's face betrays a vulnerability that has seldom ever seen the light of day. The normally guarded expression, a shield against the world's prying eyes, softens into an unconscious openness. The air around him holds the remnants of laughter and uncertainty, a lingering aura of a night both forgotten and unforgettable. His breathing, steady and rhythmic, blends with the hushed sounds of the night outside the window. In the quietude, Crowley slumbers, caught between the realms of dreams and waking, a mysterious figure in the gentle ebb and flow of the nocturnal landscape.

The dreams tonight are sharp. Defined. Hazardous to the touch. As the haze lifts, a memory unfurls like an old photograph. There they were, dining at the Ritz, joy echoing through the grand hall. The memory is vivid, clear-Aziraphale's face bubbling with champagne, his laughter a melody that resonates through Crowley's very being.

The air is tinged with the heady aroma of richly brewed nightcap espresso, the delicate notes of floral arrangements on each table, and the bodily scent of a well-aged wine that flirts with the senses.

Crowley feels the smooth texture of the linen tablecloth beneath his fingertips, the cool touch of crystal in his hand as he lifts the champagne flute to join in the merriment. The chair against his back provides comfortable support, a sensation of familiarity that whispers of countless shared moments. Words leave his lips, but he can't quite hear them or remember what he is saying at the moment.

He sees the glow of candlelight painting Aziraphale's features with warmth and tenderness. Crowley marvels and admires the softness in the angel's eyes, the genuine delight that etches lines of joy on his face- perhaps, there, between the lines, his expression is even one of unashamed love. As their laughter intertwines, Crowley's heart feels lighter, unburdened by the weight of the present waking world, dancing instead to the rhythm of a cherished past.

Crowley savors the details-the subtle nuances that comprise the essence of the moment. The clinking of silverware against porcelain, the gentle rustle of napkins-each sound contributes to the contentment that envelopes them. However, as the dream unfolds, doubt seeps in like an insidious poison. The edges of reality blur, leaving Crowley to grapple with the unsettling notion that perhaps this is nothing more than a dream, a mere illusion created by his subconscious to torment him with his desires.

Morning light, soft and diffused, drifts through the curtains like a hesitant guest unsure of its welcome. Crowley's eyes flicker open, vibrant and amber. In the catching of the light, his eyes are like tourmaline gems reflecting pools of liquid gold. A dull throb pounds through his temples-a cruel reminder of the indulgence in the previous night's endeavors. The dream, once fresh in his mind as a spring-grown daisy, wilts into the recesses of his consciousness. As he reluctantly pulls himself upright, the weight of his headache presses to the forefront of his mind, and his eyes protest against the intrusion of the morning light like a child suddenly exposed to bright light.

Dragging himself to the bathroom, Crowley meets his reflection in the dirty mirror-a sight that catches him off guard. His eyes widen.

"What the bloody hell," He blinks as he leans in, but the groggy vision is gone. "I coulda sworn.." He furrows his brows. His eyes are the normal rich brown they have always been save for the red-rimmed and weary lash lines, as if he had spent the night crying for hours. He glances at his phone- 08:47. With a sigh, he begins to strip and turn on the shower head.

The shower offers a brief respite of avoidance, the cascade of water a temporary distraction from the turmoil within. As droplets of water cascade down his skin, Crowley can't shake the feeling that he ought to ask Aziraphale to go with him... somewhere, anywhere would do really. [2]

With each drop that falls, Crowley finds himself caught in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions-longing, doubt, and an inexplicable ache that seems to transcend the boundaries of the dream world. As he stands under the steady stream of water, it's as though the shower can wash away the physical remnants of the night, but the emotional residue clings stubbornly like the silt clay on his work boots. Rivulets meander down his lean frame, tracing the contours of scars that bear witness to the trials of eternity. His tattoos[3], black serpentine lines etched into his skin, seem to ripple in the play of light and shadow as he washes his hair.

