"The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter?" Aziraphale asked, almost wistfully. "I'm sorry, I can't help you."

The gentleman on the other end of the line scoffed. "Surely you know of Agnes Nutter?"

Aziraphale gave his own answering scoff as he replied, "Well, of course I know who she was. Born 1600, exploded 1656. But there are no copies of her book available."

Oh, if only he had it. He would certainly ensure that such a book never found its way into human hands again, let alone such a greedy fiend as this. No, Agnes Nutter's work had become something of an obsession for the angel once he had realized it was the only piece missing from his fantastic collection of prophetic books. Not only that, but if legends were true, it was the only prophetic book that contained entirely precise predictions. It would truly be the crowning jewel of his entire book collection. But alas: centuries of searching had led him only to dead ends and disappointment. If there ever was a copy out there that had survived the ages, it was a closely-guarded secret.

Meanwhile, the hopeful and also rather rude customer was blathering something about price being no object and all that Aziraphale had heard a thousand times before. Certainly such an impressive book is worth much more than mere money, he thought with disgust as the optimistic customer prattled on.

"No, I can't name my price, I don't have it," Aziraphale insisted in the most polite voice that he could muster. "Nobody has-"

He stopped mid-sentence and gulped hard as he heard a stream of most unfavorable curses cross the phone line.

"Well, there really is no need for that kind of language."

With that, he hung up the phone with a rather unpleasant feeling settling in his gut. At least he had other, more pressing matters to trouble himself over. Actually, that reminded him of why he had initially wanted to use the phone in the first place, before he was most rudely interrupted. He carefully put in the numbers and waited as the phone rang several times.

"Hey, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do, do it with style."

How silly of him to answer his calls the same way almost every time. Aziraphale ignored it and went ahead with what he needed to say: "No leads yet on my end. Anything at your end? Listen, I have a sort of an idea."

"What?" A brusque voice asked from the other end.

"Ah, hullo. When you did the baby swap 11 years ago, could something have gone wrong?"

"What?" the voice asked again. This time, at least, it sounded more intrigued than angry.

Aziraphale continued, "Well, it may just be a lead of sorts, if we can use this information to find a starting point. The beginning, if we must."

Crowley thought it over for a moment. Retracing his steps tended to work better for ordinary misplaced household items and he had never thought to try the tactic on demonic children. Then again, it could very well be the only lead they were likely to get. And, truth be told, he was eager for a chance to see his friend again.

"Ah, right. I'll be over in a moment."

Aziraphale nodded out of habit, forgetting for the time that Crowley couldn't recognize the movement on the other end. "Right, yes. See you then."

It seemed that all too soon he was back in his usual place in the passenger seat of Crowley's Bentley. Hell on earth seemed a suitable nickname for the seat, in Aziraphale's eyes. He tried to focus on that, or anything really to distract himself as they barreled down the streets of London at a ridiculous pace. He personally had never been fond of horses as transportation in the past, but the invention of automobiles was a terribly grave mistake on the part of humanity. But, sooner or later he had to come back to reality and focus on the task at hand.

"You've lost the boy-"

"We've lost him," Crowley corrected.

Aziraphale could hardly see how it mattered or how he could be blamed for it, but he wasn't about to argue when a simple twist of the demon's arm could have him rather inconveniently returned to Heaven in a few short seconds.

"A child has been lost," Aziraphale amended, still stubbornly refusing to accept that he had any responsibility in it. "But, you still know his age-"

"We know," Crowley insisted.

"-His birthday. He's 11."

"You make it sound so easy," Crowley said glumly.

The angel answered much more optimistically, "Well, it can't be that hard." A little more worriedly, he added, "I just hope nothing's happened to him."

"Happened?" Crowley said. "Nothing's happened to him. He happens to everything!"

Aziraphale felt a rather marked increase in his heart rate as the car seemed to react to Crowley's mounting frustration, or maybe something else. It was hard to gauge his emotions at times, but whatever it was was very unpleasant when he was behind the wheel of a dangerous piece of machinery.

"So, we only have to, ah, find his birth records, go through the, uh, hospital files," Aziraphale explained rationally, desperately trying to distract himself from the images flashing past them at what seemed like impossible speeds.

"And then what?" Crowley asked flatly.

"And then we find the child," Aziraphale assured simply.

"And then what!?" Crowley reiterated. His voice was rising unpleasantly again.

The angel paused, unsure. Then he cried, "Watch out for that pedestrian!"

"She's on the street; she knows the risk she's taking," Crowley dismissed. Truthfully, he was an excellent driver; he had seen her coming from a mile away and had skillfully dodged her. He never would have let anything happen to her. He looked over to the angel to see if he had anything else to say on the matter, or if he would answer his earlier question.

"Just watch the- watch the road!" Aziraphale said in a panic. "Wh-where is this hospital, anyway?"

"A village near Oxford: Tadfield," Crowley explained, much too calmly for Aziraphale's taste, considering the reckless abandon with which he drove.

"Crowley, you can't do 90 miles per hour in central London!"

"Why not?" the demon asked as he took his hands off the steering wheel to shrug, the bastard.

