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The Ritz was humming with the low, sophisticated thrum of a high-society charity auction. It was the kind of event Aziraphale adored—all soft velvet, vintage champagne, and the rustle of silk. Crowley, for his part, tolerated it because Aziraphale looked breathtaking in a cream-colored evening gown that caught the light like spun sugar.

They had been married for five years, a half-decade of comfortable domesticity that hadn’t managed to dull the spark between them. Currently, Aziraphale was deep in conversation with a group of curators from the British Museum, her eyes sparkling as she debated the merits of 18th-century bookbinding.

Crowley, feeling a bit "peopled out," had retreated to a high-backed leather chair near the edge of the mahogany bar. He looked every bit the successful architect he was, lean and sharp-edged in a bespoke black suit, his dark hair swept back. He swirled a double brandy, watching the amber liquid catch the light, his mind drifting toward the quiet drive home they’d have later.

"Well, well. If it isn't the man of the hour. Or the man of the shadow, more like."

The voice was loud, grating, and instantly recognizable. Crowley didn't look up. He didn't have to. The scent of expensive cologne mixed with the sour tang of too much gin preceded the speaker.

Gabriel settled into the stool next to Crowley with a heavy thud, his movements loose and uncoordinated. He was a tall man, handsome in a way that felt manufactured, currently sporting a tuxedo that cost more than a small car and a sneer that cost nothing at all.

"Bartender!" Gabriel barked, waving a hand dismissively. "Sparkling wine. The expensive stuff. None of that prosecco rubbish."

Crowley took a slow, deliberate sip of his brandy, staring straight ahead at the rows of crystal glasses behind the bar.

"You're quiet tonight, Crowley," Gabriel said, leaning in too close. His breath was a weapon. "What’s the matter? Did Aziraphale finally realize she married a man who spends more time looking at blueprints than at her? I always told her she needed someone with... presence. Someone who can fill a room."

Crowley remained silent, his jaw tightening just a fraction. He knew Gabriel’s game. The man had never quite recovered from the blow to his ego when Aziraphale had ended their two-year relationship to eventually fall for a "moody, serpent-eyed eccentric."

"Nothing to say?" Gabriel chuckled, a wet, unpleasant sound. He took a large gulp of his wine as soon as it was set down. "I suppose that’s why she left me for you. You’re easy to ignore. Like a piece of furniture. A very dark, very thin piece of furniture."

Crowley finally turned his head, his yellow-tinted glasses sliding slightly down his nose. He looked at Gabriel with a weary sort of pity.

"I imagine you’ve run out of people to talk to, Gabriel," Crowley said, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "If you’ve resorted to trying to strike up a conversation with me, the rest of the room must have finally realized how exhausting you are."

Gabriel’s face flushed a deep, angry red. He slammed his glass onto the marble countertop. "Exhausting? I’m the life of this party. I’m a winner, Crowley. I win at everything. You? You’re just the guy who got lucky because she was having a mid-life crisis."

Crowley went back to his brandy. "Is that what you tell yourself at night? It’s almost impressive, the level of delusion you maintain."

Gabriel leaned in, his eyes narrowed and bloodshot. He decided to change tactics, sensing that he couldn't rattle Crowley with insults about his career or his clothes.

"You know," Gabriel whispered, loud enough for the nearby patrons to hear, "I saw her over there with those museum hacks. She’s put on a bit of weight, hasn't she? Those curves used to be elegant when we were together. Now, she just looks like she’s spent too much time in the pastry section. I suppose she’s let herself go since she settled for second best."

The atmosphere around Crowley shifted instantly. The cool, detached boredom evaporated, replaced by a cold, sharp stillness. He placed his glass down on the bar with a click that sounded like a gunshot in the sudden silence of his own mind.

Crowley turned fully toward Gabriel, his eyes icy behind his lenses. He looked Gabriel up and down, lingering on the way the man swayed and the desperate, hollow look in his eyes.

"Now I understand why Aziraphale left you," Crowley said, his voice dropping to a frigid, clinical tone. "It wasn't just the arrogance or the staggering lack of intellect. It’s the cowardice. Anyone would run away from a pathetic excuse for a man like you."

Gabriel’s reaction was instantaneous. The alcohol-fueled rage that had been simmering under his skin boiled over.

"What did you say to me?" Gabriel roared.

Before Crowley could stand, Gabriel lunged. He grabbed the lapels of Crowley’s jacket, his knuckles white, and yanked him forward so hard Crowley’s stool tipped. With a muffled grunt, Crowley was shoved back against the bar, and then Gabriel’s fist connected with his cheekbone.

The force of the blow was staggering. Crowley’s head snapped back, his glasses flying off his face and skittering across the floor. He hadn't expected Gabriel to actually swing; the man was a bully, but usually a verbal one.

"I'll show you who's pathetic!" Gabriel screamed.

He lunged again, tackling Crowley around the waist. They both went down, crashing into a small side table. The sound of breaking glass and heavy furniture hitting the floor echoed through the ballroom. Gabriel was on top of him in a second, swinging wildly. One punch caught Crowley in the mouth, another grazed his forehead.

"Stop it! Someone call security!" a woman shrieked nearby.

