Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“It’s great that you guys could join us for Shabbat,” says Naomi, carrying two covered challah loaves in from the kitchen.

Crowley shrugs. “Didn’t have anything better to do.”

“I wanted to come,” says Aziraphale.

In fact, the angel had insisted on it, steadfastly refusing to explain his reasons. When Crowley accused him of plotting something, he’d simply smiled and said “I don’t see why you should be the only one who gets to cause trouble.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to come,” Crowley says. “Just that I didn’t have anything better to do.”

Naomi snorts. “Yes, I’m sure being a retired demon keeps you very busy.”

“Unfortunately, Crowley is very good at keeping himself busy,” says Aziraphale with a sigh.

“How was I supposed to know that the Panamanian ambassador was in that van?” Crowley protests.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have been hijacking vans in the first place, dearest?”

“Perhaps they shouldn’t have been blocking the alley next to your shop.”

“Yes, I’m sure it’s very inconvenient when someone else takes your illicit parking space.”

Yael places the salad bowl on the table. “Should we ask?”

“No need,” Aziraphale tells her. “You can simply read the newspaper article. I brought a copy of the Times, just in case you wanted to read it.”

“Ooh, I do!” asks Miriam. “And I can take it to class for current events on Monday.”

“Is everyone ready for Shabbat?” Yael asks. “We’re approaching candle-lighting time.”

Aziraphale has a small smile that clearly wants to be a larger one as he pulls out a dusty glass bottle that Crowley doesn’t recognize.

“Actually,” says the angel, “Before we begin, I hoping that you would let me supply tonight’s wine.”

“For kiddush, or just with dinner?” asks Yael.

“Both, if you’re willing. I won’t be offended if you don’t want to use it for kiddush. Though it is kosher, I can assure you.”

“Since when do you care if wine is kosher?” asks Crowley. “What even makes wine kosher? It’s not like they’re putting lobster in it.”

Yael shrugs. “There are some complicated things about additives, but mostly it’s just wine made by Jews.”

“But you drink whatever wine we bring,” says Crowley.

“Well, we don’t really keep kosher,” says Yael. “Though we do eat a lot of kosher-style dishes by default because Naomi grew up with it.”

“My parents keep kosher when they’re at home,” says Naomi. “And I think two of my sisters still eat kosher-ish, though Amy’s the only one in the family who’s actually strict about it. But even she’s fine with unhechshered wine.”

“Not for kiddush, though,” Yael says.

“True!”

“Unhechshered?” Aziraphale asks.

“You know,” Naomi says, even though it is clear that Aziraphale doesn’t. “The little mark on the package that says it’s kosher.” Seeing his look of incomprehension, she leaves the room, wincing and rubbing her lower back as she does so. Crowley reflexively sends a miracle to ease whatever pain and stiffness she’s feeling, and he’s rewarded with a wry smile before she goes into the kitchen. She returns quickly, holding the canister of matzoh meal left over from Passover.

“See the U with the circle? That’s the hechsher.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale. “Well, this bottle of wine does not have any sort of seal, I’m afraid, but I can assure you that by the standards you’ve just outlined, it is most certainly kosher.” His look of anticipation has returned, and his eyes are sparkling with mischief that is in no way angelic. Naomi gives him a suspicious look, then turns to Crowley.

“Do you know what he’s up to?”

“Nope!”

“How do you know it’s kosher?” asks Miriam. “Did you watch it get made?”

“Yes,” says Aziraphale, “And I can assure you that it was made by Jews. Moreover, it was made under rabbinic supervision.”

A memory surfaces for Crowley, and he laughs as he puts it together. The three humans turn to look at him.

“Well?” says Naomi.

“You don’t want me to spoil the surprise, do you?” It’s a rhetorical question—he knows that they don’t.

Miriam glances up at the clock. “Um, were we going to light candles?”

“Eep!” Naomi rushes into the kitchen to retrieve the main dish—Crowley is pleased to note that there’s no stiffness this time—while everyone else quickly finishes setting up the table. It’s a minute or two after the official candle-lighting time when they actually finish, “but that’s why we have the eighteen minute buffer between the set time and actual Shabbat,” says Naomi.

Miriam lights the candles, the three humans and one angel sing the blessings and traditional songs, and everything is the way it usually is, until Naomi gets three words into Shalom Aleichem and falls momentarily silent, the oddest look on her face. Then she bursts out laughing. Yael and Miriam try to get her to explain, but she’s laughing too hard, doubled over, until she manages to wave a hand in the direction of Aziraphale and Crowley and gasp out “Mal'achei Hasharet,” at which point Yael starts laughing too.

“How is it that we’ve had you over for Shabbat a dozen times since you told us, and yet we’re only making the connection now?” she asks.

“Excuse me,” says Crowley, amused. “There’s only the one angel here. If you’re going to be welcoming any others, I’m leaving.”

Naomi is still giggling, but manages to say “You know, it’s said that every household is visited by a good and bad angel on Shabbat.”

“Er.” Crowley is slightly less amused. Naomi immediately stops laughing.

“Oh no, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking that could refer to you. You’re not an angel!”

He shrugs. “Demon, fallen angel, same idea. Same original stock.”

She shakes her head. “Ugh, I’m sorry, it didn’t even occur to me to make the connection. In the story it’s two matched angels, except one wants Shabbat to be peaceful and happy, and the other wants it to be miserable and unpleasant. Neither of those are much like you.”

“The latter sounds like Sandalphon,” says Aziraphale. “He’s very unpleasant.”

Crowley narrows his eyes. “If he shows up…”

“Then you’re leaving?” asks Naomi.

“Then we’re all leaving,” says Aziraphale, “and Crowley and I will ensure that you get away safely. Sandalphon is far too fond of smiting.”

“And he’s not very good dinner company,” says Crowley. “Tedious self-important bully. Never liked him.”

“He doesn’t sound like an angel of peace, then,” says Naomi, “So I don’t think the song applies to him.”

“It doesn’t apply to Zira either,” says Miriam.

Yael says, “I don’t know, I think Zira’s very peaceful. Didn’t you give your sword away?”

The girl grins. “That’s not why. At the end of Shalom Aleichem we say farewell to the angels and send them away, right? We don’t want to send Zira away right before Shabbat dinner!”

“I would be quite disappointed if you did,” says the angel in question.

“Why do we send the angels away?” asks Miriam. “The metaphorical ones, I mean. Not you.”

Yael smiles. “Good question! Any ideas?”

“Because angels are terrible company.” Crowley slides his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Except this one.”

Aziraphale smiles and kisses him. “I’m glad you’re willing to make an exception for me.”

“That’s not an argument I’ve heard before, but I’m willing to consider it. Though my sample size of one suggests that angels are excellent company,” says Yael.

“Maybe the Shabbat angels are just there to start us off?” says Miriam. “And then they leave because their work is done.”

“That reminds me of another explanation I’ve read,” says Yael. She smiles. “But it definitely doesn’t apply to Zira here.”

“Oh?”

“Well, the theory is that we invite the angels to help sanctify the Shabbat, but then they leave because we’re about to eat a meal, and angels can’t eat.”

Naomi laughs. “That’s true, that’s in the midrash as well—the not eating, I mean. It’s part of why we didn’t think you could be an angel, Zira. Guess they got that one wrong.”

“Actually,” says Aziraphale, “I don’t know about can’t, but I’m the only angel who is willing to eat. None of the others will even try. Gabriel says it would be sullying the temple of his body with gross matter.” He looks down, and Crowley tightens his arm, pulling the angel closer.

Yael looks thoughtful, then smiles. “I should share the rest of the theory, then. The idea is that the angels are holy beings, but by making Shabbat dinner part of our observance, we can actually surpass them in holiness, at least for the moment. It’s a sacred act that they can’t participate in. So by that metric, you’re actually holier than Gabriel, Zira. You’re sanctifying the temple of your body. At least when you eat with us at Shabbat.”

“Hah!” Crowley grins. “I like that theory.”

But Aziraphale still looks sad. “I don’t think anyone in Heaven would agree with you.” Crowley hates that expression. It makes him want to bite someone.

Naomi makes a face. “Who cares what they think? Like we keep saying, we’re not in Heaven. They don’t get any say. And they’re not invited to Shabbat dinner.”

“You just sang a song inviting them,” Crowley points out.

“Only angels of peace. Anyone coming here to be mean to Zira is by definition not an angel of peace.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed,” says Yael, “Because then Naomi will yell at them, and that’s not peaceful at all.”

“You shouldn’t shout at angels for my sake,” Aziraphale protests, but Crowley can tell that he’s pleased. 

“It’s not entirely for your sake,” says Naomi, “First of all, I’d do the same for any of my loved ones, and second of all, they shouldn’t insult my cooking. ‘Gross matter’ indeed.”

Aziraphale does smile at that. “Your challah surpasses anything Heaven has to offer. Particularly the one with raisins.”

“Well, yeah, we’ve just established that there isn’t any food there.”

“We have gotten very off-track,” says Yael. “Zira, did you still want to provide the kiddush wine?”

“Oh, yes!”

He pours a little wine into the kiddush cup. Crowley uses a tiny miracle to keep the humans from smelling it and spoiling the first half of the surprise.

“You can say the blessing too, if you want,” Yael adds. Aziraphale’s face brightens even more.

“Really? I would love to.” He holds up the cup and sings the long version of the wine blessing. Musically, it’s a bit confusing, because he starts out singing the tune that Yael and Naomi usually use, but then he gets sidetracked, slipping first into a medieval version and then sliding into something that Crowley’s pretty sure originated with the early Babylonian exiles. Yael looks amused, and Naomi is squinting in concentration, trying to trace the different pieces.

Beaming and practically bouncing with excitement, Aziraphale passes the kiddush cup around for everyone to take a sip. 

“Well?” he asks. Crowley is also trying to hide his anticipation, and doing a better job of it.

Yael and Naomi both have the strangest looks on their face.

“Um, it’s, well…” Naomi’s tongue is flicking, almost like a snake’s, as she tries to make sense of the flavor.

“It’s very unusual,” says Yael. “I’m curious as to why you wanted us to try it.”

“It’s gross,” says Miriam. “Sorry, but it is. It tastes like someone tried to make kombucha out of Manischewitz.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s that bad,” says Yael. “It is a bit intense, though.”

‘When did you have kombucha?” Naomi asks.

“Adelaide’s mom made some.”

“Oh, yeah, that makes sense. Did you like it?”

“No. It tasted like this stuff, except less sweet.”

Aziraphale doesn’t look nearly as disappointed as one might expect. Crowley grins. “Not very angelic of you, giving this stuff to the humans.” He takes a tiny sip of the stuff, just for the memories, and shudders. “Ugh. Terrible stuff. You people have gotten much better at wine over the last millennium.”

“Does it taste like this because it’s old?” Miriam asks. “Really old wine turns into vinegar, right?”

“My wine would never,” says Aziraphale huffily.

Crowley shakes his head. “This is just what wine used to taste like. Awful, isn’t it? And this is actually pretty good by the standards of the day. No rock dust, no raisin syrup. You might like it better when it’s been watered-down. This from one of the batches you helped Shlomo with?”

Naomi blinks. “Shlomo.”

Aziraphale nods. “Yes, he gave me a cask as thanks.”

“For helping him make the wine?” asks Yael.

“Well, that and helping him open his yeshiva. Not that I did that for the wine—or for his thanks,” the angel adds quickly. “I simply wanted to support his scholarship—he was a brilliant man. Very well-read, too. Come to think of it, I’m sure I still have the first editions of his commentaries somewhere.”

Naomi has an even stranger look on her face. Over the years, Crowley has come to appreciate the wide range of facial expression humans are capable of, and this one is a real treasure. Her eyes are wide, and there’s the faint suggestion of a smile on her face, but it could just as easily be baring her teeth. When she speaks, he can hear the effort she’s making to stay calm.

This is great. He should have made popcorn.

“Zira,” says Naomi, her voice the same mix of sweetness and acid as the wine she’d just tasted. “Roughly what year are we talking about?”

Aziraphale waves a hand, seemingly oblivious to the danger he’s in. “Oh, the late eleventh century, give or take a few decades. I can’t remember the precise date.”

“And your friend Rabbi Shlomo, I don’t suppose his father’s name was Isaac?”

“Why yes! How did you guess?”

“Ziiiiira!”

Aziraphale beams. “Indeed! Isn’t that a lovely surprise? I thought you would enjoy the history, if not the beverage.”

Naomi waves her hands in exasperation for a full minute before she remembers how to speak. “I can’t believe you just gave us wine made by Rashi and you didn’t tell us!”

“I did tell you, just now.”

“Actually, you didn’t,” says Yael. “Naomi figured it out herself.”

“Oh. You’re right.” Aziraphale smiles. “Well done!”

“Gaaahhhhh!” Naomi waves her hands some more.

“You can’t discorporate him,” says Crowley.

“Why not? Because he’s family, because he’s immortal, or because you’ll protect him?” asks Naomi.

Yael smiles. “Because it’s Shabbat,” she says. 

“Also he can’t show you the commentaries if he’s been inconveniently discorporated,” Crowley adds.

“Um, speaking of Shabbat, were we going to wash our hands and say hamotzi?” asks Miriam.

“Gahhhh.”

“Yes,” says Yael quickly, “Let’s. Sweetheart?”

