Chapter Text
The hours passed, and Aziraphale had no notion whether it was day or night, but the cosy room was hazy with contentment and the fumes of alcohol. They ranged over many subjects, reminiscing, bickering, debating, reeling around and poring over, then swinging back and resetting. It was a well-worn routine, one which the angel entirely loved, bringing as it did a warm and nourishing connection with the only other being on Earth that he felt any real affinity with. Through necessity they spent much of their time apart and, in the face of all the risk it represented, all the fear it engendered, their occasional meetings were all the more satisfying as a result – oases of companionship, shared history and understanding. He assumed, perhaps conceitedly, that Crowley valued their association as much as he did. He always came back, eventually.
The angel frowned. And it had nearly come to an end this week. So, so close.
He allowed his gaze to fall more fully on the demon. Crowley looked almost liquid with ease, one long leg hooked over the arm of the chair, foot waving gently. His head was tilted back, exposing the smooth length of his neck, and one arm weaved a cup slowly from side to side as he held forth, at length and with enthusiasm, on the inevitability of English becoming the common tongue in the various Saxon kingdoms. Aziraphale had somewhat mislaid the thread of his own argument, having become lost in his less than spiritual assessment of Crowley’s demeanour and in his own design for their subsequent conversation.
“Well?”
Aziraphale started. “Sorry, what?”
Crowley grinned widely.
“Well, did you note my use of the new profanity earlier?”
“You mean with regard to the soup? It was, indeed, duly noted. But – “ the angel scrunched his face up in a manner that he hoped suggested mild disapproval with a pinch of mid-range confusion, “ – it’s hardly new, is it? In the two hundred years since you first informed me of its invention – by you – I have only every heard it being said by you.”
“Early days, angel.”
“Early days! Two hundred years!”
“Sure.” Crowley was extremely unconcerned. “These things take time. Language evolves slowly. Trust me, it’s going to be huge. I reckon they’ll start writing it down in another couple of hundred years. Then, there’ll be no stopping it. One of the greatest words in human linguistic history. Beyond mammoth.”
“But why? Going back to the soup. I mean, you were not actually having sexual congress with the soup, so why use the present participle of your word as an adjective? Now, wait a minute…was it a gerund? No. No, I was right the first time. Yes, so…why use it in that manner?
“You’re being far too literal. The wonderful thing about ‘fuck’ is its breadth and depth. Yes, it’s literal meaning is a profanity about the sexual act but it has so much more going for it. It has weight and impact. Consider the manner in which I said the phrase ‘fucking soup’. What did you construe from that?”
Aziraphale pondered.
“You were letting me know that you were being dismissive and annoyed about the soup because you knew I had miracled the soup when you had asked me not to miracle anything, and I then knew that you felt that way. About the miracled soup.”
“Wow. Yes. And I said it in two words. Such, angel, is the power of ‘fuck’.”
“It is coarse.”
“Indeed it is. Otherwise why invent it? It is a stylish corruption of language.”
“But language should be a thing of beauty!”
“And it is! But all language is also corruption, an amalgamation, a bastardisation of what came before. It does not become less beautiful, only more expressive and dense. I shouldn’t have to tell you that! You’re the literary one, not me!”
“Humph. You may not like reading, but you certainly like talking.” Aziraphale drained his cup. Crowley, smiling widely, refilled it promptly.
“Ah, come on, angel! Embrace the inevitability of change. You’ll be amazed at how completely my little curse word will take over the world. Kings, commoners – and priests – will revel in its use.”
“I will never say it.” The angel pouted.
“Yes, you will.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Yes, you will and, Satan willing, I will be there to hear it.” He leaned back and looked to the heavens as if envisioning that wonderful moment. His expression was comically devout and he even managed to have his eyes mist over slightly with faux wonder and bliss. His head bobbed gently and his smile was seraphic, showing perfect white teeth. He sighed. “Fuck a duck!”
Aziraphale collapsed in a giggling pile.
“You are an abominable wretch.”