Leaning into the water's caress, Crowley closes his eyes, allowing the rhythmic drumming of droplets to drown out the whispers of the past night. His fingers trace over the marks on his skin, each scar and inked line telling a story that intertwines with the elusive threads of the dream that quickly starts to fade from his grasp in his mind.[4]

In an attempt to anchor himself in the waking world, Crowley throws himself into his work with a newfound fervor. Mundane repair tasks and machinations become a refuge, a distraction from the haunting specter of memories just beyond his grasp.

-

Aziraphale walks through the familiar streets, the bookshop keys weighing heavily in his pocket. Berkeley Square, with its stately trees and visions of devilish grins shared with Crowley, feels like a bittersweet echo of a bygone era these days. The cold wind rustles through the fallen leaves, carrying with it the whispers of memories, both cherished and mourned. His steps lead him past Crowley's old flat just across the square in middle Mayfair. The door is now closed, the energy that once spilled from within replaced by an eerie silence. Aziraphale lingers for a moment in the hall to his flat, hand resting on the door, as if hoping to feel a passing warmth that defies the passage of time[5]. However, with a moment longer to linger, swearing upon the familiar scent of his earthy musk and wine, he drops his hand and solemnly walks away from the hall and back down the stairs to the street level.

Nebula's return to school has left the bookshop in a quiet solitude similar to the day before, a stark contrast to the lively chaos that used to accompany their days. Aziraphale, now alone more than ever, seeks solace in the familiar haunts where Crowley's presence still lives in his brain. Not the Crowley of last night, but the one hidden away.

He has to still be there , Aziraphale thinks as he heads back in the direction of Berwick Street, snuggling his white scarf around his face tighter. Aziraphale's heart carries the weight of recognition - an acknowledgment that he must let go, release the grip of the past, and forge ahead into an uncertain and possibly even more painful future. Yet, as he walks these well-trodden paths, a stubborn hope flickers within him, a whisper that suggests Crowley may still be here, a spectral presence woven into the fabric of their story.

In the quiet corners of his heart, he grapples with the dualities of grief - the yearning to let go and the desire to hold on, the ache of absence and the bearing of a companion. The streets, once filled with the vibrant colors of their shared existence, now bear witness to Aziraphale's silent pilgrimage, a journey into the recesses of memory where he must confront the echoes of a love unrequited.

-

As the day progresses into late afternoon, Crowley finds himself seized by the impulse once more- a longing to see Aziraphale again[6]. With a quick flicker of inspiration, he decides to invite Aziraphale to dinner once more, extending the invitation with an open-ended choice for the angel to pick the venue. He pulls his phone from the kitchen counter as he takes a break from the day of work[7], scrolling through his contacts when he realizes he never once asked for Aziraphale's number. But, quick to think, he opens Safari and types in "A.Z Fell Bookshop London." Clicking on the blue highlighted number on the screen, Crowley dials the number.

One ring. One second.

Another ring, another second.

A third ring, a third pause.

Fourth ring-

"Hello, you've reached A.Z Fell & Company. This is Mr. Fell; I am currently out and about on different business, or I've popped in for some tea with a local shop owner. If an urgent request, please dial," There is a silence on the phone line as if when recording, Aziraphale was trying to read off a piece of paper. In the background, there is a snicker. "Uh, please dial +44 800 666 1311[8]. If this is a social visit, please come on in, the doors are always open! Or, leave a message at the tone. Ding!" He expresses the tone and, in the background, a muffled voice calls out.

"No, Angel, the machine does the tone-" And then the time record cuts out and Crowley is left speechless and hangs up the phone. The voice, although muffled, sounded strangely like him but with more of a Londoner accent and a bit more serious. With a sense of bewilderment, Crowley redials the number and listens again through the message before just sighing heavily and hanging up again. He would just go to the bookshop himself- it was not that far anyway.

The door of A.Z. Fell & Company chimes softly as Crowley steps inside, his gaze immediately seeking out Aziraphale. The angel, with a set of keys jingling in his hand, is just returning from his local stores, evident by the faint scent of tea and Eccles cakes lingering around him that Crowley is now intensely aware of[9].