Naomi shoots Aziraphale a quick glare that promises trouble later, then grins. “Shabbat is certainly more lively with you two.”

“That’s a very polite way of saying chaotic,” Crowley notes.

“Isn’t it? You’re welcome.”

They finish the blessings without further interruptions and sit down to dinner.

“Crowley,” Yael murmurs to him, looking slightly concerned. “I hope that the story about eating Shabbat dinner being a holy act doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“Nah. I’m not making an offering out of eating, I’m just eating.” Actually, he’s mostly just drinking wine and passing his food off to Aziraphale, but he does try a few bites of everything. “And I’m only eating because there’s poppy seeds on the bread.”

“Oh good,” says Naomi, “I hoped you’d like that. I can start making a poppyseed loaf every time you guys come.”

“Unlike certain angels, I can’t be lured in with food.”

“DOn’t worry, I know. And yet, you keep coming back anyway.”

He ignores this and takes another bite of challah.

*****

“Okay, question,” says Naomi as they’re cleaning up the dinner dishes. “Is that really wine made by Rashi?”

“Of course,” says Aziraphale. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“It’s just that I thought that they didn’t usually put wine in glass bottles back then,” she says. “Was that wrong?”

“No, your recollection is accurate. I decanted this into a bottle to bring for dinner. The rest of it is in a cask back in my basement.”

“It’s too bad we can’t share this with Harry,” says Yael.

“Hah, yeah, Dad would get a kick out of the whole thing.”

“Why can’t you?” asks Aziraphale.

Naomi shrugs. “I mean, we could share the wine with him, but without the context it’s just weird stuff to drink.”

“You could give him the context,” says Crowley. Of all the humans in their circle, Harry and Deb are the two remaining that Crowley would consider telling. Once it was clear that he and Aziraphale were a semi-permanent fixture in Yael, Naomi, and Miriam’s lives, Naomi’s parents started treating them like a pair of adoptive sons. Which is occasionally a little odd, given that Crowley has taken naps that lasted longer than their human lifespans, but it’s less annoying than he would have assumed. The novelty hasn’t worn off yet.

“It’s not really our story to tell,” says Yael.

“It could be.” Crowley is okay with Deb and Harry finding out, but he’s also a bit of a coward, and would happily delegate the big reveal.

“Crowley.”

“What?”

Yael shrugs. “Well, we’re going to visit them on Sunday. You’re welcome to come—whether or not you feel like having the big conversation.”

“Ehhhh,” Crowley shifts in his seat. “We might be busy then.”

“Yes, of course,” says Naomi, looking far too innocent. “I’m sure Zira needs to start opening his shop for the weekend crowd.”

“Well when you put it that way,” says Aziraphale, “We’d be delighted to come.”

Crowley glares at Naomi, who grins back. “Come on, Crowley, you don’t have to tell them anything if you don’t want to. I promise not to drop any hints at all.”

“Hey,” says Miriam, “Why is Crowley always the one who decides whether you guys are going to tell people about you two? Do you not care or something?”

“Of course I care,” says Aziraphale. “But Crowley cares more.”

“It’s not a matter of care. I have more to risk.”

Aziraphale nods. “It is a little easier to admit to being an angel, especially now that humans usually think of us as entirely benevolent, for some odd reason. The worst that can happen is that they don’t believe me.”

“And my worst case scenario is they do.”

“We believe you, Crowley,” Yael says quietly. “Is this really such a bad outcome?”

He rolls his eyes. He doesn’t feel like explaining that, while he might have been a sorry excuse for a demon in a lot of ways, he really had made a lot of human lives miserable. Maybe not for very long, but their lives are so short. He almost does want to explain it, but they won’t get it and they’ll feel like they need to reassure him, and he’s just tired of it. Maybe he should tell Harry. Naomi’s father has never hesitated in sharing his opinions about, well, anything. But he likes Deb and Harry, and he doesn’t want to harm Naomi’s relationship with her parents, or Yael’s with her mentor.

“Speaking of bad outcomes,” says Naomi, “Zira.”

“Yes?”

“Remember what I said about discorporation!” Crowley says quickly. She waves his reminder away.

“We’ve known each other for fourteen years, and you’re only telling me tonight that you have first editions of Rashi’s commentaries? Is it because you were worried we’d find out about you guys?”

Aziraphale looks stricken. “Oh, my dear! I’m so sorry, I would have told you years ago. I just forgot that I had them until now.”

“Hmm, really? I could believe that Crowley forgot, but you keep such good track of your books!”

“You know that biblical and Talmudic commentaries aren’t my core area of interest. I mostly kept them out of sentimental value, as a gift from a friend. I tucked them away in the storage area, and other than checking on them when my shop was restored, I haven’t had much cause to consult them.” He looks slightly worried. “Are you genuinely upset?”

“Nah, the wine was a good prank, and I believe you that you forgot.” She brightens. “Does this mean you’re willing to tell us about Rashi?”

The worry lifts from Aziraphale’s face and his eyes light up. “I was hoping you would ask!”

“Wait, really?”

Crowley snorts. “We’ve been dropping hints about the past for weeks, trying to see what would make you take the bait and ask.”

Yael raises an eyebrow. “You could have just told us, you know.”

“Sure, but where’s the fun in that?”

Naomi flaps her hands at Crowley and Yael. “Shush, I want to hear about Rashi! Were you friends?”

“I suppose we were. I certainly made a point of calling on him every time my assignments took me his way. He was so busy that we rarely had time to speak at length, but he always insisted that I join his family’s Shabbat dinner.” He smiles. ”Much like you and Yael do.”

“Did he know that you’re an angel?” Miriam asks.

“I don’t believe so. I told him once, but we were both quite intoxicated, and even if he believed me at the time, I doubt he remembered the following morning. If he did, he never brought it up again.”

“He didn’t notice the whole ‘not aging’ thing?

Aziraphale looks sad. “He never had the chance. I was occupied with a multitude of assignments and wasn’t able to return to Troyes within his lifetime.”

“Did you ever meet him, Crowley?” asks Yael, before the silence can build.

“Only once or twice. Seemed kind of boring to me. Decent wine, though, for the era.”

“Boring?!” Naomi and Aziraphale’s protests sound exactly the same, inflection and all.

“He was so fussy about words. And when you got him away from ‘but what does this Hebrew word mean precisely’”—Crowley adopts a nasal whine that Shlomo never actually had—“he just wanted to rehash ancient history. I never understood why you enjoyed talking with him so much about those things. He only knew stories, and we lived through them. And they weren’t exactly fun the first time.”

“I enjoy hearing how the narratives change,” says Aziraphale.

“Wait, wait.” Naomi narrows her eyes. “You’re talking about midrash, aren’t you? Have you been reading midrash with me just to secretly laugh about how humans got it wrong?”

“No!” says Aziraphale, at the exact same time that Crowley says “Yes.”

“Crowley, you don’t read midrash with me.”

“I listen to you talk about it. Wasn’t there one about Mount Sinai being lifted up and hung over everyone’s head? Because I was pretty drunk that night but I would have remembered that.”

“Aww, you mean that didn’t actually happen?” She grins. “Actually, I’m glad that one didn’t happen, I never liked the message there. What about the one where Adam and Eve are supposed to be babysitting Samael’s son and end up killing and eating him?”

Crowley stares at her in appalled delight.

“See what you’re missing out on when you don’t read midrash with us? I’m guessing from your reaction that you never saw anything like that in Eden.”

“Of course not,” says Aziraphale. “Satan never entered the Garden. And to the best of my knowledge, his son is alive and well in England.”

Naomi gives them an incredulous smile. “The son of satan is in England?”

“So I believe,” Aziraphale. “He made it abundantly clear that he didn’t want us, er, messing about, so we’ve tried to leave him alone to live a human life. But he’s a very nice young man! He must be in his mid-twenties by now...but I digress. Regardless, I enjoy reading midrash with you for its own sake. Your color commentary is always entertaining. And of course, I respect your scholarship, just as I respected Shlomo’s.”

Naomi blinks rapidly. “I, uh, that’s actually more of a compliment than I’m able to process right now. Thank you?”

“You’re welcome.”

There’s an awkward silence while Naomi struggles with some emotion, then her face brightens. “Okay, but please tell me the one where Moses punches an angel is true.”

“I’m happy to confirm that one. Do you want to know the details?”

“Yes! Wait, yes, but maybe later. Right now I want to hear more about Rashi.”

*****

Crowley’s not particularly interested in the topic, so he wanders off, eventually ending up in the rooftop garden. He likes it there, when it isn’t freezing cold. He’s spent so much time up here over the years that the family eventually declared it “Crowley’s Roof.” Miriam even made a little paper sign to make the ownership clear. She was seven when she made it, and no one has ever commented about how the paper never seems to fade or get wet. 

After a while, Yael (predictably) joins him up there.

“I know what you’re going to say,” he says.

“Oh?”

“You’re going to say something like ‘Don’t let Naomi pressure you, you don’t have to tell Harry and Deb if you don’t want to.’ And then I’ll make some sort of noncommittal noise, and you’ll tell me a story about how you were all worried that Harry would hate you when he found out you were a lesbian or something but actually they were nice about it”—he’s rather pleased with the amount of contempt he manages to fit into ‘nice’—and then I’ll say ‘it’s different for humans’ and you’ll say something about how it isn’t and then we’ll stare out into the distance and then…”

“And then?”

“That’s as far as I got.”

“I’ll admit that that’s a pretty plausible simulation, but that wasn’t actually what I was going to say.”

“No?”

“Well, I was going to say you don’t have to let Naomi pressure you. But I wasn’t going to talk about coming out to Harry. For one thing, it wasn’t ever really an issue. I showed up on the first day of his class wearing a t-shirt that said ‘Dyke to watch out for’ and he didn’t even blink.”

“Fine, some other story then.”

“If I were going to tell you a story, it could be about all the awful things I said and did when I was still trying to please my mother. But even then, you’d say that it’s different for me, because I’m human, and because you don’t believe that I’d ever do anything that bad.” She smiles. “I can run conversations in my head too.”

He stares at her, snake eyes wide and exposed. “What would you say next?”

“How about this? I work in refugee aid. Many of my clients have been through the sort of things you didn’t do but felt guilty claiming credit for. Some of them even participated, because people do terrible things when they’re trapped in those sorts of situations.”

“Why do you help them, then?” He’s been curious about this for a while. “It sounds exhausting and miserable.”

“Sometimes it is. But…I’m good at it. And I want to help repair the world. And I want people to have a chance to be more than the worst thing that’s happened to them, or the worst thing they’ve ever done.”

“Nice sentiment, but that’s human people. Demons are defined by our biggest mistake. That’s what unforgivable means.”

“Yes, well, you might as well say that humans are defined by our mortality. You still—“ she stops short, probably because Crowley has stepped back and lifted a hand up. He’s not sure what he’ll actually do, but he wants to stop her there.

“We are not talking about that. Not. Talking. About. That.”

She bites her lip, then drops the subject. “Anyway, as much as I enjoy our rooftop chats, none of that is actually what I came up here for.”

“Oh?”

“Miriam wanted me to tell you that we’re about to watch the old Prince of Egypt cartoon—the one about Moses—and she’s hoping you and Zira will watch it with her and kibbitz.”

Crowley grins. “You realize that Aziraphale is going to be insufferably pedantic about everything.”

“And I assume you’re going to be extremely rude, yes. Miriam can’t wait, and Naomi’s making popcorn.”

*****

It’s getting late when the movie ends, but Crowley doesn’t feel like sleeping. Maybe it’s from the memories the movie brings up (however inaccurately), but it’s not the distant past he’s thinking of when he returns to the rooftop garden. He’s more concerned with the conversation just before dinner. At the time it had mostly seemed funny, that something Gabriel so obviously disdained could make humans better than him. Not just better—Crowley knows they’re better—but holier.

The idea keeps nagging at him. Why give the humans free will? Why even bother making them at all? Their sheer inventiveness is amazing, but they turn it towards atrocity as often as grace, and most of the time they don’t use it for either. They can’t really be in competition with angels. But humans, these humans and the others he’s known throughout the millennia, they do get to choose what they work towards, how they use the imagination and creativity and brilliance that they have. Sometimes the choices go nowhere, but sometimes they ripple outward.

He knows his humans could be awful if they chose to be. They have such potential. He had a brief conversation with Yael’s mother, just the one time, and instantly saw how that same insight that Yael uses to help could be used to break people down instead. (It hadn’t worked on him, of course. Crowley has seen all manner of cruelty and manipulation and Yael’s mother, while unpleasant, was an amateur.)

In a way, he’s always thought of himself and Aziraphale as mirrors—Crowley is not great at being a demon, though he hid it well for over six thousand years. And Aziraphale never seemed particularly good at being an angel, what with his enjoyment of the pleasures of earth and his willingness to trade duties with a demon. But Aziraphale, unique among angels, receives no support or reward from Heaven, and helps people nonetheless. Crowley still causes mayhem, but he doesn’t do it to secure souls for his former Lord and Master, and even his more spectacular pranks haven’t actually resulted in a major increase of human cruelty (it wouldn’t be any fun). Anyway, Aziraphale can usually guilt him into undoing the worst damage—and that’s if Crowley hasn’t already guilted himself into it.