Crowley saluted him elegantly with his cup.
“Aren’t I just?”
Aziraphale watched him down a hefty measure of wine. He picked nervously at his sleeves.
“Crowley?”
“Mmmm?”
“Why did…umm…why did Hell punish you? What happened?” He spoke carefully, hesitating, watching.
Crowley became very still. Aziraphale felt instantly guilty and almost backpedalled.
No! Ask him! You both do this all the time and you never get any further forward. How in Heaven’s name can you help him if you don’t understand what’s happening?
“I’m sorry – I know that you don’t like telling me these things. We always seem to avoid it. But…I want to understand a little better. You don’t have to tell me every little detail. Just a…a general outline. I tell you about Heaven, don’t I? Although, I suppose that’s not exactly the same thing, is it? I mean – “
He paused. Crowley, lips pressed into a long thin line, was glaring at him from behind the green lenses. He then did the most extraordinary thing. Lifting his right hand, he put the tip of his index finger into his mouth, moved his tongue around it briefly, and slid it out slowly. Aziraphale was transfixed. His eyes were drawn to the glistening tip as Crowley lowered it to the table top and pressed it deliberately onto the wooden surface. He raised it again and presented it coolly for Aziraphale’s perusal. A little stunned, the angel peered at it and saw, at the centre of the shiny pad, a tiny black fragment. He swallowed.
“Ah, yes. Right.”
Crowley leaned forwards. His voice was low and tight.
“Fine, angel. You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”
Unaccountably, Aziraphale felt a sudden surge of shame. The prospect of revealing to Crowley the depth of Heaven’s contempt not only for himself but for Brihtwine was practically too painful and personal to be borne. He fought down the almost automatic impulse to dissemble. If he wanted to get anywhere with Crowley, he had to respect the quid pro quo.
Nervously, he clasped and unclasped his hands on the table. His pinkie ring mocked him. He tore his eyes from its gleam and tried to look openly at the demon, but the opaque sea-green sheen was not encouraging and his gaze wandered around, landing only here and there.
“Quite right. I understand. Well, the eh, the flake on your finger is the sad, sole remnant of a missive I received from Gabriel. It’s tenor was brisk, official and generally unpleasant.” He stopped there, wondering if that would be enough. A quick look at the quizzical, insistent eyebrow across from him, told him that, no, it was not enough.
He took a deep breath.
“Gabriel is annoyed. Annoyed that Brihtwine has damned himself, annoyed that he signed off on my report from twenty years ago saying that Brihtwine was top-drawer heavenly material, and annoyed that I am failing quite so spectacularly. Words like ‘chagrin’, ‘disappointment’ and ‘astonishing lapse in judgement’ were bandied about. He also wondered if battling your evil wiles had proved too much for me. He wanted to know where you were. I have to report for a review hearing. With him and Michael.”
Crowley puffed out a sympathetic breath. “Not good, angel.” He got up suddenly in one slithering hip-led motion and began to pace slowly up and down.
“When did you receive this note?”
“Last night, I think. I’m a bit fuzzy on the timeline to be honest.”
“And you’re still here? Shouldn’t you, you know, get up there?”
Aziraphale shrugged huffily, pursing his lips. “They can wait.”
Crowley paused. “The Supreme Archangel can wait? That’s not like you, angel. Huh. I don’t like it.”
He started pacing again, head down, strands of coppery hair swaying in time to his steps.
“Fucking backchannels,” he muttered.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, what backchannels?” Aziraphale scoffed gently. “There is no such thing.”
“Don’t be so naïve!” Crowley snarled. “Of course there are back channels. The timing is too specific. Your friend denounces God. Hell takes me within a few hours. The next day sometime, you get your note from Gabriel, who knows all about it. You are summoned. I am spit back up. It’s stupidly dovetailed.”
“What on earth would they even say to each other?”
