Every night at the same cafe he shows up

Aziraphale sat at his desk, head in his hands, and tried to deal with the problem of the stolen palimpsest. Of course he could just drop it into the police. That would raise questions about how he came by it, and he would be dropping Crowley's friends into it, and—well, all roads led back to Crowley, the very last thing Aziraphale wanted to think about.

As if he could help it.

Meanwhile, every cell in his body suggested that he was stressed, he was tired, he was heartbroken, he should just go read the parchments already. It wouldn't hurt them. He'd be very careful. Of course, they were stolen goods, and it would be wrong to enjoy them, but they were just there, waiting, and it would feel so comforting to give into temptation.

Just like he knew perfectly well where Crowley lived, and that all he had to do was cross the river and find the flat, and Crowley would be so very happy to see him, he loved it when Crowley was happy and trying to hide it and be nonchalant, and of course he would kiss him again and... Every pornographic and erotic detail that Aziraphale had read or observed in his long life and had assumed was nothing to do with him was coming back into his mind with inconvenient, and very explicit, clarity.

There was a piece of paper in front of him. On it, in the spiky lettering of someone who had learned to write back when he was scratching messages onto clay and hadn't practiced enough with pens to develop any refinements, were the words, I'm sorry, angel.

Aziraphale stared blankly for a moment, as it curled up and flared away into ash. He was almost sure he hadn't done that. He took a handkerchief and carefully wiped the ash away.

He could remember very clearly what happened to the the Watchers who consorted with humans. Just humans, not even demons, and especially not the very same demon who personally caused the fall of humanity. It was something that was difficult to forget. Aziraphale had quite liked Shamsiel, and had been relieved to leave the guarding of the Garden to him. Shamsiel had seemed to like and cherish the humans the same way he did, and of course that had been if anything too true. Uriel had seemed fond of Shamsiel too, but that hadn't stopped her chaining him under the Earth until Judgement Day.

Aziraphale still remembered Crowley's arms about him, the desperate touch of a snake like tongue against his, the overwhelming sense of being wanted, needed, so much . It hadn't felt like temptation. It had felt perfect, like love and Grace was pouring into his human shaped body. Was that what Shamsiel had felt, the first time he kissed his human woman? Did he, even now, think it was worth it? Throw away eternity for a few short years of being needed?

The human woman probably hadn't known Shamsiel would Fall. That was something Aziraphale couldn't afford to forget, even if he could forgive. Crowley wasn't some naive young human. A demon was a dangerous friend. Aziraphale had managed to put that out of his mind over the centuries.

Never again.

Another note where the other had been. Just talk to me.

He watched it blaze. This time, he didn't bother to clean up the mess. He sat, waiting, every part of his soul hurting.

Aziraphale, come out of the shop. I can't come into an angel's territory without permission, you know that.

He hadn't, actually. This was apparently one of the rules that he was supposed to know about. Perhaps he hadn't been paying attention at the correct time? He was pretty sure no one had actually sat him down and explained to him the rules for consorting with demons, probably because no one had imagined he would wish to do so.

Flame, ash. Reform.

I'll wait for you in the champagne bar at Kettner's. They have delicious bouillabaisse and almond tarts. I won't bother you with anything uncomfortable again, it will be the same as always. The writing was larger and more ragged.

Aziraphale got up, left the desk, and began to look through his records for the last known owners of the palimpsest. He saved and filed every newspaper article about rare manuscripts that he came across. He could hear the note on the table flaming, and noticed there was another. It stayed there. Apparently they would only disintegrate when he looked at them, which meant Crowley knew he had read them. A predictably manipulative trick.

Well, that one could stay there.

He had sorted through the clippings for a while when he realised that Crowley would know he hadn't read the note, and might think it was because he had already headed to the restaurant. He might be hoping, might be hurt and angry when Aziraphale didn't turn up. It was ridiculous that the thought of Crowley's disappointment made Aziraphale's throat ache, after all the demon had done. He just couldn't bear the idea of causing Crowley more pain. Crowley had been a very bad demon indeed, but he had probably meant it out of love.

No. That line of thinking was a trap.

Aziraphale eventually got things sorted out to his satisfaction. The palimpsest would miraculously appear back in the collection of the owner, and they could sort out the paperwork. And their temptation would be removed. That was the thing to do with temptations, remove them, even if it made one feel sick to the soul.

He sank down in a chair wishing, for once, that he had learned to sleep. Crowley seemed to enjoy it Aziraphale's treacherous imagination conjured up a picture of Crowley, sleepy and sated, curled trustingly up in his arms and practically purring off to sleep, and with the right to relish his orneryAdversary's vulnerability, kiss his fragile eyelids, stroke his wavy hair. And that was worse, far more dangerous than imagining what went before, because even Aziraphale could not deceive himself that was he was imagining was anything but longing for the right to love. Physical temptations were one thing. To long for the right to dote on and caress and adore the same being who was trying to drag you down into an eternity of damnation, that was beyond idiocy.

The note was still on the desk. He glanced at the clock. It had been four hours.

Despite himself, he walked across and read it.

Forgive me, angel.

Oh, no, that brought hot tears to his eyes, as the note crumbled away. A demon, begging for forgiveness, against his rebellious nature. Perhaps he was being unnecessarily cruel, unnecessarily wary. Crowley really could be unexpectedly humble and sweet at times. Perhaps he wasn't beyond repentance. Perhaps Aziraphale could even save him. If love couldn't save him, what would? Crowley could be so dear ...

The next note formed, and Aziraphale picked it up tenderly.