"Crowley!" Aziraphale swiftly turns with a warm smile as he hooks his keys by the door behind him. He then begins to unravel his warm wool scarf, setting it on the table by his desk. "What brings you here today? More books? I hope you have quite recovered from our evening."

Crowley chuckles with the slight swing of his head as he moves his sunglasses to the top of his head, a smirk playing on his lips. "Well, to be frank, I missed the sound of your voice, Angel. I do apologize for drinking rather too much, that wine was just ngk magnificent ."

Aziraphale's eyes twinkle with amusement as desperation itches at the back of his mind like a rabid animal trying to escape a trap doomed for euthanization. "Oh, fancy that then! It is nice to feel appreciated," Aziraphale smiles coyly. "And you are forgiven. That wine is a favorite in this household for certain. Now, what can I do for you?"

Crowley's smirk shifts into a playful grin that crinkles the lines around his eyes[10]. "Dinner, Aziraphale. I thought we could go grab a bite again. Your pick."

Aziraphale considers the invitation with a thoughtful expression[11], his eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. "You're not attempting to tempt me, are you?"

Crowley feigns innocence, a hand placed over his heart. "Would I ever, Angel?"

Aziraphale smiles cheekily, the enjoyment of being wanted evident on his face[12], "Alright, dinner it is. How..." The angel trails off, trying desperately to control his outward emotions as he undeniably has a plan brewing. He clicks his tongue. "The Ritz."

"The Ritz it is, then. I'll pick you up 'round seven."

As Crowley leaves, Aziraphale, fueled by a mix of excitement and determination, sets about making arrangements for Nebula. The subtle hum of miracles dances in the air as Aziraphale ensures that she will return to a home-cooked meal, a thoughtful touch that doesn't go unnoticed by the observant angel. With the preparations made, Aziraphale can't suppress the smile on his face. The Ritz felt like the perfect setting for a night that held the promise of rekindling something precious[13]. The plans are selfish, Aziraphale recognizes, but he also sees a different side to the story. Aziraphale's thoughts swirl in a tempest of conflicting emotions as he prepares for the evening. First, a clean shave.

"Oh, what a tangled web we weave," he muses, recalling the immortal words. His initial self-blame dominates his consciousness - the knowledge that it should have been him, not Crowley, undergoing the memory wipe. He carries the weight of that decision heavily on his shoulders, the burden of millennia of companionship now fractured by his actions.

His anger flares toward the archangels, a silent rebellion against the forces that disrupted the delicate balance he and Crowley had woven over the ages. He knicks his cheek, but it quickly heals up. Aziraphale finds himself questioning the divine bureaucracy, wrestling with the unfairness of their interventions in the affairs of humans and angels alike.

"And where is She in all of this?" Aziraphale mutters, frustration simmering beneath the surface as he wipes his face clean with a warm towel. He has longed for a connection with God, seeking solace and guidance in times of uncertainty. Yet, the divine silence persists, leaving Aziraphale to grapple with his own decisions and the consequences they unleash[14].

His thoughts weave through these mazes, but there's a blind spot - a neglect of the potential goodness in this new iteration of Crowley. He grabs a fresh tartan bow tie and gently adjusts it around his neck.[15]

As Aziraphale moves through these conflicting emotions, another realization slowly dawns as he slides on his overcoat. Mortality - the inevitable companion of humanity - becomes a stark reality if Aziraphale cannot retrieve Crowley from the beyond. He begins to see the fleeting nature of this new Crowley's existence, a revelation that propels him forward. If he doesn't act, if he doesn't find a way to reconnect with the past, this Crowley will age and perish, a mere mortal ephemeral in the grand arras of time.[16]

-

As Crowley sits in the Bentley, the soft hum of the engine beneath him, he can't help but feel a twinge of anticipation. Dressed in the borrowed yet expertly tailored clothes from Christopher, Crowley sports a midnight-blue dress shirt that complements the lustrous sterling waistcoat hugging his torso. The ensemble is completed with tailored black trousers, a tasteful nod to Christopher's penchant for darker shades.