Crowley felt the hot, metallic tang of blood in his mouth. Adrenaline finally kicked in, sharp and electric. As Gabriel pulled back for another hit, Crowley managed to get his forearm up, blocking the blow. He twisted his body, using his legs to buck Gabriel off.

Crowley landed a solid, desperate punch to Gabriel’s jaw as he scrambled to his feet, but Gabriel was larger and fueled by a mindless, drunken strength. He grabbed Crowley’s arm, trying to pull him back down.

Across the room, Aziraphale had frozen at the sound of the crash. She turned just in time to see a flash of black suit and red hair being pinned to the floor by a flailing Gabriel. Her heart didn't just drop; it stopped.

"Crowley!"

She didn't think. She didn't excuse herself. She sprinted across the polished floor, her heels clicking like a frantic heartbeat.

By the time she reached the bar, three of the hotel’s security guards and two male guests had waded into the fray. They hauled Gabriel off, pinning his arms behind his back. Gabriel was struggling, shouting incoherencies, his face a mask of purple rage.

Crowley was pulled up by a waiter. He shoved the man’s hands off him, his chest heaving, his hair a wild nest around his face. He looked feral, his eyes darting around until they landed on Gabriel.

"Get this idiot out of here," Crowley snapped, his voice raspy. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor and pointed a trembling finger at the struggling Gabriel. "Before he hurts someone else. And call the police. I want to press charges."

"You started it!" Gabriel yelled, his voice cracking. "You’re a loser, Crowley! She’s mine!"

Aziraphale pushed through the crowd, ignoring the whispers and the shocked stares of their peers. She didn't even glance at Gabriel, who was now being dragged toward the exit by security. Her entire world was the man standing by the bar, shaking and bleeding.

"Anthony," she breathed, her voice trembling.

She reached out, her hands hovering near his face. The sight was gruesome. His lip was split, his cheek was already beginning to swell into a dark bruise, and a thin line of blood was trickling from a cut near his hairline, staining his white shirt collar.

"I'm fine, Angel," Crowley muttered, though his legs looked a bit like jelly.

"You most certainly are not fine," she said, her shock turning into a focused, protective maternal fury. She looked at the onlookers. "Move! Give him some air!"

She took his hand, her fingers interlaced with his, and led him away from the wreckage of the bar. She navigated them through the gawking crowd and into the quiet, marble-tiled sanctuary of the executive restrooms.

Once the door swung shut, the silence felt heavy. Aziraphale didn't waste a second. She sat him down on the edge of the vanity and immediately began rummaging through her small clutch bag. She pulled out a travel pack of tissues and wetted them under the tap.

"Oh, my dear boy," she whispered, her hands shaking as she moved to clean the blood from his forehead.

Crowley winced as the cold water hit the cut. "S'nothing, Aziraphale. Really. Just a bit of a scuffle. The man can't aim for his life."

"He hit you, Anthony! He attacked you!" Aziraphale’s voice rose, a mix of sob and snarl. "I should have never let him speak to me all those years ago. To think he dared lay a hand on you..."

She moved the tissue to his lip, dabbing gently. Crowley looked up at her. Her hair was slightly mussed, and there was a fierce, burning light in her blue eyes that he rarely saw. She looked beautiful when she was angry on his behalf.

He reached up, catching her wrist to stop her frantic movements. He gave her a small, lopsided smirk, despite the pain it caused his split lip.

"I got a good one in, too," he reminded her. "He’s going to have a very sore jaw tomorrow. And a very long conversation with the Metropolitan Police."

Aziraphale let out a shaky breath, leaning her forehead against his. "I don't care about his jaw. I care about you. You’re bleeding all over your best suit."

"It’s just a suit," Crowley said softly. He pulled her closer, resting his head against her shoulder for a moment, letting the adrenaline finally drain away. "He said things about you, Angel. I couldn't just sit there."

Aziraphale pulled back, her thumb brushing his uninjured cheek. "He’s a small, bitter man, Anthony. His words have no power over me. But you... you have a habit of being far too chivalrous for your own good."

"Wasn't being chivalrous," Crowley grumbled, though he leaned into her touch. "I just don't like people touching my things. And you’re my favorite thing."

Aziraphale clucked her tongue, though a small, fond smile broke through her worry. "I am not a 'thing,' you old serpent. But I suppose I can forgive the phrasing given the circumstances."

She finished cleaning the blood, tossing the red-stained tissues into the bin. She looked at him critically, adjusting his collar and smoothing his hair back as best she could.

"We are going home," she announced firmly. "I shall make you an ice pack, and you are going to sit on the sofa while I pour you a very large glass of that Talisker you like."

Crowley stood up, testing his balance. He felt battered, and his face was starting to throb in earnest, but as he looked at his wife—strong, radiant, and entirely his—he felt a strange sense of victory.

"Can we stop for crepes on the way?" he asked hopefully.

Aziraphale rolled her eyes, looping her arm securely through his to steady him.

"Only if you promise not to pick a fight with the chef," she teased, though she squeezed his arm tightly.

"Deal," Crowley said.

As they walked out of the restroom and toward the valet, Crowley caught a glimpse of his reflection in the gilded mirrors. He looked a mess, but he held his head high. He had the girl, he had the life, and Gabriel had nothing but a hangover and a police report.

All things considered, it had been a rather successful evening.