“Information is a valuable commodity.” Crowley jutted his chin out, rubbing a knuckle under his chin. ”I don’t like it one bit. Bad enough we each have to deal with them separately, but if they’re pooling their resources…”
“Oh, what nonsense! Heaven despises Hell. No angel would ever stoop to a tawdry exchange with them.”
Crowley’s head snapped round. He hissed.
“Oh, really? Is that what you’re doing, angel – stooping?”
“Don’t be absurd!” Aziraphale could never understand why some conversations with Crowley seemed to veer into this horrid adversarial territory. For a demon, he reflected, he was certainly touchy. He glared at Crowley.
“I’m not talking about you and me. That’s different.”
Crowley opened his mouth to retort, his face pinched and angry. A hum of energy seemed to seethe around his lithe frame. The angel winced slightly, bracing himself for some kind of furious verbal onslaught. There might be smoke, he reminded himself.
Whatever inner turmoil Crowley was intent upon unleashing, however, was unexpectedly quelled. Shoulders drooping, he pinched his nose under his glasses and pulled his hand slowly down over his face.
“Alright then. I’m just saying that the timing of all this is a little…convenient. Makes me twitchy.”
Aziraphale huffed. “I’ll say.”
There was a full, hefty silence, as Crowley meandered around the room, chin on his chest, absentmindedly swirling his wine. The angel watched him surreptitiously, sipping at his own beverage, and resisting the urge to swing around in his chair as the demon passed behind him. In spite of his serpentine attributes, Aziraphale often thought of Crowley as the epitome of a more feline type of grace and refinement. He never moved in way that was ugly, never harsh or coarse, in spite of his somewhat angular form. In this moment, for instance, he was absolutely stalking the space around Aziraphale; with a supple, swinging gait, positively iniquitous hips, and, at least on the surface, complete self-possession. It was an alluring, slightly hypnotic, motion.
Cat-snake thought the angel. Then, snake-cat. Then, demon.
For Heaven’s sake, snap out of it, you idiot!
“Crowley, please sit down. You’re making me dizzy with all the – “ he waved a hand in the air, “- perambulation.”
The demon gave a grunt of acquiescence and obediently folded himself back into his chair. Putting on a frowny face, he showed the angel the sadly empty state of his cup and wiggled it about a bit for emphasis. Aziraphale miraculously replenished the cask (for the fifth time? he wondered) and poured a generous measure for them both.
“This stuff is t’riffic,” purred the demon.
Aziraphale cleared his throat with a business-like cough.
“Right. Now it’s your turn.”
“For what?”
“Stop procrastinating. You know very well. Show me yours.”
Two dark brows shot up above the rim of the green glasses.
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.
“I told you about Gabriel’s note. Now, you tell me what you can about…what happened to you before you got to the Abbey.”
He watched Crowley lean his head on the back of the chair, watched him roll his tongue slowly around his mouth, watched long fingers tap the arm of the chair in a brittle tattoo.
“Well,” Crowley sat up straight. “To absolutely no-one’s surprise the initial cause of our hero’s tragic downfall was a certain bookish principality who –“
“What?” Aziraphale shot upright in outrage. “Me? What did I have to do with it?”
“I’m just about to tell you, if you could shut up for half a second. Now, would you care to tell me how long you spent in the library at Jarrow?”
Aziraphale deflated immediately. “Don’t know. A few years, maybe?”
“Try twenty three.”
“That is simply not poss – !“
“Twenty three years. When I first came to see what you were up to, you were a lay brother by the name of Engelfrid (very clever by the way), and you were elbows-deep in the Historia Francorum and did not want to go for a drink. When I returned seventeen years later to see if you needed the dust swept off you, I believe you were masquerading as your own son, calling yourself Eadig (also amusing). This time you were, if I recall, immersed in Bede’s Historia ecclesiatica gentis Anglorum. Once again, the prospect of a pint at the local hovel did not appeal to you.”
