Disclaimer: they aren't mine, sir. I swear.

Thank you reviewers: pendragginink, Ivycreeper, methodic madness, Alowl (I meant Crowley's demonic form to be the winged, fanged, devil form of nightmares), zimo, KarotsaMused and Erin McClanahan.

Another chapter resurfaces from the dusty recesses of my ideas file. I have no idea where I'm going with this, so apologies for the wait. And the shortness. I'm terrible, I know.

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Why. Usually followed by a question mark, this is one of the most poignant questions in the sphere of human existence, even when no other words shamble along after it.

The word 'why' is so powerful, in fact, that several of the Earth's top scientists and businessmen have been working secretly to have it removed from the language. This would prevent the embarrassment of the scientists when GCSE students ask "Why does gravity work down and not up?" and "Why does hydrogen react explosively with oxygen?" and "Why don't you know the answers to these questions, aren't you supposed to be a scientist?"

No one knows why (there's that word again) the businessmen got involved, but there's probably vast monetary gain involved. If nothing else, the eradication of the word 'why' would certainly put paid to all the philosophers who swanned around the place. All they did was discuss facetious issues like 'Why are we here?' instead of asking proper questions like 'Why would we want to be anywhere else?' or 'Why would I want to buy the products of another company?'

Needless to say, this is a very long and rambling introduction to an event that could really have happened without three paragraphs of introduction. Therefore, ignore the above paragraphs and the chapter will begin again.

"Why?" Crowley said, his head resting on his hand, elbow resting on the pine table in Aziraphale's kitchen.

The angel didn't answer. There was no need for Crowley to elaborate on what he wanted to know. He'd been asking the same question again and again during his remarkably quick two week recovery, as there were only so many times that Aziraphale could get away with drugging his friend's various assorted beverages. The angel suspected that the demon was now pouring any offered liquid into the pots of the cacti in the faint hope it would cause them to lessen their resilience against him.

The demon hissed irritably and tapped his long sharp claws on the wood. "You can't evade me forever, angel."

Aziraphale sighed and put the kettle on, reaching for the teapot and teabags. Maybe he couldn't evade it forever but he certainly wasn't going to give in without a fight.

"I'll burn down your bookshop."

The angel ignored the threat. Crowley had been threatening similar acts of mindless violence and vandalism for years but had never got round to it, insisting that at the last minute he was always distracted by a really good bottle of wine. Aziraphale wasn't quite that gullible anymore- and besides, there was their Agreement. Burning down the other's property had been included in the small print at the angel's insistence.

He decided to change the subject. "Earl Grey or Lapsang Souchong?" he asked, not looking at his friend.

"Coffee," came the belligerent reply. Aziraphale sighed again and rooted out his French press coffee maker.

"Black or white?"

"Espresso."

The angel glared at Crowley, whose bottom lip was now protruding mulishly. Aziraphale promptly forgot whatever he'd been about to scream and stared. The demon, usually so suave and sophisticated, was pouting like a small child. It was almost adorable. Dimly, the angel registered the sound of smashing glass, the intrusive feeling of several rather large shards embedding themselves in his flesh and the iron tang scent of blood permeating through the air. He was only a little perturbed, when he looked down, to discover that there was blood staining his immaculate sleeves. I'll never get that out he thought, distractedly.

Crowley, meanwhile, gaped at the dripping, suddenly clumsy angel and hissed exasperatedly, clicking his fingers. The blood disappeared, the coffee maker shards suddenly felt the irresistible urge to cling to each other again and the cuts all healed. The finger-clicking wasn't necessary, but the demon had always appreciated a little bit of a show. "What is wrong with you?" he demanded, annoyed.

Aziraphale blushed (technically an impossibility for angelic beings) and turned away to dump heaped spoonfuls of coffee into the coffee maker and douse them with boiling water.

The demon, feeling a little faint from using his power, threw a coaster at him. "Bugger the coffee. Tell me what's going on!" he commanded, rapping his claws on the tabletop again for emphasis.

"."

Silence.

"Is there any chance you could repeat that in English?"

The angel covered his eyes with his hand and leaned on the counter as dizziness swept over him. "I think I need to lie down."

"That makes two of us. Come on, give me a hand," Crowley stood, shakily, and wrapped an arm around Aziraphale's shoulders for support, not noticing the angel's involuntary shudder and slight gasp. "And next time you're going to make coffee for me, please refrain from bleeding in it. That sort of thing hasn't been done since the fifteenth century."

"Yes dear."

"And you ARE going to cave in eventually. I have firelighters."

"I fear I'm not going to cave in if you feel you have to use them."

"Shut up and take me to bed, angel."