God damn your blood and wounds, I'm on my eighth bottle. Are you coming or not, you winged bastard?

Ah. Right then. Remove the temptation. The problem was that he knew exactly where Crowley was, and Crowley knew exactly where to send his notes. As long as Aziraphale stayed within reach, his feet were trembling at the edge of the cliff, and he no longer trusted his wings.

Where to start a life without an Adversary? France was out, Germany was out. Possibly New Zealand? Aziraphale carefully wrote out a sign saying the bookshop was closed until further notice, and hung it in the window.

If he was going to be alone for the rest of eternity, he might as well start now.

00000

Salta, Argentina, 1926

Aziraphale accepted the gourd offered to him with a grateful smile, and sipped the mate through the silver straw, savouring the astringency. Almost as good as a second flush Darjeeling. He drained the gourd and returned it to the cebador, his eyes still less on his companions at the table as on the two young men on the street corner.

The pair had little language in common, but they were managing to communicate quite well with a mixture of Arabic, Chorote and Spanish. They were laughing and practicing the tango, feet moving fluidly to the music from the nearby bar, dark eyes sparkling. Mesmerising in their youth and joy in life. It made him feel very ancient, and very alone.

"You never did give me a chance to teach you to tango properly, angel," drawled a voice in his left ear.

As the mestizo dancer pulled the young immigrant into a tango hesitation, Aziraphale felt like his own heart was hesitating in his corporeal form.

Crowley accepted the gourd from the cebador with a wink, and pulled the mate into his mouth through the straw, until it the straw gurgled against the yerba. "Bitter," the demon commented flatly, so quietly Aziraphale was sure only he could hear. He returned the gourd it to the cebador, who refilled it with hot water and offered it to Aziraphale again.

Aziraphale took it, and regarded the silver straw. The straw that had just been in Crowley's mouth. Of course, it had been in the mouth of every man at the table, and that hadn't bothered him at all. On the other hand, the closest the mouths of his other companions had ever been to his own was lightly pecking his cheek.

"Gracias," he said firmly, and passed the gourd to his right, untasted.

Crowley flinched. "Can't even share some of this nasty tea? At least you're still sitting here and not fluttering off. That's a start."

"It's delicious," Aziraphale said defensively. "I'd just had enough."

"And talking. Thank you."

Aziraphale looked sideways at him. Crowley's eyes would have been shadowed by the brim of his hat even without his dark glasses, but he could feel the yellow gaze centred intently on him, as unblinkingly as a snake mesmerising his prey. He hurriedly looked back at the tango dancers, but they were laughing and separating, going their different ways. Perhaps it had only been a momentary encounter. After all, what could they have in common, beside the dance?

"i don't really know why I'm talking to you," he said, even though his heart was moving again, hammering as if trying to escape his chest. He had known, he supposed, that this moment would come. It was just the time and place he had been unprepared for, the humidity wrapping around them, the music...

The overwhelming sense of relief. He should feel fear, of Crowley, of himself. Instead, all he felt was like some terrible hole was being filled. Maybe with boiling water, maybe it was scalding him and not completely comfortable, but at least it was being filled, by the familiar shape by his side, and perhaps the pain was better than the emptiness.

"But you are talking to me." Unlike the intensity of his gaze, Crowley's voice was soft, gentle, as if trying not to startle away a nervous woodland creature. "What brings you to Salta la Linda, Aziraphale?"

"The ladies here have just obtained suffrage. I like to think I was of some help," Aziraphale said primly.

"I was hoping it was because you had some nostalgia for the tango. That's why I'm in Argentina. Couldn't stop thinking about it, for some reason."

Aziraphale swallowed hard, wondering if he imagined the tone in the voice. There was a sudden crack of thunder, light splitting the sky. "I knew the weather was too heavy," Aziraphale muttered as the rain drops began to fall, reminding him of that first rain, long ago.

"Come on," Crowley said, with sudden energy. "I hate the rain, and you don't want to ruin that jacket. That bar gives good shelter and, I've heard, last year's Torrontés is an excellent vintage and best drunk young." He leapt lithely to his feet, a gloved hand extended. "Aziraphale. It's been four years. And you promised, no more disappearing for sixty years—Arrangement or not. An angel can't break his promise."

Aziraphale was almost certain he had never actually promised anything of the kind, despite Crowlye's demands. I'm a stupid angel, Aziraphale thought. He's still a demon, no less dangerous than he was four years ago. Just because I'm lonely doesn't mean that he's safe.

It was far more difficult to refuse a temptation when it was standing right in front of him, hand out, a carefully insouciant pose belied by a faint tremble to his mouth.

He grasped Crowley's hand, and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. "One bottle," Aziraphale said. "I hear it has notes of peach and apricot."

"You always did like fruit," Crowley said mildly, although his face was blazing so brightly that for a moment it didn't seem difficult at all to remember that he was of angelic stock. "One bottle."

Notes:

1) In angelology, Shamsiel is one of Uriel's chief aides, and was set as a Watcher over Earth, guarding Eden after Adam and Eve left. He was one of the angels who Fell by marrying mortal women and having giant children, the Nephelim. He was chained under the Earth to await judgement.

2) The cebador serves the mate, refills the shared gourd with water, and passes it around the group.

3) Picture is Salta, known as Salta la Linda, the beautiful city. I wish I had seen more of it.

4) I was going to end this chapter at the end of the first scene, but I couldn't just leave the poor idiots in that state for too long, had to start them on the steps to a happy ending. Thanks for sticking with me through the apocalypse of the last chapter, and I hope to see you all next chapter!