“But Crowley!” Aziraphale almost whined. “Jarrow was the one of the most splendid libraries of western Europe. You and I have seen some incredible repositories of ancient knowledge, but this epoch has been sadly lacking. Yet, amidst of the gloom of this, this Dark Age, there was Jarrow! A jewel! And Bede – a scholar of international renown in his own lifetime. And, with my usual impeccable timing, I missed him by about fifty years.” He looked gloomily into his wine. “But! I had his work, and all the books he learned from. It was…a transformative experience for me. Quite, quite wonderful!”
“Aziraphale, you ditched me for twenty three years for a bunch of dusty scrolls and substandard, watered down Northumbrian mead. I was a tad put out.”
Aziraphale hung his head and examined his finger nails.
“And what exactly was it that encouraged you to leave the monastery library eventually? Mmmm?”
“The Vikings,” he murmured.
“The Vikings. Precisely. The bloody Vikings”
“You’re loving this, aren’t you?”
“It is one of the high points of this story and I am milking it for everything it’s worth. So, yes, where were we?” Crowley adjusted himself in his seat, spreading his limbs every which way. “That’s right. So, ignored and abandoned by his colleague of over five millennia – “
“Oh, knock it off! So dramatic…”
“Ignored and abandoned, our hero decided to go for a bit of a nap. This, in retrospect, was where I made my bloomer. My nap was a little more extensive than I had planned, no doubt brought on by my recent personal disappointment. When I finally woke up, the tenth century was surprisingly well under way.”
“Crowley!”
“I know. If it makes you feel any better, it was me that had a fine layer of dust over me. There was a lot of coughing when consciousness finally crept back in. Everything seemed fine, and there was a job waiting for me from the Temptations Department: an abbess from Romsey, called Aethelflaeda1. She seemed destined for sainthood and Hell were keen to grab her if they could. A real win for them if they could manage it. Didn’t seem to me that it would be too much of a stretch, religious types being what they are.”
He held up a hand to offset Aziraphale’s outraged splutter.
“Oh, come on. You know what they’re like – so rigid, it’s a doddle to snap them in two. Piety is a double-edged sword when it comes to sin, angel. The Almighty forgives everything, so nothing is truly forbidden. Ha! Religion: an egotist’s hunting ground. Anyway –“
Seeing Aziraphale’s purpling complexion, he hurried on.
“ Anyway, off I went to Hampshire, to insinuate myself with the good Aethelflaeda.”
He paused, and a slow smile spread over his features, not the wolfish grin that Aziraphale might have expected, but instead it was mellow, playful. His eyes were soft.
“The short version is – I failed. She was the most delightful person, and nothing I did mattered a jot to her. Nothing fazed her. The local crops unexpectedly failed. The tithes were mysteriously embezzled. Two of her nuns eloped with farmhands. A strange itching condition broke out at the abbey and the entire sisterhood was driven demented. A huge batch of candles for the rectory developed a fault and resolutely would not light. Between one thing and another, the entire abbey was in uproar, and I was having terrific fun. I had engendered so many nudges to damnation among so many people that I should have been given a commendation.
But…nothing worked with Aethelflaeda. She was resolute, kind, dedicated and impossibly composed. I would have found her unbearable if it hadn’t been for the fact that she was actually endearingly eccentric. Do you know, angel, that she had a distinctly un-nunlike penchant for bathing in the open air? And praying in the nude? Hand to Satan, it’s the truth.”
Aziraphale’s eyebrows were working overtime.
“One day – and I witnessed this myself, as I had inveigled my way into her retinue – she visited the Queen, at her invitation. Her majesty witnessed one of Aethelflaeda’s nightly nude sessions and promptly fell down in an epileptic fit. Unpleasant, no doubt, but not damnable – and anyway, Aethelflaeda prayed her better.
I was stumped. This woman was a rock. So, as a last resort, I tried a blatant seduction. I had no shame: went with the I-am-a-doomed-sinner-and-am-unforgiveable-please-save-me-and-don’t-I-look-edible-in-these-tights gambit. Gave it everything. The smile, the tears, the charm, the whole package. And do you know what she did? Patted me on the knee, said I was a good lad, and she had no doubt that God would forgive me, and I should pop along to the kitchens and get something to eat as I needed feeding up.”