He has always known that Aziraphale was a better person than anyone in heaven, but Yael and Naomi were suggesting Aziraphale was a better angel as well. That there’s an angel metric, and Aziraphale is secretly scoring points on it when he takes another slice of raisin challah. Crowley isn’t sure how he feels about that.

How is it holy when it doesn’t burn?

He glares at nothing in particular. “Just what are you playing at? It’s not funny, whatever it is.”

“Crowley?” It’s Aziraphale’s voice, and he turns to see the angel’s head poking up through the door. “I thought I might find you here. Do you mind if I join you?”

“Sure, I mean no, I mean, you know what I mean. Come on up.” He offers Aziraphale a hand up. The angel doesn’t need it, he’s stronger and more solid than Crowley, but Crowley enjoys these little opportunities for physical contact, after so long of carefully avoiding it. Aziraphale smiles at him and leans in for a kiss before releasing Crowley’s hand.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he says, plucking a penny out of Crowley’s ear.

“You’ve gotten better. That was almost in my ear.” 

“Practice,” the angel replies, handing Crowley the penny.

“A Canadian penny? That’s all my thoughts are worth to you?”

“Hmph. Fine then, how about two zuzim. I have it on good authority that you can buy a goat with that.” He produces two coins of a sort that Crowley hasn’t seen in centuries.

“Hah.”

“Well?”

“You gave me the coins, I never promised anything in return.”

“Really, dearest, if you didn’t want to talk you could have just said so.”

“Nah, it’s not that, it’s just hard to explain.” Crowley gathers his thoughts in the face of Aziraphale’s patient silence. I was thinking about plans.”

“What do you mean? Isn’t the plan to visit New Jersey on Sunday?”

“No, er, I mean, uh. I meant more, plans involving us.”

“Won’t the trip involve us? I’d assumed you were coming with us to New Jersey, was I wrong?”

“No! Forget about New Jersey for a minute!”

“It’s difficult to forget about New Jersey. It’s very much in existence, you know, despite several efforts from my side. My former side, I mean.”

“Yours too?” Crowley is momentarily distracted. “Xaphan had a plan to—wait, no, why are we still talking about New Jersey?” He sees a slightly guilty smile on Aziraphale’s face. “You’re doing this on purpose!”

Aziraphale sighs. “I suppose I am. I just don’t want to argue about the Ineffable Plan right now.”

“You asked,” Crowley mutters. “I don’t either. And this isn’t that sort of thinking. I was just wondering, if there is a plan, where you fit in, and what you want out of it.”

“Where I fit in? What about you?”

Crowley shrugs. “Ehhhh, well.” He leans back over the rail, not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes, even as the angel takes his hand.

“My dearest. I am confident that any plan that includes me has the two of us together. I mean, assuming that you want that…are you hinting that you don’t?”

Crowley snaps forward in a motion that human spines would have some difficulty with and grabs Aziraphale’s other hand. “No! Angel! No, never, you know that.”

“Then what…?” Aziraphale’s eyes narrow. “Really, Crowley, if this is some nonsense about not deserving me—“

Crowley barks out a laugh and drops his hands. “Hah, no. ‘Deserve’ is more your side’s thing. Your former side, I mean.”

“I don’t understand,” says Aziraphale.

“You know…’There’s Right, and there’s Wrong. If you do Wrong when you’re told to do Right, you deserve to be punished.’ That sort of thing. My side just wanted whatever souls we could get. We never cared whether the poor buggers deserved it.” Crowley never had, anyway.

“Well, yes, fine, but you must acknowledge that the concept is sound—”

“Oh, I must?”

“Well, yes, even though people don’t always get the consequences they deserve, they do still deserve them. Er. The consequences that they didn’t get.”

“Who decides what’s deserved?”

“The Allmighty, of course.”

Crowley looks away and waits to see if Aziraphale will realize what he’s saying. He doesn’t, and Crowley doesn’t feel like asking the obvious question, about what he deserved and what he was given. Or what was taken away.

After a moment, Aziraphale clears his throat. “My dear. I really, truly do not want to argue about the Ineffable Plan with you tonight, and I think that may be what we’re about to do, or perhaps what we’re already doing. Can we leave this, at least for now?”

Crowley nods. Aziraphale takes his hand again and laces his fingers through Crowley’s. “I don’t know what plans She has in store for us, ineffable or otherwise. But I can promise you that I will not cooperate with any plan that takes me away from you.” He lifts their clasped hands and kisses Crowley’s. “I will accompany you wherever you go. Even to Alpha Centauri. Even to New Jersey.”

“Now, angel, you don’t have to go that far.”

“But we’ve planned for it!”

“Plans can be changed, you know.”

“Yes, but I like this one. Harry and Deb will want to get dim sum, and I haven’t had decent egg tarts in months.”

“We just got some last week.”

“Those were Portuguese-style, they’re different.”

Aziraphale pouts, and Crowley kisses him. He can worry about holiness later.

Chapter Text

“So,” asks Yael over breakfast. “Other than us, and apparently Rashi when you were drunk, have you ever told other humans about yourselves?”

“Sometimes for professional reasons,” says Aziraphale. “I never liked all the pageantry, so I tried to leave that sort of thing to those who do, but in the early days I was expected to do more overt work.”

“Below never paid as much attention. Sometimes they’d give me specific targets, but the rest of the time they cared more about the results.” Crowley doesn’t say the rest of it, that he never lacked for results, not even when he spent a decade or five asleep. He had been good at his job, but the humans were always better. “Hah, speaking of targets, who’s the one who was always disagreeing with Shammai?”

“Hillel?” Yael suggests.

“Yeah, him. He was a specific target. Supposed to be, anyway. Do you know how annoying it is when someone refuses to lose their temper? Worse than annoying, because I was sent to tempt him into wrath and nothing I did made a dent.”

“Oh no,” says Naomi, eyes wide. “Did you get in trouble?”

“Would’ve, but when Hastur came up to deliver the reprimand I told him he could give it a try. I knew he couldn’t resist the chance to show me up.”

“Then what happened?”

Crowley’s grin might be just a shade diabolical. “Hastur went in full-on demon, and Hillel said some prayer and scorched his face half off. He went straight back Down and no one came up to bother me for decades.”

“Hm, I wonder if it was the Sh’ma,” says Yael. “That’s supposed to drive off demons, at least according to the Talmud.”

“One of the things, anyway.” Naomi suppresses a laugh. “Not in the bathroom, though.”

“No, in the bathroom there’s a bunch of other things that the sages supposedly did to scare off demons. One used to make a lot of noise by shaking something around in a cup, one had his wife stand outside the window... And someone, I think Abaye, used to bring a lamb in there with him—“

Miriam breaks in. “Why a lamb?”

“Good question! The Gemara doesn’t say. Any thoughts?”

“Are demons scared of sheep?” she asks Crowley, who is forced to admit that he doesn’t have much of an opinion about sheep either way. “Hm, then maybe the baahing is supposed to be like the copper cup? Except wait, the cup is an easier way to make noise. Maybe it was just to make him feel less scared?”

“An emotional support lamb?” Naomi suggests.

“I guess so. The Gemara really doesn’t say?”

Yael laughs. “No, their only question is ‘why a lamb and not a goat?’ And the answer is that a goat could be replaced with a goat-demon.”

“Don’t look at me,” Crowley says. “I’ve always kept a healthy distance from goats.” When possible, anyway. The exceptions have only reinforced this policy.

“None of this answers the real question,” says Naomi.

Miriam nods. “Yeah! Why were the rabbis so worried about demons in the bathroom, anyway?”

Everyone turns to Crowley.

“It was one time!” he says defensively. “I was pissed, I forgot to knock, I wasn’t wearing my glasses, and next thing I know everyone is screaming.”

“I guess that’s why they all felt like they had to make noise after that,” Miriam says. “Good thing they didn’t exorcise you! Wait, does that mean we shouldn’t say the Sh’ma around you?”

Yael frowns in thought. “We’ve said the Sh’ma while you’ve been in the house—many times.”

“And when you came for Shabbat services for Miriam’s bat mitzvah reading. Maybe it’s because we weren’t saying it at you,” says Naomi. “Or maybe we’re just not as impressive as Hillel.”

“Or maybe it’s because Crowley isn’t really evil,” Yael suggests. “Sorry, Crowley. At least not as we would define it. But we won’t test it.”

Naomi nods, then looks at Crowley. “Sounds like your encounter with Hillel actually went pretty well, all things considered.”

Crowley’s grin returns. “Better than you think. I bet a guy five hundred zuzim that he couldn’t make Hillel lose his temper after that. Made some money and got to take credit for tempting someone into gambling.”

Naomi bursts into laughter. Yael manages to keep a straight face, though the corners of her mouth twitch.

“You know,” she says, “In the Talmud it says the bet was only four hundred zuzim.”

“Nope, I remember, it was five hundred. But I think Aziraphale gave him a hundred out of charity.”

“Why only a hundred?” asks Naomi. “Why not replace the whole sum.”

“Because gambling is a sin,” says the angel primly. “Also, I found the man to be quite annoying, even if Hillel didn’t.”

“Did you know that there’s an organization to support Jewish college students called Hillel International?” Yael asks.

“I did not! I’m sure he’d be very pleased to know that,” says Aziraphale.

Crowley grins. “What about Shammai?”

“Hah, no, there’s no equivalent named after him that I know of. Though I did date a girl in college who was in a Jewish acapella group called ‘Shammai International’. I didn’t know much about Judaism at the time, so I didn’t get the joke until it was too late to appreciate it.”

“Was this Tamara?” Naomi asks her.

“No, Tamara isn’t Jewish. This was Dana, you never met her. She was also really involved with Hillel, come to think of it. The organization, not the person.” Yael grins. “Only with you two would I need to clarify that. But it actually ended up being awkward the following year after we, uh, had kind of a dramatic breakup. I had to find a synagogue off campus. Anyway, that was a tangent. Crowley, didn’t you say a while ago that you knew Shammai?”

Crowley makes a face at the memory.

___

“So,” he said, leaning against a stack of wooden planks in his most obnoxiously casual pose, “how about it?”

He didn’t even see the cubit coming for him. The shove caught him completely off balance, sending him tripping over his own feet and falling in the dirt, glasses askew. They were no longer shading his eyes, but they were still mostly on his face. If he just remained calm, he could push them back up before the rabbi noticed anything. Probably, anyway.

Calm is a four-letter word.

One snarled demonic curse and the measuring stick burned away so quickly that there was nothing left but a smear of ash on Shammai’s hand. Crowley expected him to shout, or at least startle a bit, but instead he just looked down at the demon still sprawled on the ground in front of him. Under the rabbi’s thoughtful stare, Crowley had time to remember just how unpleasant Hastur’s last exorcism looked. At least it had been quick, he thought, steeling himself for it.

“Are you some kind of demon, then?” Shammai asked.

“Depends. Are you going to exorcise me if I say yes?”

“Depends. Are you going to keep asking me stupid questions?”

Crowley shook his head.

“I think we’ll be fine, then.”

___

He relates the story to the two women, deciding that their laughter is worth the embarrassment.

“What happened next?” asks Yael.

“He helped me up, dusted me off, and we had a drink. Several drinks, in fact. And I bought him a new yardstick, since I had recently won a bunch of extra money.”

“That’s amazing,” says Naomi. “Did you stay in touch?”

“For a while. There were a few centuries there where Downstairs was paying more attention than usual, so it was ‘tempt this man, torment that one,’ usually on opposite sides of the globe. Travel was a lot slower then, too.” Especially since he kept falling off his horses, not that he’s going to mention that detail.

“Oh, don’t look like that,” Crowley snaps, hating the sympathy on their faces. “It came with the job. It was…” He doesn’t know how to explain it. He’d enjoyed human company, but he hadn’t really understood them as, well, people until he’d thought the world was ending, and thousands of years of carefully cultivated detachment had collapsed. Finished collapsing. “It was better than the alternatives,” he finishes.

Naomi is kind enough to change the subject. “Did you know anyone else from the Talmud?”

Crowley shrugs. “How would I know? I’ve never read it.”

“Oh, good point. Well, did you know any other important Jewish scholars from the era?”

“How would I know who was important?”

Naomi just looks at him.

“Oh, fine.” Crowley thinks. “Who was that awful pedant you used to travel with?” he asks Aziraphale.

“I’m sure I have no idea to whom you might be referring.” It’s great how stuffy his angel gets when he’s offended.

“Oh, don’t give me that. You know exactly who I mean. The one who went back and forth between Israel and Babylonia with you all those times and never had an original thought of his own.”

“Crowley! Rav Dimi was a serious scholar who dedicated his life to the dissemination of vital knowledge.”

“Sure, if you think quoting at you is valuable and not irritating.”

“It was not irritating. You’re being unkind simply because you disliked him.”

“He disliked me, angel. Thought I was a bad influence on you.”

Aziraphale looks slightly guilty. “That may have been my own fault. It’s possible that I gave him the wrong impression of you.”

“Nah, you gave him the right impression. And I still think he was boring.” He turns back toward Naomi and Yael, who’ve been observing the exchange with some amusement. “Sorry I don’t have any good stories about him. Every time I’d stop by to say hi to Aziraphale, Dimi would get all stiff and formal and keep changing the subject back to the most hair-splitting technicalities.”

“As I kept telling you, that was just his nature. He was the same with me.”

“Pff, remember the time he started babbling on about dates and almonds? That was definitely aimed at me, whatever it was.”