"You'll get us killed!" Aziraphale cried. "Well, inconveniently discorporated. Music. Why don't I put on...a little...music?"

He reached for a collection of CDs and eagerly dug out a few of the titles. He rather hoped there would be something a little more suitable to his own tastes that would allow him to think fondly of memories of his bookshop...which at this rate, he just might not get to see again before he died.

"What's a Velvet Underground?" he asked as he glanced through the titles.

"You wouldn't like it."

"Oh," Aziraphale said in understanding, knowing precisely what he meant. "Bebop."

But he couldn't dwell on that now as a sharp turn had him completely immobilized in fear. The ride was like this for most of the journey, at least as long as it lasted through the city. Aziraphale was vaguely aware of his companion saying something now and again, but he was entirely sure that if he allowed himself enough conscious thought to understand the words he might very well end up trying one of those "heart attack" things he had heard so much about.

Luckily, in time, the crowded streets of the city eventually gave way to countryside and lush, green forests. Top it all off with a mostly open, empty highway, and the angel was noticeably more comfortable with their speed. Crowley had apparently given up on trying to start a conversation, though.

After a time, Aziraphale asked, "This is the Tadfield area. Does it look familiar yet?"

"You know, it does," Crowley said with a concentrated look on his face. "I think there's an airbase around here somewhere."

"Airbase?" Now that was intriguing.

The demon explained, "Well, you don't think American diplomats' wives usually give birth in little religious hospitals in the middle of nowhere, do you?" At the angel's look he went on, "No, it all had to seem to happen naturally. So there's an airbase at Lower Tadfield. Things started to happen...base hospital isn't ready. 'Oh,' our man there said, 'there's a birthing hospital just down the road.' And there we were. Rather good organisation."

"Flawless," Aziraphale commented dryly.

"It should have worked," Crowley said with a hint of bitterness in his tone.

Aziraphale remarked, "Ah, but evil always contains the seeds of its own destruction. No matter how well-planned, how foolproof an evil plan, no matter how apparently successful it may seem upon the way...in the end it will founder on the rocks of iniquity...and vanish."

Righteous bastard, Crowley thought. But after such a holy and glorious speech he knew exactly what to say to get under the angel's skin. He knew how to make a mockery of his poetic moral lecture with a short and sweet explanation of what had really caused the downfall of Hell's plan.

"For my money it was just an ordinary cock-up."

He did so enjoy watching Aziraphale make a face at him out of the corner of his eye. Before much more could be said on the matter, though, he realized that they were getting closer than he originally thought. He mentioned it to Aziraphale, and sure enough within minutes they were pulling up to what certainly looked like just the same spot from 11 years ago. Crowley pulled up beside the property and put the Bentley in park, switching off the ignition with a snap of his fingers.

Aziraphale wordlessly followed suit as Crowley stepped out and began walking up to the gate. The angel politely took the path while the demon walked straight up to the front, scanning all the windows of the building as he did. It looked very different, to be sure: it looked severely remodeled considering it had only been a little over a decade. Still, he was certain this was the place.

"Um, are you sure this is the right place?" Aziraphale asked with a tinge of nervousness in his tone. "This-this doesn't look like a hospital...and," he put a hand on the demon's arm and Crowley stopped at once, turning to look at him. The angel suddenly seemed much too pleasant, even chuckling as he finished, "Why...it feels loved."

Crowley frowned. "No, it's definitely the place." His mouth worked uselessly for a moment before he found the words to ask, "What do you mean, 'loved'?"

"Well, I mean the opposite of when you say, 'I don't like this place, it feels spooky'."

"I don't ever say that," Crowley dismissed a bit awkwardly. "I like spooky. Big spooky fan, me. Let's go talk to some nuns."

He led the way onto the property and through the gateway, desperate to leave that whole "love" business behind. A split second later he heard a gunshot, and felt a piercing pain in his chest. The force of it sent him reeling backwards and he let out a winded gasp of shock. So this is how his corporation would finally be terminated, after 6,000 years of bad, dishonest demon work.

He put a hand on his profusely bleeding chest and, to his surprise, found only solid human flesh beneath his fingers, albeit colored red so that at first glance it looked like blood. He pulled his hand away and inspected the liquid to find that it wasn't blood at all.

"Blue?" Aziraphale asked as he looked over his shoulder at the blue splotch on his coat.

"Oh, it's paint," Crowley pointed out in surprise.

They both turned to look as a human came toward them with a displeased look on his face. "Hey! You've been hit! I don't know what you think you're playing at right-"

Crowley interrupted him by transforming himself into a horrific beast for the briefest moment, one with pale skin and bug-eyes and flesh crawling with maggots and disease. With that, the human fell instantly unconscious from fright and toppled right to the ground. Crowley went back to normal as if nothing had happened.

"Well that was fun," the demon commented cheerily as he surveyed the fallen mortal.

Aziraphale was much less pleased with the result, but not altogether surprised. "Well, yes, fun for you. I do hope you didn't go just a bit too far...and just look at the state of this coat!" Crowley turned his attention to the angel instead, stepping around him to get a better look as he rambled on, distraught, "I've kept this in tip-top condition for over 180 years now. I'll never get this stain out."

