Well, here it is. The last chapter. This concludes this saga as I can't really think of what comes next. I'll let Aziraphale and Crowley live the rest of their lives here on out in peace.

So, with all the angst I had poured into this, I felt this sudden need to give some people a sugary happy conclusion. Or at least one person a conclusion. But there's enough schmaltz here to fill my sugar quota for the week, I think.

Thanks for reading!

High above the busy London streets, a figure stood on top of the British Museum. Normally, having someone on the roof of the Museum would have caused a bit of a panic. But in this case, no one seemed to notice. The tall young man was dressed in an immaculate white suit that contrasted violently with his dense, black hair.

He studied the hordes of Londoners going about their lives and smiled a smile that often flitted across the faces of young children just before they stomped on a line of worker ants going about their business.

"Now, now," tutted a newcomer.

Turning around, Lucifer's smile widened as he took in newly arrived man, dressed in tan robes and sandals. Despite the reproachful tone, there was still a great deal of kindness in his face, framed by long light brown hair.

"That's a new look for you," commented the Lord, noting the black hair and suit. "It's quite nice."

"And I see you went with a classic," replied Lucifer.

The sandaled man shrugged. "I like to have a laugh every now and then."

"It's really too bad you didn't have this sense of humor when I was still working for you."

The Lord only smiled enigmatically at that comment, to which Lucifer shrugged, looking as if he had expected a response like that. "So, have you given some thought to who you'll be assigning soon?" asked the Lord.

"I've got a few in mind," replied Lucifer, nonchalantly. "They need some work, but…I figure in a few years someone will be ready for a trial run. What about you?"

"The same," he answered. "I'll be sure to let you know when I've made a decision."

The other man snorted. "Please. You really think I won't just know?"

"You never change, do you?" replied the Lord, mildy.

"I think my first change filled my quota," deadpanned Lucifer.

The two men looked at each other for a beat before they began to snigger uncontrollably. After awhile they sobered up.

"You know, if we decide to stick this plan," mused Lucifer. "It could be years…centuries…eons really before we'd be able to effectively tally up whose got more than who."

"Have you got something else to do?" asked the Lord.

"Not at all. I'm just saying…we'll need this planet as a playing field for a lot longer than we thought."

"Than you thought, you mean," corrected the sandaled man.

Lucifer scowled momentarily at that comment, but soon let a small, sardonic smile drift upon his face. "Bastard," he muttered. The Prince of Darkness peered back down toward the hordes of people going about their day. A strong gust of wind blew past, momentarily unsettling the dark strands of hair before they re-settled perfectly on his head. "Getting human souls was fun. Is fun, really," mused Lucifer, watching a few pedestrians pop open their umbrellas. "But it'll be nice to see how many angels I can get by the end of this game."

"Or how many minions you might lose," pointed out his companion.

"Nothing says I've lost Crowley."

"Or that you gained Aziraphale."

Lucifer grinned. "Give me some time."

The Lord only smiled back, benignly. "The same amount of time you'll be giving me. When the War comes again, it'll be interesting to see where those two will put their alliance. They are after all, the first set."

"Guess we'll know in a few million eons and several sets of angels and demons later."

"True."

A grin suddenly split the black-haired man's face. "Did you just tell me YOU don't know?"

His companion shook his head, the waves of light brown hair drifting from side to side against the long face that was currently sporting an expression of mild exasperation. "Oh, grow up Lucifer."

It had been about three weeks since Walter had bid goodbye to Aziraphale. He woke up in his rental house in Phoenix and noted from the sunlight coming in that it would be a good day for a bike ride somewhere.

Yawning, he padded into his kitchen, donning a bathrobe over his shorts and tee-shirt and put the kettle on. Despite going more or less native to America, Walter had never quite lost his English predilection for tea. Pouring himself a steaming mug, he took it with him as he went outside to go to his mailbox that sat on the edge of the sidewalk in front of the house.

There were a few magazines in there, a couple of bills, a letter from his father, which Walter thought was odd, and a single folded piece of paper that had only his name written on it. Puzzled, Walter took a sip of tea and opened it. On the immaculate white piece of paper was a simple message, written in fine, copperplate lettering:

Dear Walter,

Thank you. Walk two steps forward.

A confused, but amused smile drifted on Walter's face as he stared down at the note. He wondered if was from Aziraphale, but that seemed unlikely. Why did the he just call him up or something? But as he continued to stare down at the note, Walter walked two steps forward into the street.

