Archive of Our Own ^beta

You go too fast for me, Crowley.

He stood in the back room, fingers resting on the safe, about to close it.

Crowley had been about to close it for at least an hour.

The tartan flask sat inside, vacuum sealed. Keeping the Holy Water fresh and cold and contained.

What did it mean?

A promise? A warning? A reconciliation? A peace offering, a hundred years after his thoughtless mistake?

He’d never asked a second time.

Aziraphale could, usually, be persuaded, cajoled, talked around – but once he put his foot down, there was no changing his mind. And the past century had been the biggest foot down Crowley had ever seen.

So, he destroyed a church and saved some books and didn’t ask.

He drove Aziraphale home and didn’t ask.

He gave the angel time, space, a chance to think it all over, then came by the shop with a bottle of wine and spent an entire evening not asking.

A decade of strained conversation and pained looks, another with too many silences and gaps, and a thousand times Crowley didn’t ask.

He still thought about it, about what renewing their acquaintanceship might mean, what continuing the Arrangement might lead to.

But he didn’t ask. He made plans, quietly, on his own, plans that wouldn’t involve Aziraphale in any way. Plans that, whether they succeeded or failed, could never be traced back to the angel, get him into any sort of trouble.

It was all trouble for Crowley, but really, things were more fun that way.

And then, before he could even begin to put them into motion, there was Aziraphale, with the Holy Water he hadn’t asked for. In a tartan flask, Aziraphale’s tartan. And an offer.

Picnic in the park. Dine at the Ritz.

Crowley was a demon, he knew when someone was standing at a crossroads, yearning for the unattainable, considering a deal that could save him and damn him at the same time.

So he didn’t ask. But he insinuated.

Anywhere you want to go.

You go too fast for me, Crowley.

It wasn’t a no. It wasn’t a foot down. It wasn’t a rejection, or a maybe, or a hint that a little pressure in the right place could change the course of the angel’s mind. And it certainly wasn’t a yes.

And then Aziraphale had left, and Crowley had gone home to stare into his safe for hours and hours…

Where had he gone wrong? There must have been something, a demand too strong, a push too hard, something to make Aziraphale afraid.

He should have asked.

But he hadn’t.

Aziraphale had walked away, and that, apparently, was that.

Could he go back? It was getting close to dawn, but Aziraphale didn’t sleep.

Would that be too fast?

What would he say?

Was there anything left to be said at all? Aziraphale had reached the crossroads, had turned and walked away. Rules were rules. Every demon knew, if you failed to make the contract, you didn’t follow the mark home, didn’t try to change his mind, didn’t drag him back and hold him until he did things the way you wanted.

There would be another mark, another contract, another temptation. Let it go and move on.

But, then again…Crowley wasn’t a very good demon.

--

When Aziraphale had arranged the shelves and furniture in his shop, he’d entirely neglected to give himself a private spot to sit and cry.

After all, angels don’t cry.

Angels don’t own bookshops, either, or collect wine.

They don’t do temptations, they don’t make deals, they don’t befriend demons or care for their welfare, and they certainly don’t lie.

After a hundred and four years, Crowley still wanted the Holy Water. That was obvious, even if he hadn’t said anything. Aziraphale had hoped the whole mess could be forgotten, would somehow go away if he never asked.

Stupid. Who would ever forget such a thing?

Who could forget the danger he put Crowley in every time they met?

Danger from both of their sides. It was too much to be endured. And, it would appear, Crowley’s endurance had a limit.

Had he used the Holy Water yet?

The thought had hovered on the edge of his mind, ever since he’d made his decision.

How would Crowley do it? Pour it on himself? Mix it with a glass of wine? Or perhaps hold it tight to his chest as his enemies surrounded him, try to take them down with him.

Many possibilities. He’d imagined them all.

But he hadn’t asked.

There would be other chances. Aziraphale knew that, somewhere under the horror at what he’d done, at the ending he’d facilitated. Whatever Crowley was planning, he was almost certain it wouldn’t be tonight.

So instead, whenever they saw each other, he would wonder, is this the last time?

Whenever they didn’t see each other, he would wonder, is he gone?

Whenever Crowley returned to Hell, will he take it with him?

Whenever other demons visited Earth, do they know?

But he wouldn’t ask. How could he?