Yael hmms quietly. “I wonder if that’s a reference,” she says in response to Crowley’s glance. “I want to look it up and see what the context was.”

Crowley can’t imagine what context could make a difference, but he’s sure he’ll find out eventually.

*****

“I hope you don’t mind that we have a guest coming over for lunch,” Yael says later that morning. “Sam—you’ve met them a couple of times, I think.”

Crowley doesn’t mind, though he does find it mildly amusing how his humans try to feed everyone they meet. It’s no wonder they befriended Aziraphale so quickly. It’s a match made in hea-…er, made on earth.

The history discussions are put on hold—it’s one thing to consider telling Deb and Harry, but Crowley has no interest in blabbing his secrets to some human he just met a few months ago. And yet, somehow the past manages to sneak its way into the conversation.

“Did I hear that you’ve set a date for your beit din?” Naomi asks Sam, passing them the bowl of salad.

“Yeah! I’m super excited. And nervous. Exervous? Nervited?”

“You’ll do fine,” Yael reassures them. “You’ve done the reading, you’re a regular and enthusiastic participant in everything from Torah discussion to the rugelach bake-off, you clearly understand what you’re getting into, and you’re clearly serious about it. And at this point you’ve observed every holiday.”

“Every Jewish holiday, anyway,” says Sam. “I’m not doing Christmas anymore, for obvious reasons.”

Crowley has started to develop a sense for certain conversations. That faint sound of cracking ice.

Aziraphale has not. “Will you miss it?” he asks.

The snake part of Crowley’s brain notices the way Sam freezes for an instant, before they give a wide-eyed smile. Or something like a smile.

“Not…not really.”

There’s that cracking sound.

Naomi breaks the awkward silence with a question. “So, uh, have you picked a Hebrew name yet?”

Sam’s face relaxes. “I’ve talked with Rabbi Wolf about options, but I haven’t made up my mind yet. I mean, the obvious one is Shmuel, but I told her that I wanted something more gender-neutral, for obvious reasons. She suggested I look into angel names, since angels are nonbinary.”

“That is true,” Yael says, without even the slightest glance towards Crowley or Aziraphale.  “In Jewish tradition, angels are genderless.”

Sam continues, “Rabbi Wolf suggested Ariel, but I keep thinking of the little mermaid. Michael is pretty gendered in English. Gabriel’s an option, though. Or Uriel…it’s a little unusual, but I like that it refers to light.”

Aziraphale makes an odd choking sound.

“Are you okay?” asks Naomi.

He waves away her concerns. “Just startled, that’s all.”

“Are you sure?”

Aziraphale smiles, though it’s not his best effort. “I have…relatives with those names. And, as you know, I’m not on the best terms with my family at the moment.”

Naomi, Yael, and Miriam all look stricken. Sam, missing some crucial context, just seems sympathetic.

“That’s right, I think you mentioned being estranged. Sorry to bring up bad memories.”

“No, no, it’s fine. They’re perfectly good names. I wouldn’t recommend Sandalphon, though.”

“As a name or as a person,” says Crowley.

“You have someone in your family named Sandalphon?” Sam asks.

“I’m afraid so.”

“So, like, is everyone in your family named after angels?” Sam looks around the table. “Wait, is there context I’m missing?”

“Zira’s family is really strange,” Naomi says.

“Oh, sorry, you probably don’t want to talk about it.”

“Not at the moment, no.” But Aziraphale summons up a better smile, and Sam relaxes a bit.

“I’m not totally sold on having an angel name anyway, to be honest. I’m open to suggestions, though.”

“What about Lior?” asks Yael. “That also refers to light. It’s a pretty popular modern nonbinary Hebrew name.”

“Hmm…” Sam sounds unconvinced.

“What do you think of Simkha?” asks Aziraphale.

“Oh, that’s a nice one,” says Yael. “It means joy. And it sounds like your English name.”

“Ooh, I like that,” says Sam. “Simkha bet Avraham v’Sarah. Yeah. Thanks, I’ll write that one down.”

“You truly shouldn’t avoid an angel name if that’s what you want, though,” says Aziraphale.

“Nah, I wasn’t thrilled with the idea anyway. I’ve been reading Legends of the Jews and the angels in there are kind of awful.”

“Oh yeah,” says Naomi. “Angels in the midrash are generally either terrifying forces of nature or petty shitheads. Or both.” She looks at Aziraphale and Crowley. “Isn’t that right?”

“Um, well, that’s certainly the depiction in some folktales and commentaries,” says Aziraphale.

Crowley laughs. “It’s true,” he says. “With a couple of exceptions.” One, anyway.

*****

After Sam leaves, Naomi turns to Aziraphale. “Sorry, I was trying to change the subject and ended up making things worse.”

“It’s perfectly all right,” says Aziraphale, this time with a better smile. “I’m confident the situation will be resolved eventually. And in the meantime, I’m quite content with the current state of affairs.” He sits on the couch, gently pulling Crowley down next to him.

“Still…” Naomi frowns as she plops into a chair. “Anyway, I’m more interested in the humans you’ve known than the angels. I still can’t believe you have original copies of Rashi’s commentaries.”

“I am sorry…” Aziraphale’s apology is cut off by Naomi’s preemptory wave.

“No, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just amazing that you have it, that’s all. Next you’ll be telling me that you have an autographed copy of the Epistle to Yemen or something.”

“I’m afraid not. Crowley would be more likely to, of the two of us.”

“Not me, I don’t read books.”

“Then who turned down all those page corners in my copy of Phoenix Aura?” calls Miriam from the dining room.

“Must have been Aziraphale,” Crowley calls back.

“I what?!” gasps the slandered angel, drawing back from Crowley and staring at him in horror.

“You are a terrible liar,” Yael tells Crowley, not bothering to hide her amusement. He grins back.

“More importantly,” says Naomi, “Crowley knew Rambam?”

He thinks for a moment. “Nope, doesn’t ring a bell.”

“That’s not actually his name,” Yael says. “It’s an acronym. Rabbi Moshe ben Maimun.”

“That sounds familiar, but… nope, still can’t remember.”

“Crowley, you must remember, you were friends!” Aziraphale nudges him. “Fustat, twelfth century?”

“Twelth…. oh! You mean Musa!”

“Musa?”

“Musa ibn Maymun, right, I knew it sounded familiar.”

“You mostly spoke Arabic together?” asks Naomi.

“Yeah, we must have done. I forgot that he also spoke Hebrew.”

Naomi giggles. “Crowley, only you could forget that Maimonides knew Hebrew.” He makes a face at her and she giggles again. “How did you meet him, anyway?”

“He saw me in Fustat and introduced himself. Said he recognized me from an astronomy lecture in Fez a few years back. I told him he had a good memory, and he said I was, er, ‘distinctive.’”

“Did you remember him?” Naomi asks.

“Not from the lecture. But I went to,” Crowley waves a vague hand, “countless astronomy talks. The Caliphate was a good place for it.” He’d been fascinated by this sudden spurt of human interest in the cosmos. Some of what the scholars had said was incomprehensible nonsense, and many of the understandable bits were wrong, but Crowley liked to listen to them anyway, these humans who loved the stars and wanted to understand the universe.

Not that he’d stopped at listening.

He grins. “Got kicked out of more than half of them. I’d show up, listen carefully, then point out an error or ask some question about their calculations, and send the whole lot of them into an uproar.”

Aziraphale sighs. “So that’s what he meant by distinctive.”

Yael smiles. “That’s wonderful, Crowley. What a very you way to help advance human math and science.”

The denial is pure reflex. “I wasn’t advancing anything. I was sowing confusion and rage, causing some of the brightest minds of the age to question their beliefs, and undermining their self-esteem.”

“Yeah, nowadays we just call that peer review,” says Naomi.

Aziraphale is giving him that smug smile that means he’s about to say something annoyingly nice, and Crowley snaps, “Don’t even start.”

The angel pulls Crowley closer to him and kisses his cheek. “I won’t say a thing.”

“Hmf. So anyway, this youngish human introduces himself, says he recognizes me, wants to ask me some follow-up questions about astronomy. We have a couple drinks, and go our separate ways. Then I ran into him at al-‘Adid’s court—I’d been sent there to tempt an official to take a bribe, and I almost had him when Musa comes up and treats me like an old friend.”

“Aww, that’s sweet,” says Naomi.

Crowley snorts. “Nah, he just wanted me to introduce him to important people. Great guy, but a bit of a social climber.”

“To be fair,” says Yael, “his social status helped keep the Jewish community safe. Or at least safer.”

“Oh sure, I didn’t hold it against him. He returned the favor a few years later, under Saladin, and introduced me at court. But it was funny. And then he just started inviting me over whenever I was in town, at least for a while. And who am I to turn down free drinks?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s protest is too close to his ear for comfort. “You were friends, I know you were. When you heard about his brother, you went straight to Cairo.”

“I had business there.”

“You went to visit him after his brother died?” asks Naomi.

“Eh, it was on the way. I just went a little earlier. Still took me a year, though. I had a lot of temptations that year.” None of them involving ships or merchant ventures, he doesn’t bear any guilt for that.

“It's still sweet that you went, though," Naomi says. "I’m sure your visit helped.” 

“Hah, I wouldn’t know about that. He was too depressed too leave his bed, so I shouted stupid questions through his window until he got up to yell at me. He wasn’t as patient as Hillel.”

“I suppose that’s one way to treat depression,” says Yael with a half-smile.

“Playing to my strengths,” says Crowley with a touch of pride. “I can be very irritating.” He hears Aziraphale’s muffled laugh. “It didn’t cure him or anything, he was still sad for years. Overworked, too. I didn’t see much of him for a while.”

“Did you ever meet him?” Naomi asks Aziraphale. 

“Only a few times, and only through Crowley. Do you remember that dinner of his?”

“Not really,” says Crowley, lying through his teeth. He remembers it well. It had been a nice night. They’d argued about medicine, astronomy, philosophy, and when Crowley got tired of it he just sat back and listened, watching the lamplight play across Aziraphale’s face as the angel leaned forward to emphasize his point. He also remembers how it ended.

____

“This has been a lovely evening, truly, but I really must be going,” said Aziraphale, yawning and stretching.

Crowley followed him to the door. “Walk you back?”

“Probably not the best idea, I’m afraid. The streets aren’t as full at this hour, and we wouldn’t want to be seen together.” The angel’s smile looked almost wistful. Crowley firmly squelched that line of thought before it could make things worse. “You should probably wait a little while before leaving, if it wouldn’t strain the kindness of our host.”

“Yeah, sure. Just be careful walking home. I can’t always be around to pay ransom demands.”

“That only happened once!”

“Twice, actually. Don’t you remember those bandits back in Israel?”

“That was a thousand years ago! And you didn’t pay any ransom demands that time.”

“Fine, but last month still counts.”

“Hmph. You didn’t have to bargain quite so hard with them. It’s not as though you need the money.”

“They wanted eighty gold dinars!”

“Yes, and you talked them all the way down to ten, it was very embarrassing.”

“I could have let them keep you for another week, I’ll bet they’d have gone down to five after that.”

“Or maybe they would have given in to their better natures. I’m sure I had them almost convinced. Not that I’m not grateful! I’d thank you, if it wouldn’t get us both in trouble. As it is, I will take your warning to heart.”

“Good, because I’m tired of making counterfeit dinars.”

“Good night, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, shaking his head. He started to reach a hand out, then pulled it back.

“Night, angel,” Crowley said quietly. Once Aziraphale was out of sight, he returned to Musa’s table, dropping himself into the seat and emptying his wine glass in a single gulp. He was too sober for this, and anyway, Musa had good taste in wine, even if he did insist on sweetening it.

“Where we we?”

Musa studied him with a hint of a smile.

“What?”

“I’d wondered,” Musa said.

“You what?”

“What your companion was like. You’ve always been reticent on the subject.”

“No, I, er, what are you getting at?” He was definitely too sober for this. 

“You don’t have to dissemble, Crowley.” Musa shrugged. “It’s hardly an issue these days. I suppose as a jurist I would condemn certain acts, if I heard about them. But really, I’d prefer you didn’t burden me with intimate details of your relationships regardless. And as a friend, I’d like to see you happy.”

“Uh, I think you, um…”

“What, did you think I would be outraged? I’m not some fanatical ascetic or Frankish hick, you know. I am from Al-Andalus, of gardens and revelry.

“You were just a kid when you left. You never went to any of those parties.”

“No, but I know you did, and I know what they were like. I’ve read the poetry—Samuel haNagid and his gazelles. Or, how does the ben Mar Saul poem go?

‘Because of him my soul is sick,

perplexed and yearning.

His speech upon my heart

is like dew upon parched land.

Draw me from the pit of destruction

that I go not down to hell!’”

Musa finished his recitation with a smug “I may be a scholar, but I’m hardly sheltered.”

“I thought you hated poetry.”

“Not in the slightest, I just think it’s a waste of time. But we all must indulge in a little frivolity, lest we fall into melancholy.”

“Funny, usually you tell me I’m indulging in too much frivolity. You and Aziraphale both. Anyway, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not even sure he’d admit that we’re friends.”

“Is that so? He seemed fond enough of you.”

“Sure, in private. But we’re hereditary enemies. Our, er, people would kill us both if they saw us talking.”