A sudden shriek pierced the air and Walter was suddenly very well aware of something metallic hitting his hip as well as a bell ringing incessantly in his ears. He felt a flash of pain down his front as the mug of tea he had been holding splashed its contents on his shirt as he was knocked onto the road.

Hot! Hot! Very hot! shouted Walter's brain. He was also suddenly aware of something very icy seeping into the seat of his shorts. Cold! Cold! Very cold!

He pulled the now steaming tee-shirt away from his chest a little as he got to his feet and off the ice cubes he had fallen on. There was an upturned bicycle on the road beside him as well as a half-open icebox that had spilled its contents. The owner of the bike and box was scrambling to her feet, her red helmet and matching kneepads having done their job.

"What are you doing walking into the middle of the street?" she demanded, stopping her frantically spinning upturned bike wheel. "You could have gotten yourself killed!"

"S-sorry," apologized Walter, lamely as he clutched his shirt. "I..uhh…"

The young woman paid no attention to the sputtering words as she scrambled to shove the rapidly melting ice back into the box where a few sandwiches were poking out.

"Here, let me help," offered Walter, bending down to gather a few cubes.

"No, never mind," said the woman, shoving aside Walter's hands. "Are you hurt?" she asked, suddenly. "You've cut your hand," she added in the same breath, sounding genuinely concerned, if a bit irritated.

Staring down at the cut on his right wrist, Walter felt a small twinge of pain, but he shook it off, acutely aware that it would look stupid to make a deal of something so trivial.

"Oh no! It's bent!" lamented the woman, who had managed to put her bicycle right side up. The front wheel tilted off to one side.

Walter stared for a moment as the young woman uselessly kicked her mal-formed bike. Somewhere in the back of his mind, nestled with all the other thoughts Walter had thought of in his life, but had been too preposterous for him to think could truly be real enough to think of it too consciously, he recalled a conversation:

"Is there…err…anything you want?"

"Well, what does any man want? Some direction to go in life, a good woman, happiness.."

Walter shook his head a little. The sounds of the young woman cursing and saying something about deliveries brought him back to focus in on the brownish tea that had dripped to a rather embarrassing part of his shorts. He closed his robe, ignoring the discomfort of wet clothes sticking to his skin.

"Listen," he said to the woman who finally finished beating up her broken bike. She glanced up at him and for a split second, Walter forgot what he had been about to say. "I've got a bike," he said, finding his words. "Give me five minutes to change and I'll give you a lift."

It took some time, but slowly Aziraphale learned to let go.

Days after he had found Crowley again, the angel couldn't let go of a constant fear that if he left Crowley alone the demon would run off and find his aforementioned church. Despite annoyed protests, Aziraphale hovered over Crowley while the demon ate, while the demon drank, and while the demon got re-acquainted with his powers and demonic tendencies. Though perhaps not the epitome of angelic countenance, Aziraphale was still an angel and had troubles keeping his immediate feelings hidden.

Crowley, on the other hand, though of angel stock, as a demon had mastered the art of deception long ago and was more adept at swathing his emotions in sarcasm and disdainful looks. But there were a few things that betrayed the fact that Crowley was as nervous as Aziraphale.

For one thing, he forwent sleeping. As Aziraphale could testify, having spent every moment with Crowley since their meeting in Wisconsin, the demon would stretch himself out on a bed, but would never fully close his eyes, worrying that should he do so, all of it would turn out to be an elaborate dream. Luckily, Crowley had no need for sleep. Though he did miss it.

He also strangely did not invest in a new car.

"Don't you miss driving?" asked Aziraphale, finally. The two being sat side by side o a bench near a small pond in Central Park. Aziraphale had never been to New York before. Crowley had been the one to suggest the place. In his hand, the demon held a small loaf of dried bread that he crumbled and tossed into the pond. There was a "Do Not Feed the Ducks" sign posted in clear view. Spotting it, Aziraphale worked to blink the soggy crumbs out of existence before the ducks could reach them, confusing the birds as they dashed madly to one spot to find it empty of any kind of food.

"I actually don't mind the walking too much," replied Crowley. He threw one piece of bread as far as it could go. It vanished into thin air before it hit the water. "By the way, what did you do with the Bentley? I remember leaving the keys with you…or near you at least."

"I put the keys in the car and left the door unlocked."

Crowley thought for a moment. "Doesn't that tempt one to break the whole 'Thou Shall Not Steal' commandment?"