Angels didn’t make their own decisions. They followed orders. They obeyed. They delivered messages, and revealed truths, and gently persuaded their charges to do the right thing.

Was it really so different from temptation? You offered a choice, gave them the means to save or damn themselves, and then you waited. And you hoped.

And though every soul was precious, you certainly didn’t dwell on your losses long. There would be another job, another assignment, another decision that was out of your hands.

What became of those who failed their tests?

He’d never asked. Not until now.

There were so many ways to destroy a demon. Holy Water. Sacred ground. Certain types of exorcism.

Far fewer ways to destroy an angel. Holy weapons, but he’d given his away long ago. Hellfire, but that was too rare. Perhaps stepping unshielded into the presence of God, but no one had done that in eons.

It wasn’t that Aziraphale wanted an end. He found the possibility beyond distasteful. He was an angel. Eternal. Unchanging.

But an unchanging eternity alone? It didn’t bear thinking about.

And so, all night, he sat on the floor behind the counter and thought about it.

--

The door opened before Crowley had even touched it.

The lights were on, but the shop was empty.

Not silent, though.

He followed the muffled sound to the counter, peering around it, not sure what he expected to find.

Well. He should have expected Aziraphale. And given the height of the counter, he should have expected the angel would be sitting on the ground.

But nothing could prepare him for the sight of that pale figure, huddled around his own knees, eyes clenched shut as tears leaked down his blotchy cheeks. Crying quietly. Trembling.

“Angel?”

He froze. “Crowley?”

But instead of looking up, Aziraphale covered his eyes, burying his face in his hands, breath coming ragged. “Don’t—”

Before he could even think it through, Crowley sat on the ground next to Aziraphale, arm held out, gently reaching around his shoulders.

Aziraphale fell into his chest, clinging to him, sobs escaping louder and louder. “Don’t…don’t ask me…”

“I won’t.” He pulled Aziraphale closer, wrapping him up in black-clad arms, rocking him gently. “I won’t.”

Every moment together put them both at risk.

Every moment apart destroyed them.

One day, one day, that balance would tip.

It was inevitable. Nothing lasted forever.

Crowley had thought about that for centuries.

He’d thought that what he would do, when that day came, would depend on Aziraphale. Whether they fought, or ran; whether he accepted his fate or screamed against it; whether they suffered alone or together. It would depend on Aziraphale, who could join him or abandon him or betray him when the time came. And then Crowley would decide.

He’d been wrong.

He couldn’t quite remember when he’d realized. After the Bastille, before the shop opened. Perhaps it had come upon him a little at a time.

But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what Aziraphale did. Crowley would stand by him, and protect him, and love him in all the ways a demon could.

It wasn’t the fiery, passionate love of a human, or the warm, unwavering love of an angel. It was cold, and broken, and full of sharp edges, but it was Aziraphale’s, come what may, for eternity.

He hadn’t asked to be loved back.

How could he? Even to admit it to himself was almost a death sentence.

He wouldn’t doom his angel like that. So he made his plans and preparations alone. How he would fight. Where they could run to. Whether there could be a safe place anywhere in the world. Or anywhere else.

Inevitably, when the time came, Aziraphale would refuse. That didn’t matter. As long as there was still life in him, Crowley would stand by Aziraphale.

He’d asked – once – for help with these plans. And it tore them apart. A hundred years of silence. Nothing would ever make him ask again.

Aziraphale had given it to him anyway. His salvation. His destruction. Wrapped in a little piece of Aziraphale himself. He didn’t know what Crowley wanted it for, and he didn’t ask.

Crowley had spent all night trying to figure out what that meant.

Obvious, really.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, pulling Aziraphale closer, pressing his lips to the side of his angel’s head. “I shouldn’t have let you walk away.”

“It – it wasn’t,” he swallowed. “Wasn’t for you to decide, my dear…” His fists gripped tighter. “You have your…your choice. I won’t…interfere.”

“I told you, that’s not what I want it for.” He pulled off his glasses, tossing them aside. “I—Aziraphale, look at me.”

The angel sat back, hands sliding free, moving away – but Crowley kept him close, cupped his face. Wiped away his tears. “I. Am not. Going. Anywhere.”