Musa poured each of them another glass of wine, adding his usual dose of honey and a generous amount of water. “Your people, you say? You are a mysterious man. But your people’s objections shouldn’t be an insurmountable barrier to friendship. The Gemara records the debates of two famous scholars, Hillel and Shammai.”

“—Oh yeah, I remember them,” Crowley interrupted.

Musa shook his head. “Someday I hope to learn where you were educated. Regardless. If you know of them, you must know that they were always at odds. He paused, gathering his thoughts. And yet, the students of beit Hillel and beit Shammai lived in the same community, celebrated together, and intermarried. We do the same today with the Karaites, though I think that there are some worrying halachic problems with intermarriage. Not the marriage per se, but the validity of their divorces… But that’s beside the point. Where was I? Oh yes. Beit Hillel and beit Shammai coexisted. We coexist with the Karaites. And of course we coexist with the Muslims and the Christians within the limits of our ability and their tolerance. Indeed, many of my treasured friends and correspondents are Muslim. And as you know, I’ve even worked out ways to drink with gentiles without violating the prohibitions in the Talmud.” He tapped the container of honey, his smile redolent with self-satisfaction. “Perhaps the same will happen between your respective tribes, whoever they may be.”

“Not bloody likely. Anyway, we’re more than just different schools. We're supposed to be fundamentally opposed. We are opposed. Just because we get along sometimes doesn’t mean we can agree on much.”

“I don’t suppose you know the story of Reish Lakish and Rabbi Yohanan?”

“Nope.”

“I’m not sure which answer would have been more surprising. Ah, well.”  Musa refused to explain further and soon changed the subject, to Crowley’s irritation, or possibly relief.

____

“Hey,” he asks Yael. “Who was Reish Lakish?”

“What, you never met him?”

“There have been a lot of humans in the last six thousand years!”

“Sorry, just teasing. He’s in the Talmud. He and Rabbi Yohanan are another pair, a little like Hillel and Shammai, who often disagree. Except they were closer than Hillel and Shammai. It’s a sad story, actually. Funny at parts, but also sad.”

“And gay,” says Naomi.

“Yes, funny, sad, and at least a little gay."

"Are you going to tell it?" asks Crowley.

"Sure! I'll give a summary, and then we can pull up the full story later if you want. So, Reish Lakish was a bandit chief, and one day he sees Rabbi Yohanan, who is famously beautiful. Rabbi Yohanan is impressed with Reish Lakish’s strength, and Reish Lakish is impressed with Rabbi Yohanan’s hotness.”

“There’s a whole section of the Talmud where they go into detail about how amazingly hot Rabbi Yohanan is,” Naomi interjects.

“Yes. And not just hot, but pretty. So pretty that it makes other rabbis cry over the fragility of mortal beauty. And he didn't have a beard, which apparently made him different from the other hot rabbis of the Talmud.”

“There was a list?”

Yael just gives him a look. “Crowley. We’re Jewish. Of course there’s a list. And nitpicking over the rankings.”

Naomi interrupts again. “Speaking of the rankings, I can think of another attractive rabbi right now, and she doesn’t have a beard either.”

Yael kisses her wife. “Given how this story ends, I’m not sure if I want to encourage the comparison. But thank you, sweet. Anyway, Reish Lakish tells Rabbi Yohanan he’s beautiful, and Rabbi Yohanan convinces Reish Lakish to study Torah and marry his sister, who is apparently even prettier. So Reish Lakish becomes a famous Torah scholar himself, and the two rabbis are best friends and brothers in law. Until one day they’re having a debate and Rabbi Yohanan throws Reish Lakish’s past as a bandit in his face.”

“Extremely unfairly,” Naomi interjects.

“Yes, and bad debate technique as well. Anyway, Reish Lakish is so upset over the fight that he gets sick, and then he dies because Rabbi Yohanan is also sulking and refuses to make up with him. Of course, as soon as he dies, Rabbi Yohanan is heartbroken and filled with remorse. His students and friends try to cheer him up, but they keep agreeing with him and telling him he’s wise, and what Yohanan misses is Reish Lakish telling him he’s wrong. Eventually he goes crazy with grief and dies. And then the Gemara changes the subject, as is their wont.”

“Huh.”

“Why do you ask, anyway?”

“Eh, Musa mentioned the name once, is all.”

Yael, like the Gemara, is willing to move on, but Crowley stews quietly over it for the rest of the evening.

*****

“Take a walk with me?” Aziraphale asks him that evening.

“‘Course. Always. Anywhere you like.”

They find themselves, as they so often do, at a park. Crowley miracles some bread to feed the ducks, then remembers Miriam telling him that bread isn’t good for ducks, and changes it to corn.

“You’re pensive again. Should I offer you another penny? Or, I may have a dinar somewhere…”

“Better not be a counterfeit one.”

“I wouldn’t dream of impinging upon your area of speciality. Well, except for all the times that I did. Only at your behest, though.”

“You were pretty good at it.”

“Half the time I didn’t need to do anything, you know. I’d just find something to describe that fit the instructions. Humanity is distressingly obliging in that regard.”

Crowley turns to kiss him, and for a moment, his mind goes quiet. It doesn’t last—Crowley has never been a particularly calm or restful being—but when he kisses Aziraphale, there’s always that instant where nothing else can compete for his attention. The dozen or so years they’ve been together isn’t long in the context of an immortal lifetime, but Crowley suspects that he’ll never get tired of it.

“You’re wearing an odd smile,” Aziraphale tells him. “Is something wrong?”

“No! The opposite, if anything. I was just thinking that I still can’t believe this is allowed.”

“Technically, it’s not, it’s just that our sides—our former sides—have written us off. But I can’t even imagine what Gabriel would say.”

Crowley draws back. “What Gabriel would say? Who said anything about Gabriel?” He notices that Aziraphale is looking worried, and pulls him close to kiss him again. “You’re letting me do this. That’s the only permission I ever needed.”

“Ever?” asks Aziraphale, skepticism warring with affection on his face. “Surely you don’t mean—“

“Since the Garden,” Crowley interrupts him. “I’d have kissed you right there on the wall if you’d let me. Wouldn’t have been a good idea, for either of us, but I would have.” He notices that Aziraphale has gone pink.

“You always were the braver one,” the angel murmurs.

“What? No, it wasn’t bravery. It just didn’t really matter. Wait, no, not like that! I mean, if my side found out, they weren’t going to care how I’d been ‘fraternizing.’ Being your friend—not being your mortal enemy—was already enough to earn annihilation in the least pleasant way they could manage.” Crowley looks away for a second, and shrugs, making his voice and movements deliberately casual. “They’re not very creative, but they would have wanted to make an example. I mostly just tried not to think about it, that's all. Sure, I was scared of them finding out, but there were so many other things that could have gotten me eliminated, it was hard to keep up.”

He had learned pretty quickly that one can only live with constant fear for so long before it fades into background noise. It didn’t go away, it was still exhausting, but it got easier to shove it into the corners of his mind. 

“But, they would have…Crowley, they would have destroyed you.”

“I know! We’ve been over this, remember? But look, my side was never going to be nice. There wasn’t ever going to be an upside.” That, as he keeps trying and failing to explain, is the point of being a demon. If you’re unforgivable, you don’t really have any alternatives. Ever. Except for Crowley, who had Earth and Aziraphale. “Anyway, they didn’t find out, and when they did find out they didn’t destroy me, and it all worked out in the end.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Aziraphale runs his fingers along the side of Crowley’s face. “I still do worry sometimes, though.”

“Yeah, me too.”

When they’re almost back at the brownstone, Aziraphale says, “I did know him, actually.”

“Know who?”

“Reish Lakish.”

“Really? Why didn’t you say something?”

“It’s a bit of an embarrassing memory…”

“Waitasecond…was he the bandit who kidnapped you?”

Aziraphale sighs. “Yes. Not of the set from whom you ransomed me in Cairo, obviously, but the earlier one.”

“You have to tell the humans about it. Think of their reactions.”

“Hmm, perhaps I will.” He stops walking and takes a breath. “Hearing Yael mention him made me realize…I believe that I might owe you an apology.”

“What, for getting kidnapped? Nah, it wasn’t your fault, you were just trying to help. I never minded the odd rescue.” Fair’s fair, after all.

“No, not for getting kidnapped. I owe you thanks for the assistance, but not an apology.” He’s quiet for a minute. “I realized that I’ve done the same as Rabbi Yohanan. Throwing your past in your face when we argued. I owe you an apology for that. And I am sorry, truly.”

Crowley looks away again, shrugs. “Eh, it’s fine.”

“But it wasn’t! I knew even at the time that it was the wrong thing to say, and I’m sorry. You don’t have to forgive me, but I needed to apologize.” Amazing how stubborn his angel can be, even when offered an easy exit.

“You really didn’t, but yeah, forgiven. It wasn’t my favorite thing to hear, but I always knew why you said it.” He did, too. Aziraphale had always faced a different kind of fear, one that didn’t let him just say “fuck it” and damn the consequences. One that dangled the possibility of real success, and had gradations of failure. And the reminder to keep his distance had been useful for them both, even if it stung.

“You knew?”

“‘Course I did. It’s because you have bad debate technique.”

“Crowley.”

Crowley kisses him. “It’s fine, angel. It’s in the past. Ancient history.” He tries to think of a change of subject. “So, did you know the other one? Yohanan?”

“I did meet him, but only the one time, in his youth. It was well before he met Reish Lakish.”

“Was he as pretty as they say? You know Naomi and Yael will want to know.”

“I honestly don’t remember. He was certainly popular, but human beauty standards have changed so drastically and often in the intervening centuries, it’s hard to remember. And, well, his wasn’t the face I was looking for.”

“Whose was?”

“Who do you think, my dear? The one face I’ve always looked for, these past six thousand years.”

Aziraphale smiles at him, and the background noise fades away. Not all the way and just for a moment, but oh, it was all worth it, and it always was.

Chapter Text

Going to visit Deb and Harry is always an adventure. In the past, the family would take the train from Penn Station, but after the last time, Naomi had put a stop to it, declaring that Crowley was having too much fun on NJ Transit. He’d protested that switching the local train to express had been doing them all a favor, that hijacking the PA system to make fake announcements was hilarious, that he’d had nothing to do with the behavior of the drunken hockey fans (that their team was called the Devils was entirely a coincidence!), and that the Princeton students had deserved everything they’d gotten. Naomi had agreed with all of these points, but insisted nonetheless that they visit her parents by car.

“We’d be there in half the time if you’d just let me drive,” grouses Crowley.

“I don’t think that’s true,” says Aziraphale. “You don’t know the roads as well, and Yael drives almost as recklessly as you do.”

“Sorry, Zira,” says Yael. “Blame Harry, he taught me.” 

“She’s better at it than I am,” says Naomi, “Which is kind of funny, given that I had my learner’s at fifteen, and she didn’t start learning until her early twenties.”

“Yes, but you hate driving.”

“True!” Naomi’s phone dings, and she curses as she looks at the screen. “Uh, sweetie, we can’t take I-95, there’s some sort of massive accident.”

“Can we take 9?”

“It’s, um, not recommended, thanks to all the overflow traffic and some road work.”

“Ugh, Garden State Parkway it is. I wish we could have found this out before we were on the wrong side of the airport. Sorry everyone, it’s going to take a little longer than we expected.”

Miriam groans. “Help?” she says to Aziraphale and Crowley, eyes pleading. 

“I’m sorry, my dear girl, but we can’t. There’s no miracle strong enough to contend with New Jersey.”

She sighs. “Figures.”

“Sorry,” says Crowley. “Anything we could try would just make it worse.” He actually finds it rather encouraging. The other side may have miraculous powers backed by divine and/or satanic might, but they’re not used to dealing with real setbacks. The thing with hellfire and holy water didn’t work out so they just gave up (for now, anyway). They don’t have the flexibility or creativity to improvise. 

Humans, meanwhile, not only create places like New Jersey, they actually choose to raise their families there. And then, even better, they turn the entire experience into a source of pride. They wear t-shirts bragging about it! (Naomi keeps threatening to buy one for him.) He’s not entirely sure how or why, but it gives him hope. Humans are resilient in a way that angels and demons are not. 

He tries to express this thought, but Naomi takes offense on behalf of her home state, and starts trying to convince him that it’s really not that bad. Crowley eventually gives up on making his point, since no one seems in the mood for serious thought. Instead, he turns his efforts to provoking Naomi, who cheerfully doubles down on her defense of Jersey. Aziraphale joins her, because he likes all the Indian restaurants and the dim sum place near Harry and Deb’s and the croissant bakery that’s almost half an hour’s drive from their house but that he and Yael both insist is worth the effort. Miriam sides with Crowley in the interest of balance, and Yael ignores them all to focus on driving. Eventually Crowley realizes that they don’t actually need his provocation to keep the argument going and dozes off. When he wakes up, they’ve moved on to arguing about the best kinds of fruit. Naomi argues for peaches—“but only New Jersey peaches, which are the best”—Aziraphale extols the virtues of pears, and Miriam is putting up a good defense on behalf of apples on Crowley’s behalf. Soon enough they’re pulling into Harry and Deb’s driveway, and Naomi’s sister June is coming out to greet them. 

“Zira! Crowley! I didn’t know you were coming too! It’s great to see you both.” 