"But I gave the car away," argued Aziraphale. "I left the keys there on purpose. It was for anyone to take." The angel blinked rapidly at a few more pieces of bread Crowley threw into the water. The ducks quacked irritably.

The demon growled slightly, whether it was news over his car or the fact that the angel had beaten him with every crust of bread. Crowley waved a hand that had been holding the last scraps of bread. The pieces flew individually at one separate duck at bullet speed and nearly knocked them unconscious as they made contact with each beak. Aziraphale saw a slight grin ghost across the demon's face at the sight and felt strangely content.

Now out of bread, the demon dusted his hands of any stray crumbs. "What about your bookshop? Don't you miss it?"

"I do a little," sighed Aziraphale, wistfully. "But I suppose I had to say goodbye to it at some point."

Crowley rather missed it himself, but he kept that comment to himself. After the somewhat emotional display he put on that night in Wisconsin, he was hesitant to let himself go again. Kindly, Aziraphale seemed to pick up on that. Crowley was silently grateful for the sensitive nature of angels for that. He was grateful to Aziraphale for that. And finally, hesitantly, but steadily, his gratitude did not feel mixed with any kind of resentment or self-loathing.

This was Aziraphale he was thinking about. An angel, yes. The Enemy….maybe once. Crowley felt fearful of stating absolutely that Aziraphale was no longer his enemy….but he did contemplate it often.

Leaning back, Aziraphale rested his arms along the back of the wooden bench while Crowley continued to sit, leaning forward with his arms resting on his knees. His eyes studied the ducks that were now gliding more apprehensively across the waters. From his angle, the angel studied his counterpart, not for the first time with a mixture of apprehension and affection. He had learned to like Crowley because the demon challenged him in ways that not many other evil opponents did. You couldn't predict Crowley. A factor that now still endeared the demon to Aziraphale as well as worry him a little.

But he would soon learn to let Crowley be from time to time. Soon. Relatively soon.

"You know what I haven't done in a long time?" said Aziraphale. Crowley tilted his head from gazing at the pond and quirked a curious eyebrow. "Taken a nap."

The demon snorted softly "You took a nap just last year, angel," he stated. "Considering you've been around since the beginning of creation, I'd think your definition of 'long time' would be a bit longer than one year."

"Was it really just a year ago?" asked Aziraphale, vaguely.

"Yeah," calculated Crowley. "You said you fell asleep after the whole thing with Hastur and..." The demon trailed off, feeling regretful of bringing it up. But Aziraphale didn't let the mild awkwardness last too long.

"I'd like to try and take a nap when I'm actually relaxed," said Aziraphale with a slight smile. "And not because I'm upset."

Crowley stared back out at the pond and the ducks that were now milling around the water, carelessly again. Birds tended to do that. Forget what happened just a few moments ago. Crowley felt a strange resentment toward them for that. "Well," he began, casually. "If you do want to try a nap. I recommend the Wardorf. They've got brilliant beds." Aziraphale's unspoken question hung in the air. "I'm not in the mood to nap myself."

The demon supposed he could just come clean and tell Aziraphale he was just afraid. Afraid that he might close his eyes and open them to find he was back in the Dump. Or just alone. But he still had his pride, which got in the way of things like that. Crowley realized Aziraphale had been saying something and caught the tail-end of the last sentence.

"...when you wake up."

Crowley turned his head to look at Aziraphale.

"What?"

"I said, I promise I'll be around when you wake up."

"I thought you were working to learn to let go a little," said Crowley.

He saw a frown noticeably stain Aziraphale's face. "Is that's what you want..."

At the sight of the frown, some of the pride fell away. "No, forget I said that," said Crowley. He rethought Aziraphale's words. If there was one thing Crowley knew he could trust, it was the promise made by an angel. So maybe he'd try giving sleeping another try.

He rose from the bench, silently inviting Aziraphale to follow, which the angel did. They walked past a small ice cream vendor that was giving a fresh cone to a small boy. Crowley felt an urge to melt the icy treat so that it would splatter onto the child's shirt. But then he got distracted by something Aziraphale asked him and forgot about it. Later, Aziraphale would spot a parked bicycle that had a flat tire. A desire to fix it would fill the angel, but then Crowley would mention a used bookstore he had heard about in New York City called the Strand and Aziraphale never got around to it.

So it seemed it was business as usual. Both of them going in the same direction from opposite ends. Going away from where they started and where they would end...that was anyone's guess. Almost anyone.

THE END