“They’ll…” Aziraphale shook his head. “If Hell finds out…I can’t ask you to—”

“Then don’t. Doesn’t change anything. If they come for me, for either of us, I will come back.” Aziraphale’s eyes went wide. “I will. That is what the Holy Water’s for, that is my plan. I will find you, I will come back to you, as many times as it takes, and you won’t change my mind by—”

Aziraphale grabbed his shirt again, pulled him close, and kissed him. Devoured him. Breathed life into him. Revived his soul and destroyed him utterly.

--

Angels don’t fall in love.

They don’t commit themselves to another being, to have and to hold, for better or for worse and all those other words.

And, if they ever strayed so far as to indulge in such feelings, they certainly didn’t express themselves physically.

But, then again…Aziraphale wasn’t a very good angel.

It filled him, pressed against his heart; a need, a desperation, that couldn’t be expressed through words, not through lips and tongues, locked together though they were. Not through hands, pressing his demon flat to the ground, while another pair of hands guided him, his hips, his…

Good Lord. What was he doing?

Even through their clothes, he could feel the heat everywhere they touched. Hellfire, pounding through Crowley’s veins, and Aziraphale longed to submerge himself in it, to let it fill the empty places inside him. To feel it burn away his weaknesses, leave him stronger than before.

He couldn’t ask.

It was forbidden. Unthinkable. A death sentence, and he would sign it himself, consigning Crowley to a slow and painful destruction and himself to eternal punishment.

A punishment he would deserve, for causing any harm to come to this precious soul, for allowing the fire in those golden eyes to dim for even a moment.

So he couldn’t. Even as he twisted a hand into that mop of hair, even as a leg hooked around his, pulling them closer, he couldn’t. He couldn’t—

A whisper hissed across his ear. “Asssssk me.”

He gasped. “Crowley—”

“Yes!”

With a snap of his fingers, their clothing vanished, his anatomy shifted, and a heartbeat later, Crowley’s did as well, ready to accommodate him.

He fell into the fires, and they consumed him. Each frantic motion filled him with another burning wave of heat, elicited another delighted murmur from below which egged him on, making his need grow further, until—

It was over far too quickly.

Aziraphale lay, tangled up in Crowley, still half-under the counter, breathlessly clinging to his bare chest, throat still sore from the final cry of pleasure. The demon – his demon – his Crowley – rocked him, stroking his back, his hair.

“S’alright, Angel. S’alright.”

“No it isn’t.” His face filled with a strange heat. “That wasn’t right at all.”

Countless centuries of care, of restraint, every argument, every precaution, every plan he’d carried out in secret to keep Crowley safe and now he’d doomed them both, and for what? A minute or two of pleasure? One frenetic bout of lovemaking, driven by nothing more than his own foolish need for comfort and reassurance? Was Crowley’s life worth so little to him?

The tears rose in his eyes again—tears of shame—but Crowley only pulled him closer, kissing the top of his head. “No. It was…Aziraphale, for so long I…I’ve waited, I’ve wondered. Whether you could possibly…” A hesitation, his hands pausing in their gentle work. “Not that it matters,” he rushed on, concerned. “I swear, whatever y-you feel or… don’t feel, it doesn’t change anything. Promise.”

He pressed his face into the curve of Crowley’s neck. He couldn’t say it. Not now. This was all wrong. “What must you think of me?”

“I think you’re perfect,” Crowley said fervently. “The most beautiful bastard I ever met, and this—this here? It was everything I imagined.”

He fought back a laugh at that. “Your imagination must be limited.”

“Oi!” Crowley almost sounded offended.

Aziraphale bit his lip and slowly sat up, pulling away. It was so cold, the universe, without the heat of the stars that burned under Crowley’s skin. “It’s not too late,” he whispered. “Perhaps, if you left now…”

“Not leaving.” His hand slid into Aziraphale’s. Holding tight. “I know what I want. Whatever comes next, I’m staying. With you.”

“I see.”

The angel snapped his fingers, returning their clothes.

Well. Some clothes. Aziraphale in that fine coat and breeches he hadn’t worn since a certain trip to France, Crowley in a low-cut black dress that he’d glimpsed, once, in the nineteen-twenties, when his resolve to never see Crowley again had wavered just a bit.

He hadn’t approached. But he’d sat in the nightclub, and watched, and remembered.

“What are you…?” Crowley frowned at the dress, the gloves, felt at the glittering clip in his hair.