As always, Crowley receives a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek before he can even say hello. Like most of Naomi’s family, June doesn’t have much regard for personal space. It had startled Crowley at first—he’s seen a multitude of human greetings come in and out of fashion, but it had been centuries since he’d been enthusiastically hugged and kissed by random humans. He doesn’t mind, exactly, it had just taken some getting used to, being surrounded by humans that made Naomi look positively reserved by comparison. They had no trouble asking personal questions, either, but at least they took his deflections in good humor, and they’d backed off a little after Naomi and Yael talked with them. But he and Aziraphale were still treated like members of the family, with exuberant greetings and invitations to every family event. Crowley only attends about half of them—they’re full of extremely noisy humans, talking all over each other and waving their hands around for emphasis, and that sort of thing is best appreciated from a distance. Aziraphale claims to enjoy the events a bit more. “There’s so much love, Crowley,” he explains. Crowley just rolls his eyes. He can’t sense that, of course, but he can tell that none of them want to hurt anyone else. Their primary desires are to share, to impress each other, to sympathize, and sometimes to show off. Only the last is even close to a sin, and it’s mostly too good-natured to insert much of a wedge. Not that he would, of course—he’s retired, and he likes these humans. But he’s had millennia to get into the habit of looking for weakness, and now he just does it automatically.  

*****

“Elsie called me this morning,” says Deborah over dim sum.

Naomi perks up. “Elsie! How’s she doing? She must be almost a hundred by now.” 

“Just fine. The usual complaints, but you know how she is. It sounds like she’s actually doing quite well. You should give her a call, she’d love to hear from you.”

“I will! Actually, we’re going to be in London this summer, maybe we could see her while we’re there.”

“Another English friend?” Crowley raises an eyebrow. 

“Wait, you don’t know Elsie? But you must have met her at one of the family events.”

“He didn’t,” says Harry. “You know how she gets about big dos.”

“Yeah, but she came to the weddings,” Naomi argues.

“Only Sarah’s. She was sick and couldn’t make it to Joshua’s. And Zira and Crowley weren’t at Sarah’s.”

“Oh that’s right, you guys were on some sort of trip, weren’t you? I remember Dina and Yair were really disappointed.” She grins at Crowley. “Whenever you miss a family party, all the kids get mad at me for not bringing you. But anyway, Elsie is more like an aunt than a friend. She’s mom’s second cousin or something.”

“First cousin, once removed. And she was my flatmate my second and third year of college,” says Deb. “She was older, and busy with her internship, but we still became good friends. She was actually Harry’s friend first, though.”

“Wait, really?” asks Naomi.

Harry snatches the last shumai out from under Aziraphale’s chopsticks. “Yes, really. I met her when I was a sophomore or junior—she was just starting med school. My parents found out she didn’t have any family in the city—“ 

“—This was before I arrived—“ interjects Deb.

“So they started inviting her for Shabbos dinners, then for holidays, and then just because. Treated her like the daughter that they, well.” Harry’s face goes stony for a second, then he shakes it off and smiles fondly. “They doted on her.”

“I didn’t know any of this,” says Deb. “I barely knew Elsie when I came to New York. She was this mysterious English cousin that I’d heard so much about but had only exchanged a few letters with. But even before I started classes, Elsie somehow found the time between hospital shifts to help me settle in, and we got along so well that after I spent my first year miserable in the girls’ dormitory, she insisted I move in with her. She set me up Harry, in fact.” Deb looks at everyone’s surprised faces. “Oh, did we never tell you?”

“No!” says Naomi. “How is the first time I’m hearing of this?”

“It’s a good story. It was in the winter of my sophomore year, and Harry’s parents were having a party, and Elsie insisted I come along. She said that otherwise, the Lipskys might get the wrong idea about her and Harry, and that she was worried about being the odd one out.”

Harry snorts. “No chance of that. She’d made it very clear that she wasn’t interested in marriage, and my parents were trying to set me up with…what was her name again? Shel Rubenstein’s sister, the one with the hair.” He looks at Deb, but she shakes her head and shrugs. “It doesn’t matter, the point is, my parents had no such thoughts.” 

“So she dragged you to a family party under false pretenses?” Naomi asks her mother.

“Worse than that. I was expecting a family party, but no. The Lipsky Hanukkah party was quite the affair. There must have been half the Upper East Side at that party.”

“Don’t listen to her,” interrupts Harry. “It was much more exclusive than that. Only the ten, fifteen best families of the Upper East. Of course, Elsie didn’t like half of them.”

“Well, you know how she is. But in this case, she introduced me to Harry as soon as we walked through the door. And then she immediately spotted someone else she wanted to catch up with and left me there.”

“Very subtle,” says Yael.

“Oh, it gets worse. After an hour—if that—she comes rushing over and says she’s needed at the clinic and has to leave early. I offered to go with her, but she insisted I stay longer so that our hosts’ feelings weren’t hurt. As if they even noticed I was there.” 

“I noticed.”

“Yes dear, you did. But you didn’t say much to me.”

“I was shy around back then,” he explains. “Especially around attractive women. But Elsie made me promise to walk Deborah home, because it wasn’t proper for a young lady to walk alone at night. And of course I agreed.”

“Wait, wasn’t she about to go off alone to the clinic?” Miriam asks.

“That’s precisely what I told her,” says Deb. “She said ‘I’m a doctor, it’s different,’ and left before I could argue.”

Harry laughs. “You should have seen Deborah. Angry doesn’t begin to describe it.”

“More indignant than angry.”

“Indignant, then. She turns to me and says—“

“I said, ‘Thank you, but your escort will not be required.’”

“And I say, ‘No, of course not. You’re clearly perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. If anything, I should be asking you to walk me home. Only I’m already here.’ And she laughs, and then I say, ‘But I did promise Elsie, and how could I break my promise to a doctor?’ So she let me walk her home.”

“And we were so caught up in our conversation that we reached my flat before we’d finished talking. I couldn’t invite him up, not in those days, and I didn’t want to stand there all night talking to a man in full view of my neighbors. So I said to him, ‘Well, shall I walk you home after all?’”

“What did you say?” asks Miriam, fascinated.

“What do you take me for? An intelligent and beautiful young woman asked to spend more time with me—do you think I’d say no? So we walked back to my family’s home. And then I said to her, ‘I don’t want to go back in to the party, I don’t suppose I could walk you home again?’”

“So we walked back to my flat a second time, and by then I was getting tired, so I said this was goodnight, but I’d had a good time.”

“And I say, ‘So did I. Could I maybe walk you somewhere else later this week?’ And she tells me, ‘I still don’t need an escort, but you can take me out dancing on Thursday.’”

“And he did.”

“What a lovely story,” says Aziraphale. “I’m sure Elsie was happy for you as well.”

“Oh, even better. After Harry and I said goodnight, and I went upstairs to our flat, Elsie asked if I’d enjoyed myself. She was already home and in her nightgown!”

“She’d returned from the clinic early?” asks Aziraphale. Crowley elbows him gently. He can’t really be that oblivious, can he? Aziraphale gives him a puzzled smile, and takes Crowley’s hand, as if he thinks that’s the reason that Crowley nudged him. 

“She never went! She’d decided Harry and I would be a good match and orchestrated the whole thing. And the worst part is, she was right.”

“She thought you would make a good couple?” Naomi asks.

“Well, what she said was that she was tired of choosing which of us to spend Shabbat with, but you know how she is.”

“Best thing she ever did,” says Harry. He takes his wife’s hand, and they smile at each other, and even at his most cynical, Crowley would have to admit it’s rather sweet. Not that he’s at his most cynical right now, especially since Aziraphale gives a happy little sigh and squeezes Crowley’s hand. 

“I can’t believe you never told me this story!” says Naomi. “I didn’t realize you guys only met in college—I thought she grew up with you.”

Deb shakes her head. “No. You know my parents’ families were separated during the war.” She sighs. “Elsie was the only other person of my mother’s generation to make it out, and she was just a child. We didn’t know where she was, or even that she was alive.”

Crowley stops even pretending to eat. Deb almost never talks about her family history. From Naomi and Yael’s looks of fascinated trepidation, they haven’t heard much either.

“She grew up in England, yes?” says Yael. “Was she part of the kindertransport?”

“No. Not the official one, anyway.” Everyone waits for her to continue, and after a moment, she does. “She missed the last transport out. But, a few months after the war with England started, my aunt and uncle managed to get her in a group of about thirty kids who were smuggled out. We don’t know how they found out about it or got her in, but they did, and she made it to England alive.”

“Wow,” says Naomi, “I never knew.”

“Neither did she,” says Harry, “Not the details, anyway. Until a few years ago, when some PhD student contacted her about it for her dissertation research. Apparently, the whole thing was orchestrated by some gangster, if you can believe it.”

“What, like in The Kosher Capones?” asks Naomi, who is halfway through a book on Jewish gangsters in Chicago. 

“I don’t think it was a whole syndicate, just some small-time smuggler,” says Deb. “That doesn’t mean he was a nice person, though.”

“Yes, mom, we know how you feel about organized crime.” Naomi says, hastily adding, “and I agree!”

“So do I,” says Yael. “It’s not romantic at all, in real life. Some of the larger organizations are still a threat to my clients even after they make it here to the US. It’s awful.”

Aziraphale flags down a passing cart and gets another three steamers of dumplings. Crowley grabs a shumai and a har gow. 

“But he did at least one good thing, right? Rescuing those kids,” says Miriam.

Aziraphale straightens up, looking more pompous and self-satisfied than is his usual these days. “Well, it’s just like I’ve always said. There’s a spark of goodness within everyone, and sometimes it wins out.”

Crowley snorts. “He must have buried that spark of goodness pretty far down if he was spending his time selling luxury goods to the Nazis. And probably doing worse than that. You think one boatload of kids cancels everything out?” 

“Maybe those were all he could save,” says Harry. “And if he hadn’t, I wouldn’t have met my wife and had my daughters, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Besides,” says Yael, “‘Whoever saves a life, it is as if he saved an entire world.’”

“I’m just saying, it’s not like you can do a couple of good deeds and get a clean slate.” Crowley has saved an entire world, the actual one. Helped, anyway. It hasn’t made him any less a demon.

“It’s not a matter of clean slates,” says Yael. “Like I told you the other night, I don’t think it’s as simple as people being good or bad. Sometimes people only have bad options.”

“Or they think they do,” Deb says in agreement.

“Or they think they do, yes. That’s why we focus on behavior—making amends as best you can, and trying to do better going forward. But doing evil doesn’t make good acts invalid.”

“Eating the nut and discarding the peel,” says Harry.

Yael smiles. “Thank you for reminding me, I was going to look up that passage!”

“I believe it’s in Chagigah,” says Deb. “But that’s about the Torah, which is inherently pure. You could wrap the Torah around a corpse and it would still be pure.”

“Hmm, I think there’s something more there. But I want to re-read it to be sure.”

“So what happened to the kids?” asks Naomi.

Aziraphale looks sadly at the empty steamers, then brightens as Crowley puts his untouched dumplings on the angel’s plate.

“They were handed over to one of the Jewish aid societies,” says Deb. “Elsie has a copy of the dissertation, if you want to know more.”

“Probably easier to just download it. Do you know the author’s name?”

“No, but I can look it up when we get home.”

Going back to the house has to wait, though, because Aziraphale and Miriam insist on dessert—egg tarts, mango pudding, and tofu custard. Then there’s the check, and the arguing over who gets to pay the check, then the commotion when the waiter informs them that the meal was paid for half an hour ago, and Crowley gets to smirk. Then of course there’s getting the entire party into June’s minivan, which they’ve borrowed for the outing, and all in all, Crowley feels that it is reasonable to hope that they’ve moved on from the topic and might not even remember it. He’d rather talk about ancient history.

His hopes are borne out, at least for the time being. Harry, Yael, and Aziraphale get engrossed in some text—all Crowley can tell is that it’s boring, unnecessarily convoluted, and in Hebrew—and Deb is busy listening to Miriam talk about school. Crowley isn’t in the mood for conversation, so he runs through the TV channels. Unfortunately, there’s no Golden Girls reruns on, but the public station is playing a gardening show, and that’s almost as good. Deb eventually joins him, while Miriam curls up in an armchair and reads a book. It’s a long relaxing afternoon followed by a late light dinner.

“So,” Naomi murmurs, sounding far too casual. “Did you bring that wine?”

Crowley snorts. “That’s almost subtle. For you.” He glances over to Aziraphale for confirmation, then resigns himself to yet another scene. “Fine. But we’re not doing this for anyone else. If your sisters want to know, you can tell them yourself.” He taps his glass with a spoon and waits for everyone to turn and look his way. Except Harry and Miriam and Yael are too busy talking about comic books to notice, so he has to tap the glass again, harder. 

“So. These three”—he waves at Naomi, Yael, and Miriam—“already know this, but Zira and I have an announcement to make.” 

“Oh my!” says Deb. “Are you finally having your wedding?”

“What?” says Crowley, but Deb keeps talking.

“I’m so glad! Harry will officiate, of course. I have several venues in mind, oh, but more importantly, I’ve been looking into caterers and I think I’ve found the perfect ones. You’ll love them, Zira, they do wonderful desserts. And you have to try their salmon.”

Aziraphale looks interested, but Crowley cuts off whatever he’s about to say.

“What do you mean you’ve been looking into caterers?”

“Well, you want to reserve them as soon as possible—“ Deb starts, before Crowley cuts her off.

“No, never mind, forget that last bit, that’s not what we were talking about and I don’t actually care.”