Melody's skilled hands[17] have left their mark, ensuring the clothes drape elegantly over his new human form compared to Chris' stockier frame. Crowley finds the material strangely comfortable, a far cry from the old sweaty clothes he once favored for gardening. As the night envelops England, Crowley decides to forgo his signature sunglasses. His soft brown eyes, once concealed behind dark lenses, now catch the ambient light, revealing a charm that glimmers in them as he smiles. The contrast between the shades of blue in his ensemble and the warmth in his gaze strikes a harmonious chord.

When Aziraphale steps out after settling his daughter within the bookshop, Crowley's heart skips a beat. The sight of the angel, adorned in a slightly different beige tailored suit, brings a flood of emotions. Aziraphale's snowy hair catches the moonlight, creating an ethereal halo around him- it almost makes the gardener want to believe the glimpses of conversation he remembers from the night before about real angels and demons. If an angel exists , he thinks as he pushes himself from the Bentley door, it's him . Aziraphale's eyes, pools of wisdom, and what seems like a fragmented concern, meet Crowley's gaze, and for a moment, time seems to pause.

"Good evening, Angel," Crowley greets, the words carrying a blend of familiarity and newfound warmth. The Bentley's door opens with a graceful sweep of his hand, an invitation for Aziraphale to join him.

As they embark on what he believes to be a rather romantic evening, Crowley can't help but marvel at the serendipity that brought them here. The night is young, and Crowley, now navigating the intricate dance of human emotions, is ready to embrace every moment, every feeling that comes their way. The atmosphere within the car is charged with an air of anticipation and an undercurrent of building tension on his part. The city lights flicker outside, a dazzling backdrop to their journey.

"So, Angel, what made ye pick The Ritz?" Crowley inquires, his tone playful. "Feeling a bit posh [18] tonight?"

Aziraphale chuckles, "A bit of luxury never hurts anyone. My treat, by the way."

Crowley smirks, tapping the steering wheel with his fingers. "True, true. But you do know I can appreciate a good diner just as much."

Aziraphale raises an amused eyebrow. "Are you suggesting we ditch The Ritz and go for a burger instead, Crowley?"

Crowley grins mischievously. "Ngk, I wouldn't say no to some heavenly company at a little hole-in-the-wall joint."

Aziraphale shakes his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Nice try, my dear. Tonight, we indulge in the finer things."

As they approach The Ritz, bathed in warm golden light, Crowley feels a sense of contentment. The evening unfolds in a series of shared glances and exchanged smiles as Crowley and Aziraphale navigate the bustling streets, their footsteps echoing a melody of rekindled connection. The chosen restaurant exudes an intimate atmosphere, with soft lighting and a menu that beckons exploration for the gardener.

Dinner becomes a romantic affair, filled with laughter at horrible jokes[19], shared anecdotes, and the unspoken tension that hangs in the air like thick smoke. Crowley is sure about everything except what Aziraphale is thinking; he cannot, for the life of him, place what is going on in that man's head. He reaches across the small table they share by the grand piano being played and brushes his fingers across Aziraphale's hand resting against the table. Time it well, you daft imbecile, he thinks, don't rush it.

Aziraphale's hand tenses slightly at Crowley's touch, a fleeting moment of uncertainty flickering across his face before he recovers with a gentle smile[20]. The pianist's melody drifts through the air, a subtle backdrop. Crowley, ever confident in most aspects of his existence, finds himself in uncharted territory. He searches Aziraphale's eyes for a hint, a clue, anything to decipher the enigma of the man's thoughts. But Aziraphale, an expert in the art of subtlety, keeps his emotions guarded.

"You seem a bit distant tonight, angel," Crowley remarks, his fingers lingering on Aziraphale's hand just a moment more. "Everythin'