Aziraphale stood up, snapping his fingers again to set the gramophone playing. He took a deep breath and offered his hand. “If it’s quite alright, my dear, I would like to do things properly this time.”

--

They began again.

Slowly, this time. Swaying to the music, a song over two centuries old that they’d first heard half a world away. Crowley pulled his angel close, gazed into his eyes, watched how they filled with wonder as Aziraphale touched his hair, his face, the lightest brush of fingers.

They stepped across the floor, no witness but the books on their shelves and the stars through the skylight. Moving to a rhythm that didn’t quite match the song, but that didn’t matter. The only beat they cared about was that of their hearts.

As the music wound down, his angel spun him one last time, bringing Crowley to rest against one of the white columns. One hand resting on his cheek, the other brushing down the black silk towards his hip.

“One thing at a time,” Aziraphale whispered, lips softly brushing Crowley’s. “And let me know if…if…”

“Go on, Angel.” He smiled confidently. “I trust you.”

Confidence that was entirely misplaced; Crowley didn’t know a thing.

He hadn’t known how kisses across his collarbone would burn, the smallest pressure somehow more monumental than anything that came before or after.

He hadn’t known how the pressure, the coiled-up need inside would build with every brush of fingertips, more powerful, more demanding.

He hadn’t known that each article of clothing sliding off Aziraphale’s body would bring a new wave of wonder, anticipation, pleasure, satisfaction. The first glimpse of biceps nearly ended him, and he’d seen them just moments before.

He really should have known. The information had been there for six thousand years in all the literature of humanity. He’d just never thought to ask.

“Now,” Aziraphale whispered against him, straps of the gown pushed to the edge of his narrow shoulders. “Are you ready?”

Crowley nodded.

The dress fell away.

He’d never been held like that before, like he was delicate, like he was precious. He could feel the power below the softness in Aziraphale’s touch, feel the restraint behind every caress.

He was a demon, after all. The softness had been burned out of him long ago.

There was so much he had forgotten, until Aziraphale. So much he’d had to learn again. Kindness. Patience. Joy. Compassion. The quiet strength that could withstand any pressure, the peace that flowed through every motion.

And now: pleasure.

Aziraphale explored every inch of his skin with lips and tongue and soft fingers. Slowly. Methodically. Relentlessly.

Every moment, he thought that must be it, that must be all his body could take.

Every moment, he was proven wrong.

And then Aziraphale reached his thighs.

Crowley moaned, unable to keep it in any longer. One hand gripped the column, the other Aziraphale’s hair. “Ah— Ahhhh— Angel…” His hips seemed to move of their own accord.

“Patience, dear.” One hand pushed him back, pinning him against the column with hardly a touch, holding him there at the wonderful mercy of Aziraphale’s explorations.

“Nnnnrrrrr….wha…ha…ohhhhh….aaaaah…” No, there weren’t any words left in him.

Waves of ecstasy poured through him, a riptide that pulled him under, drowned him, and then another, another, how could there be more—?

“That should do it. Ah. Here.” 

Slowly, he became aware that he was cold, and that it was because Aziraphale had moved away. Crowley’s eyes fluttered open, searching the room through a haze, to find his angel kneeling beside a soft tartan blanket that lay smoothly across the rug, topped by a thick pillow. He patted it encouragingly. “Come along, dear fellow.”

Crowley didn’t think he could move. He collapsed, a pile of rubber limbs, and with a smile, Aziraphale arranged them. “I, ah…I should ask…do you still—?”

“Yes, whatever it is, yes.”

Aziraphale settled across him, pulsing heat once more pressed against his chest, and another to match it further down.

For a moment, they just held each other, anticipation building. Then Aziraphale whispered into his ear: “I love you, Anthony J. Crowley.”

And then—

And then—

“Oh dear God in Heaven!”

He was undone. His spine arched, farther than should have been possible. His hands twisted into claws, digging into Aziraphale’s back. His teeth turned to fangs and scales rippled across his body, appearing and vanishing, to that rhythm, that rhythm—

When his mind finally cleared again, he was clinging to a very satisfied-looking angel like a life raft, breath and heart ragged.

“There,” Aziraphale said. “That’s more like it.”