“I care,” says Aziraphale. “I want to try this salmon. But Crowley is correct, that wasn’t our announcement.” 

“Ah,” says Deb, looking mildly disappointed. “I suppose it’s the other thing, then.”

“What other thing?” Crowley tries to contain his exasperation.

“You’re a demon, yes?” says Harry. “And we’re guessing that Zira here must be an angel, just to complete the set.”

Everyone save his wife stares at Harry in shock. 

“What, you think because I’m old I don’t notice these things?”

Crowley stands up, pushes his chair back from the table, and walks through the nearest open door, closing it behind him.

“Did he just walk into the hall closet?” he hears Miriam ask.

“Give him a minute,” says Harry. “Zira, how’s the book business?”

“Booming,” says Aziraphale with a sigh. “I’m going to have to restrict my hours some more.”

Crowley is tempted to just stay here in the dark with the coats, but he has questions. 

“Okay,” he says, emerging from the closet, “first of all, is there anyone in the world who doesn’t already know? Because we could save a lot of time just sending out a mass email saying ‘yes, you guessed correctly’ to everyone.”

Naomi giggles. “I’m pretty sure none of my sisters knows, or I’d definitely have heard about it. Same for Eli.”

“Rukiye thinks you might be spies or something, but nothing magical,” adds Yael.

“None of my classmates have any idea either, not even Adelaide.”

Naomi nods. “You guys aren’t subtle, but people will generally make up more plausible explanations for things. Even we sort of took it as a joke at first, and you’ve spent a lot of time with us. Except Mirka, but it makes sense that she would notice, because she’s got prior experience with the occult.”

“Excuse me,” says Aziraphale. “Some of us are technically ethereal.”

“Fine,” says Crowley. “Question two. How?” 

“When my granddaughter starts asking me questions about demons in the synagogue, and then you show up for her Torah reading, it’s not hard to guess.”

Yael winces. “In retrospect, I really should have put those pieces together myself.”

“But I also asked how a werewolf should observe Pesach, and whether letting a vampire inside your eruv also means that they can get inside your house. Why did you think the demon thing applied to Crowley?”

“Yeah,” adds Naomi, “That’s a bit of a cognitive leap, unless you already know something’s up.”

“True, true. But the rest is a story for another time.”

*****

When everyone but Harry decides to go out for ice cream, Crowley opts to stay behind. He has a question. It takes some time to work up to it, and then some more time to find Harry, who is sitting in the backyard. Crowley is about to snap the back lights on—he can see perfectly well in the dark, but Harry can’t—when he sees the points of brightness appear in the gathering dark, more and more, until the backyard is full of tiny flickering lights.  

“Like the night sky,” says Harry, slipping back into the Yiddish he uses with Crowley.

“Not really.” Crowley keeps his tone noncommittal.

“Listen to Mr. Expert here. I suppose you hung the stars in the heavens?”

“Some of them.”

“Hmph. To these old eyes, they’re close enough.”

“Your eyesight is fine.”

“Yes, it’s the hearing that’s going.”

Crowley rolls his own eyes, but doesn’t respond right away. He’s gotten a better at these long silences over the years, though he’s still usually the first to break them, just as he does now.

“So when did you actually find out? And how?”

Harry doesn’t play dumb. “Only a few years ago. I shared some photos from Joshua’s wedding, and you were in a few of them. She recognized you, glasses and all. She never forgot what you looked like.”

“Bless it,” Crowley swears. He’d tried so hard to avoid photos, leaving a trail of exposed film and broken cameras in his wake. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Harry shrugs. “We all have history. You were on the right side.”

“Not always.”

“That time, you were.”

They watch the fireflies trace their own constellations. This time it’s Harry that speaks first.

“We didn’t get as many of these when I was younger. Maybe you remember what the city was like back then. But here it’s swampland, not so much concrete. They like the water and the grass. And the summers are hotter than they used to be, and they like warm nights. 

“You know, the winter before you met my girls, what was it, fourteen, fifteen years ago? That was a hard year for them. Naomi had just gotten tenure, and they were talking about having a baby, and then her campus was vandalized—swastikas and such—several times. Rocks through the windows. The usual, but more than usual. They shrugged it off, but then someone sent threatening letters to Yael about her work.”

“Because she works with refugees?”

“She’s a Jew who works with refugees. He drew pictures—you know the kind I mean. And wrote something about a race war. It was a hard year. I worried about them. I said, maybe don’t put the menorah in the front window this year. But they wanted to be brave, and I didn’t want to take that away from them. Paint is just paint, these things happen. And the letter, well, first there was only the one, and the police were looking into it. These things happen, you know? And then there was a second, and then some more sent around to other organizations, but it was clearly just one person. And the police caught him before he could commit any real violence. He wanted to—he was stockpiling guns and explosive chemicals. Even Yael was scared when she heard that. But he was arrested, and my girls were determined to move on.

“Maybe it’s different for me. When I was a boy, they used to call me all sorts of names, right to my face,” he says, looking out into the darkness. “‘Dirty Jew’ was the nicest of them. Got into a lot of fights.” He holds up his left hand, points to the odd crook in the smallest finger. “That was from a piece of brick. Never healed straight. But it could have been worse. At least now I always know when it’s going to rain. Anyway, usually it was just spit, or dirt, or names. My parents were angry, but what could they do? Things were so much better here. 

“I wanted my daughters to be brave, to feel safe. But a parent worries. Especially when they’re inviting strangers from the internet to stay in their home, only a few months after the letters.”

Crowley frowns. “They never told us.”

“Eh, they probably forgot to mention it. Or they didn’t want to scare you. Just like I never told them when someone put a brick through the temple’s window last month.”

“They what?”

“Don’t worry, no one was hurt. We replaced the window, added some more cameras and better lights. We were due for a security upgrade. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Sounds like a big deal. What if someone tries to burn it down?”

“We have good sprinklers. But this is what I’m trying to tell you. Yes, of course it’s scary, but you get tired of talking about it all the time. It’s always there, so you learn to ignore it.”

Crowley nods. “It’s background noise.”

“Right, you understand. Of course you do. So you’re not human. Who cares? The real question was, is my family safe with you? And that was obvious.”

“If you want a guardian angel, you should talk to Aziraphale.” 

“Maybe I will. But you’ve done a good job, both of you. You look out for them, but you’re careful about it.”

Crowley shrugs. “Naomi and Yael make sure of that. Miriam, too.”

Harry laughs. “Yes, I heard about the parent-teacher conference. And I met the teacher not too long after. What a putz. Good thing someone put the fear of God in him. Well, maybe not God.”

“Not God,” Crowley agrees. For a moment his smile reveals snake-sharp teeth. “Just the fear of us.”

“And if someone wrote new letters, you’d find him and do the same.”

“Try to, anyway.”

“If you can’t find him? Or after him, you can’t find the next one?”

Crowley shrugs and looks away. He knows his humans are fragile, he worries about it enough already. There’s so many things that could hurt them: Heaven, Hell, lorries, lightning strikes, fires, gas leaks, falling rocks, freshly mopped stairs…and of course, other humans. He doesn’t challenge Harry’s assumption that there will be a next one. Crowley has spent a very long time with humans. “Serious question. Is there something more we should be doing?”

“Haven’t you been listening? I don’t know what else to do. You might be magic, but you can’t save the world.”

“But we did save the world! Er, helped. Provided emotional support, anyway.” It’s a little humbling to put himself on the level of a bathroom sheep, but something about Harry’s half smile forces him to be honest.

“That’s good, I’m proud of you.” The worst part is, he sounds sincere. “Getting rid of Jew-hatred might be a little harder.” 

“But, er—“

“You’re a demon right? Not a golem.”

“Of course I’m not a golem. Wait, do you know how to make golems?”

“No, I’ve been much for arts and crafts. Do you?”

“Er, no, we leave creation up to humans.”

“Pah, I’ve had your cooking, it isn’t that bad. You just need practice.”

“That’s not what I—never mind. So there’s really nothing else we can do?”

“About the cooking? Taste more often, make adjustments. About the hatred? Keep providing emotional support, I hear you’re good at that.”

“Argh. Fine. Er, I could fix your finger, too. If you wanted.”

“After all these years? Then how would I know when it’s raining?”

“They have apps for that now. Or you could look out the window?”

Harry just laughs, and they watch the fireflies some more. 

“Things are better now,” Crowley says. “A little better, anyway. Compared to the fourteenth century, anyway.”

“They are better, true. Even compared to fifty years ago. You would know, you remember too. But they could get worse again. You would know that, too.”

“Yeah.”

“So, if they get worse…you’ll take them somewhere safe.” It’s not a question, but Crowley feels the need to answer it.

“We’ll get all of you out. You, your kids, their families. Even Dan.” Naomi’s nephew-in-law isn’t terrible, he just has a relentless exuberance that can start to grate after about five minutes. It reminds Crowley far too much of Gabriel. “You can always stay at my place, if you need to. I don’t use it much. The plants could use some company.” He might have to buy the entire building to fit the whole family in, but he isn’t worried. Real estate markets happen to other people. 

“Hah, you’ve thought about it already. I suppose you are the expert.”

“One time is hardly—“ Crowley pauses, hearing the distinctive sound of an engine subjected to Yael’s creative approach to the gearshift. He’s constantly surprised that humans can’t hear it. 

“They’re home,” he says, getting up. 

Harry slips back into English. “Is this a special power of yours, or am I just going deaf in my old age?”

Crowley helps Harry stand up and hands him his cane. “Why does it have to be ‘or’?” 

“Watch it, you.” There’s a faint rattle as the front door opens, and a louder one when it shuts. “Now that, I heard. Guess I don’t need a hearing aid yet after all.”

Harry passes Crowley on his way to the door. “You coming in?”

“Huh? Er, yeah.” He catches up to the human and helps him up the back steps. “Hey, um. Er. Thanks. For not telling. This morning, I mean.”

Harry gives his arm a friendly slap. “Ha! You might not be a man, but you’re still a mensch.” 

Just before stepping inside, Crowley turns back for a moment to look at the fireflies. Maybe they do look a little like stars. Maybe a little.

Chapter Text

“I thought that went well,” says Naomi in the car ride home. 

“Easy for you to say,” Crowley grumbles. 

“I mean, sure, it was anticlimactic, but isn’t that good? Not that I was actually expecting them to react badly.”

“You never know,” says Crowley. “What if next time we come visit he’s acquired an emotional support sheep?”

“Pffft, dad wouldn’t even let me have a gerbil.”

“Harry doesn’t like animals?” Aziraphale asks.

“Kind of the opposite, actually. He gets too attached to them, and they don’t live as long as we do.”

There’s a long silence.

“Anyway! Back to the announcement! It went well, don’t you think?!”

“Yes!” says Miriam. “Especially when they tried the wine.”

“‘At least he was a good scholar’” says Naomi, mimicking her father’s voice. 

“It was good wine for the time!” says Crowley. 

“I believe you!”

“I also liked your story about Rashi’s daughters,” Naomi tells Crowley. He makes a face.

“Of course you like the embarrassing ones.” 

“I thought it was sweet!”

“What story?” Miriam asks.

“Did you miss it? I guess Crowley will have to tell it again,” says Naomi, ignoring Crowley’s glare. Miriam gives him the pleading look she has long since perfected.

“Argh, fine. So, I didn’t have much to do with Shlomo, we didn’t really get along. But I knew he was a friend of Aziraphale’s, and I knew Aziraphale was supposed to be in Troyes. So I go to Shlomo’s house, and these two women invite me in, offer me something to drink, ask if I’m here to see their father. I tell them that I’m looking for a friend of his, and for some reason they get suspicious when I say I want to talk about business.”

“So they wouldn’t tell you where he was?”

“No, they told me, said he might be at some student’s home, even gave me directions. And asked me to drop off some books if I was going that way. The student hadn’t seen Aziraphale lately and didn’t know where else he might be. So I tried Shlomo’s house again, and his daughters said he might be visiting some merchant, and if I was going to visit him, could I also bring him this invoice?”

“You weren’t suspicious at this point?”

“Of course I was, but I couldn’t just hypnotize Aziraphale’s friend’s daughters. I could have, but then Aziraphale would be angry with me and I was trying to convince him to make the Arrangement more permanent.” 

“Okay, so you go to the merchant’s, and Zira’s not there either.”

“Right. I go back the third time, and they say ‘oh, you just missed him, he was going to the bakery.’ I can tell they’re lying, but at the same time, I did know that Aziraphale liked that bakery, so…”

“They didn’t you take anything there?”

“Nope. But when I got to the bakery, they said they had an order for Aziraphale, and could I deliver it to—“

“Rashi’s house?”

“Right. So I do, because it’s Aziraphale’s, and I tell the two women that they were going to tell me where Aziraphale was. I may have come off as slightly threatening.”

“A bad tactic,” Aziraphale interjects.

“It normally works with humans! They think I’m spooky!”

“They think you’re a member of the mafia, dearest. Or a spy.”

“Anyway, they were intimidated, because I am spooky, and they say fine, they’ll take me to where he is.”

“And do they?” says Miriam. “I’ll be kind of disappointed if the answer is yes.”

“Fortunately, my dear, there is no need for disappointment,” says Aziraphale. He and Miriam look expectantly at Crowley, who sighs.

“Yeah, they locked me in a closet and then screamed that there was a burglar.”