He sounded just as ridiculous as usual. Truth be told, Crowley begrudgingly started to like that side of him. "You could just miracle it away."

"Hmm..." was all Aziraphale said at first, frowning at the idea. "Yes, but...well, I would always know the stain was there. Underneath, I mean."

Crowley pouted at him, partially mocking him, though he realized there was no use to his mockery when the angel was clearly far more concerned with the 'state of his coat', as he put it. Without a second thought Crowley leaned in close and gently blew a warm breath over Aziraphale's shoulder. He watched in satisfaction as the blue ink drifted away and dissipated into the dying light.

Aziraphale was taken aback by his gesture. "Oh, thank you."

He gave Crowley a genuine smile, while at the same time a tiny voice in his head tried to get his attention about something. Something in the way Crowley had looked at him, maybe, or the way his breath had felt billowing past his cheek to work its demonic magic on the stain in his coat. Before he knew it he was positively grinning at the demon. But they had work to do and he couldn't afford to listen to some little voice planting senseless, traitorous thoughts in his head. He choked back the smile and moved to inspect the gun that had fallen from the human's grasp when he fell.

Crowley felt an odd sensation at Aziraphale's surprisingly soft smile. It was so...real, and unexpectedly warm. It took a second for him to snap out of it when he realized Aziraphale was talking.

"...this gun. It's not a proper one at all. It just shoots paintballs," Aziraphale was saying.

Right, they had a reason for being there in that moment. Crowley grabbed the gun from him and asked, "Don't your lot disapprove of guns?" He pointed the paintball gun teasingly at Aziraphale's chest, but the angel batted it away without comment.

"Unless they're in the right hands. Then they give weight to a moral argument...I think."

Crowley grinned at that. Was there no end to this angel's sweet, naive sense of righteousness? "A moral argument? Really?" He tossed the gun aside so that it clattered unceremoniously to the dirt, then sauntered further into the compound with a broad smile on his face. "Come on."

His grin gradually faded as they entered the vaguely familiar building, and something about it reminded him of their purpose. They had to find the Antichrist, and to do that they had to be serious. At least, somewhat serious.

"This is definitely the place," Crowley assured as he peered around the hospital looking for clues. "Wonder where the nuns went."

It was certainly puzzling. He picked up a brochure and briefly flipped through it, feeling a little disappointed but not altogether surprised that it didn't say anything along the lines of, "Until 11 years ago, the manor was used as a hospital by an order of Satanic nuns who weren't actually very good at it."

All the while, Aziraphale silently followed by his side. Something about this felt rather natural, as far as exploring a former cult location could feel natural. At least, he felt strangely comfortable with the angel by his side in this place. And indeed, Aziraphale enjoyed his presence equally in turn, as long as their companionship didn't directly inconvenience his allegiance to Heaven.

The pleasant investigative stroll was rudely interrupted as a human darted past them, calling out in frustration, "Oh, Millie from Accounts caught me on the elbow! Who's winning?"

"You're all going to lose," Crowley answered perilously with a snap of his fingers.

Aziraphale looked startled. "What-what the hell did you just do?"

"Well, they wanted real guns," Crowley disclosed with a shit-eating grin on his face, "so I gave them what they wanted."

He carried on down the hall, leaving the angel to scramble worriedly after him. After Aziraphale had processed the information he said in shock, "There are people out there shooting at each other."

Crowley shrugged. "Well, it lends weight to their moral argument." He kicked down a door, but when he saw that the room's only occupant was a now shattered glass something he carried on walking and elaborated, "Everyone has free will, including the right to murder. Just think of it as a microcosm of the universe."

"They're murdering each other!?"

"No, they aren't," Crowley said with a disappointed sigh. "No one's killing anyone. They're all having miraculous escapes. It wouldn't be any fun otherwise."

He added that last bit just a little bit desperately, hoping against all odds that it would help his case so that he didn't sound too soft. A demon could get in a lot of trouble for being soft, even if he just didn't feel like being responsible for the deaths of dozens of innocent human lives. At least, not today.

Aziraphale noticeably cheered up at that, to the demon's horror. "You know, Crowley, I've always said that deep down, you really are quite a nice-"

It was Crowley's responsibility as a demon to stop right there. He hissed as he grabbed the lapels of Aziraphale's coat and threw him roughly against the wall. That, however, would turn out to be a very short-sighted plan. All at once he found himself unbearably close to the angel. He felt Aziraphale's hot breath on his face as the wind was knocked out of him, could feel the touch of their chests as Crowley gasped out an angry breath. Good Hells, he could feel their hips connect for the briefest moment, and something short-circuited in Crowley's brain.

His mind went completely on autopilot as he hissed in the angel's face, "Shut it! I'm a demon, I'm not nice! I'm never nice. Nice is a four-letter word. I will not have-"

He was interrupted abruptly by the absolute last thing he would have expected. He couldn't say how it happened, but Aziraphale's lips were on his, effectively silencing him.