“Whe…how…you…”

“I read.” He kissed Crowley’s cheekbone, the lightest brush. “And I think quite a lot.”

“Ahhhhhh.” Crowley pulled Aziraphale against him, in case there was any more pleasure to be had, but the angel just laughed, a beautiful laugh that echoed down through Crowley’s chest.

They lay together for a while, listening to each other breathe, memorizing every curve of flesh, every lock of hair.

When Crowley could finally form words, he asked: “So was…was that…everything you imagined?”

“Hmmm.” Another light kiss, at the corner of his mouth. “Not quite everything. But a start. If you think you can go again—”

“Do you even have to ask?”

As it turned out, slow and delicate wasn’t the only way to do things.

--

Later, they sat on the sofa. At least, Aziraphale sat. Crowley sprawled, his head on Aziraphale’s lap, eyes shut as the angel’s fingers ran through his hair. He clung to the angel’s legs, making a noise that might almost have been a purr.

“I, ah…” Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he should laugh or start crying again. “I suppose I got carried away.”

“Mmmh.” Crowley shifted in a way that sent shivers through Aziraphale. Good shivers. “Now who goes too fast?”

“I suppose that…depends on when your…your feelings started.”

“Rome.” He could feel the tug of Crowley’s cheek as he grinned. “Wanted to join you on your couch. See if those oysters tasted better from your lips.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s heart fluttered, as he tried to reframe every conversation for two thousand years. He didn’t know when his own feelings had started. Foolish angel. Oblivious angel. “I…I never imagined…”

“Even before that. Thought about you so much. Your laugh. Your smile. Everything we could do together, if we weren’t…”

“But we are.”

“Yeah.”

Silence fell. A contented silence, peaceful, happy, filled with the words that had finally been spoken. Corrupted by a millennium-old fear.

It was coming. Their doom. Marching closer with every heartbeat.

He bit his lip and tilted his head back, hoping Crowley wouldn’t see his expression. The demon hadn’t opened his eyes yet, but still, he knew.

“Do you…do you have…second thoughts?”

“No, not…not at all, dearest.” His fingers burrowed into Crowley’s hair again, trying to comfort himself as much as his demon. “But…do you know what the punishment is? For… consorting with a human?”

“Never asked.” He shifted, brow furrowed. “Didn’t think your lot went in for that sort of thing.”

“Officially, no. Utterly forbidden. But every now and then, someone gets…curious.” He almost laughed. “You’re not the only one who can tempt, I suppose.” A chill started somewhere in his heart. “They’re always found out. Always. Their…their partner is…”

“Angel?” Crowley sat up, reaching out to pull Aziraphale into his arms again.

“… destroyed.” The word didn’t do it justice, but he already felt sick. Frightened. Broken. Barely able to squeeze the words past the lump in his throat. “And the angel…”

A long empty hallway, guards leading a sobbing angel away from the place of execution, never to be seen again.

No one knew what happened next. No one dared ask.

“I’m not a human,” Crowley reminded him gently.

“I don’t think that will help our case.” He threaded their fingers together, clasping their hands. Feeling one more time the comforting heat. The last time. There could be only one solution. “We…we can never speak of this again.”

“What?”

“I…I don’t know how they find out. Michael is very secretive, you see, and very observant. Any word, any gesture could give us away.”

Crowley shook his head. “So, what? When we’re in public, we can’t—?”

“Or…” He pressed his eyes shut. “Or in private. I can’t be certain—”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley stood up, taking the warmth, leaving Aziraphale alone in a frozen void. “How can you—that’s—I—I won’t go back to pretending I don’t love you!”

“Crowley, please!” All his fear vanished in a moment. He leapt to his feet, glaring into those golden eyes. “I have no idea how Michael gets her information. She could have spies anywhere. The only reason I know she didn’t somehow see us in action is because no one is here to kill you.”

Every moment together put them at risk.

Every moment apart destroyed them.

It was a treacherous walk, the path that might keep them safe, a crumbling bridge between two extremes, a knife’s edge.

He’d found it, centuries ago, the path, the secret. The perfect balance that allowed him his few, happy moments with Crowley without putting them at too much risk. He’d stepped off it tonight, nearly pulled them both down, first with the Holy Water, then here at the shop, but he could do it. He could get them back on course.

“If we act as though nothing happened, continue as we’ve done, I…I think…” I can keep us safe.