“And Shlomo and I came running inside from the vineyard, where we had been having a nice conversation, and the young ladies informed me that a suspicious man was making inquiries about me. Once we straightened everything out, I rescued Crowley from the closet.”

“Not that I needed rescuing.” 

“That’s what I said about the bandits, dear, and you rescued me nonetheless.”

“So Rashi’s daughters made you run all their errands for the day and then locked you in a closet?” asks Miriam. 

“Well,” says Aziraphale, “They were worried that Crowley was trying to blackmail me, or engage in something similarly unsavory.”

“Making excuses, angel?” 

“I simply think it was perfectly justified conduct. Yocheved and Miriam were very intelligent young ladies. And Rachel, but she was a child at the time.”

“Miriam!” says Miriam.

“A fine name with a long history,” Aziraphale replies.

“That reminds me,” says Naomi from the front. “Did Rashi’s daughters actually wear tefillin? I’ve always wondered.”

“I’m afraid I can’t recall,” says Aziraphale.

“Oh, I guess you wouldn’t know unless you davened together, would you?”

“Yes, and I tried to avoid praying with humans; it would be just like Metatron to decide to respond then.”

“Ah well, it will have to remain a mystery. Oh! But what about Beruria? Did you ever meet her?”

Crowley snorts. “Define meet.”

“Uh oh,” says Miriam.

“Nah, it wasn’t too bad, she just made fun of me for saying something stupid. I don’t even remember what.”

“She always seemed rather fond of you,” says Aziraphale. “Less so of me.”

“She thought you were being condescending because you kept trying to appease her when she’d disagree with you, instead of arguing back.”

“Yes, and then she insulted my hat.”

“She was right, though, it wasn’t your best hat.”

“I liked that hat.”

“You always like your hats.”

“How many hats do you have?” asks Miriam.

“Only a half-dozen or so, none older than a few centuries. Hats have gone out of fashion, and no matter how careful I am with my garments, they do eventually wear out.”

*****

The following morning, Naomi suggests a walk around Prospect Park—“I need to stretch my legs after spending so much time in the car yesterday. Plus it’s a nice day out!”

“Language,” says Crowley.

“Oops, sorry, I meant a, um, pleasant day?” 

“A lovely day,” says Yael.

“An enchanting day,” Miriam says, which everyone agrees is the winner.

It is not actually an enchanting day, but the weather is, well, pleasant. It’s not as hot as it could be, not as oppressively humid as usual, and the breeze smells less like garbage than Crowley would normally expect. 

“This is a perfect day for a picnic,” Aziraphale says, producing a large blanket and basket. The humans look at him and laugh.

“Did you have those a second ago?” asks Naomi. 

“Why do you ask when you know the answer?” asks Crowley.

“Because I like rhetorical questions. But here’s a genuine one—what’s in the basket?”

“Nothing yet, I thought we could visit that little cafe…” Aziraphale looks hopeful.

Over sandwiches, Crowley recounts the story of rescuing Aziraphale from bandits. He exaggerates a few things, but the part where he accidentally set the goat on fire doesn’t need embroidery. Aziraphale reassures them that the goat was fine, even after it got revenge by headbutting Crowley into the stream. 

“Honestly, it was no more than Crowley deserved, roping a defenseless creature into his schemes.”

“It doesn’t sound that defenseless,” says Miriam. “It trashed a bandit camp and knocked Crowley over.”

“Sorry to change the subject,” Naomi says, “but was Zira joking when he said you might have a copy of Epistle to Yemen?”

Crowley shrugs. “I don’t even know what that is.”

“It’s by the RaMbaM, er, your friend Musa.”

“Look, if I were going to read someone’s books, it would be Aziraphale’s. He has so many.”

“You do read my books, Crowley. I keep finding them in reshelved in the oddest places. And Miriam always asks me to fix all the folded page-corners of her books.”

Miriam nods. “I always keep the doodles you leave in the margins, though. I liked the one you did of Prince Xilliam getting eaten by an alligator.”

“And dearest, I recall that ben Maimon did give you one of his manuscripts.”

“No, that was his wife—“ Crowley stops and cruses. “Fine, yes, he had his wife give me a book the last time I visited. She said he was too sick to have guests, but wanted me to have it.”

“What did you do with it?” asks Yael.

“Gave to him,” he points at Aziraphale. “He likes books.”

“I always viewed it less as a gift and more as sacred trust.”

“Can’t be. An unholy trust, maybe.”

“Regardless,” says Aziraphale, mildly nettled, “I assumed that you would want it back some day. Or at least to read the note he left inside it.”

“He left a note?” Crowley feels a pang of, if not exactly guilt, at least wistful regret. 

“He did.” Aziraphale miracles up a piece of paper and a pen and writes something in what looks like Hebrew.

“Ooh, let me see!” says Miriam, as the three humans crowd around it. She frowns. “That bit looks like your name, but I can’t read the rest.”

“It’s Judeo-Arabic,” says Naomi. “Give me a minute.”

She follows the sentence with a finger, murmuring under her breath. Suddenly she laughs. 

“It says—correct me if I’m wrong, Zira—‘Crowley, my friend, you are too perplexing even for such a scholar as I. Enjoy the book.’ So he gave you a copy of Guide for the Perplexed!”

Aziraphale nods. “Indeed. I will show it to you when you next visit, if Crowley has no objections.”

Crowley just shrugs, not ready to speak. He stays quiet, thinking, while the others finish their sandwiches. 

“Can we get ice cream?” asks Miriam. 

Aziraphale’s face lights up. “Oh, yes!”

“Sure,” says Naomi. “Do you want to go to Sky Ice or try the hipster place that just opened up?”

Aziraphale looks torn. Miriam says, “Let’s try the new place, and then if it’s bad we can go to Sky Ice as a backup.”

“Sounds good to me! The hipster place is just a stand in the park, though—I don’t think there’s any good seating nearby.”

“Why don’t you guys go get some and bring it back here?” suggests Yael. “Crowley and I’ll hold down the fort.”

“I like this plan,” says Crowley, lazing in the sun. “It doesn’t require me to get up.”

Naomi kisses her wife as she stands up. “Do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Yeah, just pick something you think I’ll like.”

As they walk away, Yael sighs and leans back against the tree. “Sometimes I wish I could sleep for a decade.”

“It’s overrated.”

She sticks her tongue out at him. He sticks out his own, long and forked.

“Hah, you win. No, I don’t really. I’ve just been tired lately. I’m glad I took this day off, but there’s such a pile of work waiting when I get back. I’ll probably have five hundred unread emails.”

“I could miracle them away.”

“That wouldn’t make the problems themselves go away, though.”

“No,” he admits.

“I shouldn’t complain too much. I think about my life now, and realize I’ve been so much luckier than I deserve.”

“That’s stupid,” he snaps. In response to her questioning look, he explains, “Deserve. It’s a stupid word. Stupid concept.” He hadn’t realized that he’s still annoyed with Aziraphale for failing to understand that, but he is. 

“Ah,” she says. “Huh. You may be right. Oh! Yes, I see now. You would know, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes! At least you understand.”

Yael understands that, too. “Zira didn’t? No, Naomi wouldn’t get it either. She’d say that just because you didn’t deserve something doesn’t mean that the fundamental concept is null and void. I think she has a different concept of fairness. And I do think that for some people, ‘deserve’ can be a powerful concept. It can wake you out of a bad situation, telling yourself, ‘I didn’t deserve this,” or ‘I deserve to be free.’ Especially when you’ve been told otherwise. And sometimes when people don’t think they deserve to be happy, it can be easier to push back on that than to try and challenge the entire concept.”

Crowley doesn’t disagree—he’s pretty sure he’s said similar things to Aziraphale before. 

Yael continues, “But I think you were getting at something else. Pushing back against the idea that one does or doesn’t deserve something still falls short of the next step, which is to understand that everyone deserves to be free, and no one deserves to be abused. And so then, you’re right, I think we do need to question the entire concept.”

“You just like to question things,” he says.

“Oh, and you don’t? Anyway, it’s an interesting problem, don’t you think? Can we really ever say that something is deserved, or is the context too complicated? Is deserved’ the same as ‘just’?”

“Depends on who’s deciding.”

“We are, presumably. You and I for the purpose of this discussion, but also all of us on Earth. I think it’s something we have to figure out together, even if we never reach a perfect definition.”

“And you’ve done such a good job so far, right? Humanity, I mean.”

Yael’s mouth twists into the wry half smile she has sometimes. “I think it beats the alternative.”

“Free will again?” Crowley thinks about humanity’s long track record, six thousand years’ worth of of terrible decisions. “You think it’s worth it?”

She gestures around them. “You’ve seen a lot more than I have. You tell me.”

He considers it some more, not just the six thousand years, but the countless uncountable eons before. He’s seen both options, and this is the one he knows was worth fighting for. 

“Yeah, okay. Beats the alternative.” 

“Oh hey,” Yael says after a moment. “I looked up that reference last night.”

“What reference?”

“The thing about Rav Dimi and the dates. He’s talking about learning Torah from Acher—Did you know Acher?” Crowley shakes his head. “Well, he’s a famous heretic in the Talmud, that’s why I wondered. Supposedly he was this amazing Torah scholar who had some sort of mental or emotional crisis and then renounces everything. And the discussion is about how to treat his students, his daughter, and Acher himself. There’s an interesting…actually, no, you won’t like that argument.”

“Oh?”

“It has to do with the afterlife and redemption, you’ll get annoyed and say that it’s just about humanity.” Crowley can tell that she wants him to ask, that she wants to pursue that line of discussion. But she’s considerate enough to give him an out, and he takes it.

“Yeah, pass. Weren’t we talking about Dimi?”

“Yes, right. So the question is how to treat Acher’s student, Rabbi Meir. And that’s where Rav Dimi comes in, he quotes a saying, that ‘Rabbi Meir ate a half-ripe date and threw the peel away.’ Meaning that—”

“No, I get it. He was saying Aziraphale didn’t have to be judged for spending time with me. Not sure why that’s supposed to make me like him.” Then again, it’s more generous than Aziraphale’s supervisors had been.

“Hm, or he could have been saying that even though you’re potentially a bad influence, you still might have something valuable to contribute. Maybe he was trying to be friends.”

“Not doing the best job, then.”

“I guess not. And I suppose we’ll never actually know what he meant.” She smiles again, this time more fully. “When I was a student I used to wish that I could just talk to historical figures and ask them what really happened. Now I have you and Zira, and it turns out not to resolve anything.”

“Sorry.”

“No, this is great! You’ve given us new questions to ask, and new ways of looking at things. At some point I realized that what I really valued in an answer wasn’t an end to the question, but an opening to more interesting questions.”

“Why are you so interested in Dimi, anyway?”

“Oh, because he’s a fascinating figure! He rarely argues with his own words—as you observed yourself, he tends to quote other scholars.”

“Right, this is why he’s uncreative and boring.”

“Maybe to you. And obviously I can’t speak to his personality the way you and Zira can. But he’s engaged in turning an oral tradition of teaching into a written one—he’s memorized all of these teachings, and he’s providing them at a time when they’re being gathered and written down so that they don’t get lost. But also, and here’s where I disagree with you, he’s not just reciting verbatim. He’s providing bits and pieces of his learning when he thinks they’re applicable. So he’s using curation, analogy, selective quoting, etc. to make his arguments. I think that’s incredibly interesting—and creative.”

“That’s not creativity, Aziraphale and I used to do that all the time in our reports.” He glances at Yael’s face, and responds to the words she doesn’t even need to say. “Oh come on, really?”

“I don’t see why you’re so invested in not having imaginations and free will, when you obviously have both.”

Crowley isn’t sure himself. “I don’t see why you’re convinced that we do.”

“Because I’ve seen the sort of trouble you get up to when you’re bored. Both of you, though Zira’s more subtle about it. I know you aren’t human, and I think that goes deeper than immortality and magic powers, and I think you’re probably still figuring out what that means. But we have a lot in common, and I don’t want you missing out just because you think you can’t.”

“Fine, fine, we can make choices and have imaginations. Just don’t expect me to make a golem or anything.”

“Why on earth would you want to make a golem?”

To keep you three safe. But of course he isn’t going to say that, so instead he shrugs. “For general mayhem purposes.”

“Oh no. Oh, I can’t even imagine the trouble you would get into.”

“Course you can imagine, you’re human, that’s what you do.”

She laughs. “And you. But fair enough. You’re right, I can imagine the trouble, and it’s a terrifying thought.”

From across the park he hears the others returning. Yael follows his gaze across the park and they watch as Naomi fumbles an ice cream cone, and Aziraphale miracles it back into her hand, startling her enough that she promptly drops it again. It returns to her hand, and this time she catches it as Aziraphale looks around guiltily to make sure no one spotted them. Miriam, laughing at them both, trips over something and starts to fall. Aziraphale waves a frantic hand to stop her, in the process dripping ice cream on her hair, which he miracles away. 

Yael laughs again. “I cannot imagine a better family.” 

“Even with all your human powers?”

“Even then. Sometimes I imagine different pasts and presents, where I made better choices, but I’m trying to do that less. This family, in this universe, is my favorite.”

Crowley doesn’t remind her that the past isn’t so easily discarded, that it can come back to bite you at the worst times. She knows that already. And even if he can’t quite let go of his memories, he’s beginning to think he can imagine a future.