“For how long?”

“Forever.”

Aziraphale was good at pretending.

He pretended not to know the ending of books he’d read a hundred times.

He pretended to enjoy tedious small talk with customers.

He pretended not to notice the way Crowley looked at him, every time they met, and he pretended to believe the twisted logic that would allow an angel to do some quite definitively unangelic things.

He pretended he believed his own lies.

Just now, he could pretend that he was strong, and certain, and confident. And that he couldn’t see the pain in Crowley’s eyes.

“Angel.” He took Aziraphale’s hands in his. One of them was trembling. “Nothing lasts forever.”

“We’re eternal beings.”

“Yeah. We know it better than anyone.”

He pretended he didn’t know that.

“Crowley. It’s either this…or we never see each other again.”

The demon’s hands tightened convulsively. As if he’d been wounded. “I can’t. Not again.”

“And I wouldn’t ask it of you.”

Crowley nodded, pain in every line of his face.

Then he grasped Aziraphale and pulled him into a kiss, nearly as passionate as the first.

That one had tasted of salt and tears.

This one did as well.

When they finished, Crowley didn’t pull away. “When…” he swallowed. “Aziraphale. If…if you ever decide it’s…it’s safe enough. Invite me to the Ritz. I’ll know…”

“Yes.” He never wanted to let go. “And…if I’m ever…too caught up in my act to—to listen to reason, do the same.” One more shuddering breath. “And know that I love you. Always.”

--

A tartan flask in a safe.

He didn’t wonder what it meant now.

One day, he would use it. To keep himself safe. To get back to Aziraphale.

If he still wanted Crowley.

One day, his angel would realize he couldn’t have it both ways. He would have to decide.

He would have to weigh the terrifying, all-consuming love of Heaven, the demand for his obedience, his loyalty, his every thought, twisted and stretched to fit the shape they wanted him to be—weigh that against what little Crowley had to offer.

Companionship. Freedom. Love.

Aziraphale walked a knife’s edge, and one day he would have to choose which way to fall.

Crowley would wait. He would hope.

But he wouldn’t ask.

--

A pair of sunglasses sat in a locked drawer of Aziraphale’s desk, nestled among some receipts. They gave him an excuse to look inside, without it being obvious what he was looking at.

Nothing lasts forever.

One day, he would no longer be able to keep them both safe.

One day, he would have to let Crowley go.

It would hurt them, more than any beings had ever been hurt—

No. Foolish hyperbole. If that were true, there would be nothing to fear.

It wouldn’t keep Aziraphale safe, of course. He would still be alone. He would still risk punishment.

Even now, he walked around with a pain as if something had been ripped from his body.

But he would suffer anything gladly, so long as Crowley was out of danger.

He could ask for nothing more.

--

52 years later

--

They watched each other all through dinner at the Ritz.

Neither of them had forgotten what it signified. Both of them waited for a sign, any sign.

Both, of course, were still too foolish to ask.

But when Crowley started back towards Mayfair, Aziraphale followed without hesitation.

Up the lift, down the hall, into the flat where they’d spent one night frantically planning, too terrified to think beyond the morning.

Not terrified now.

Well. A little terror. The good sort.

Crowley pushed the door shut.

Aziraphale stood waiting in the middle of the study.

Crowley walked around him in a slow, careful circle, nonchalant as possible.

A silence, perfectly balanced on a knife’s edge.

Until, finally, Aziraphale asked: “Where did we leave off?”

Crowley tossed his glasses onto the throne, grinning as he pulled his angel into his arms. “Right about here, I think.”

They didn’t say anything else for quite some time.

--

5 years later

--

The sun rose, its light shining through the east-facing window of the cottage.

It glinted off a tartan flask on the windowsill, filled with wildflowers in mundane water.

It filtered through a pair of sunglasses, black and round, the sort that had gone out of fashion an entire human lifetime ago.

It illuminated a bed, where two beings – no angels, no demons, just husbands – lay wrapped in each other’s arms.

One would be awake in a moment, ready for breakfast and long walks and a thousand quaint activities to fill the day. The other would grumble and pull up the blankets and try to drag the first back under them where he belonged.

They were together.

They were happy.

They had a home filled with laughter, and companionship, and love.

They were free.

And they would never ask for anything more.