Crowley took a long swallow of wine, as Aziraphale giggled at his comic discomfiture.
“It was a real blow, angel, I won’t lie. My ego was the size of a peanut. What was a diabolical minister to do? The material problem was that I really liked her.”
The demon gazed into his wine.
“She was devout, without being sickening. She was kind, without being cloying. She was quirky, individual. I had a problem.”
“But what could you do? You had a specific instruction.” Aziraphale’s voice was low. He could see the fragments of a cloud start to drift over Crowley’s brow.
A grim chuckle broke from the demon and his mouth quirked in a kind of oral shrug.
“I’m a fiend. I cheated.”
He got up suddenly, plonking the cup down on the table.
“May I perambulate?”
Aziraphale made a haughty face and gestured with a generous wave. “Please do.”
Crowley bowed satirically, and began once again to eat up the space with his long, loose strides. There was a noticeable weave and sway.
“There was another nun in the abbey, an older woman called Hild. She was a hard, bitter woman, but Aethelflaeda trusted her. Hild had been vocal in her support when Aethelflaeda became abbess and they had worked well together in establishing Romsey and getting more charters from King Edgar. Hild had the charge of the initiates: there were only about a dozen of them, aged, well maybe between five and twelve? Hild made sure that their introduction to the life of the abbey was not a gentle one.”
Aziraphale watched with concern as Crowley’s face hardened and his mouth worked as if trying to dispel a foul taste from it.
“She beat them, beat the children. And I was so busy concentrating on Aethelflaeda, so concerned with doing my job that I didn’t even notice until I came across one of the poor little things hiding in the stables, sobbing and bleeding. She was six years old, Aziraphale. Six!
Of course, I healed her as best I could, and blurred her memory of what had happened, both the punishment and the miracle. Then I went to have a little chat with Hild.”
Aziraphale could see small wisps of smoke floating up from Crowley’s thin shoulders, trailing behind him as he paced more erratically, wine and wrath eroding his usual grace.
“You will no doubt be astonished to hear that I did not instantly smite her into a million crispy bits. But I don’t pretend that I wasn’t hard pushed. Sanctimonious, odious, twisted, depraved wretch had the temerity to lie to me. Me, a demon! And smile into my face, no less.”
The air around the angel began to crackle alarmingly, and he sensed tiny fizzing fingers of electricity buzzing in his curls.
“Umm, Crowley?”
Oblivious, the demon continued to fume.
Aziraphale reached out, grasped a passing sleeve and tugged at the material briefly.
“My dear fellow, I spent a not inconsiderable amount of energy on tidying this place up and I would very much rather it did not get struck by lightning after all that effort. Do you mind?”
The shock of the angel’s touch brought Crowley to a standstill and he looked about himself as if surprised. He ran a hand through his hair.
“Uh, course, yeah. Sorry ‘bout that. Got a bit annoyed.”
“Completely understandable. Can you carry on, you know, without incinerating us?” Aziraphale hoped the needling would bring Crowley back from the brink a little.
“Well, I will certainly try. Wouldn’t want to get you all mussed up, angel,” he drawled.
“I’d very much appreciate it.”
Crowley grimaced exaggeratedly.
“Well, I knew Aethelflaeda wouldn’t believe me, so I decided to, you know, stack the deck. The next day, in front of witnesses, I told her what I knew about Hild, then gave her the power to look through a stone wall adjacent to Hild’s cell, where she could then clearly see the stack of switches that the loathsome harridan had stored there. There was utter pandemonium.”
Crowley grinned. “It was beautiful.”
Aghast, Aziraphale blurted “You performed a miracle in full public view? Good heavens, Crowley, what were you thinking?”
“Two things.” He held up one long index finger.
“One. Hild was exposed, and had no recourse. Aethelflaeda removed her from her post instantly and set her to work on an extremely long and involved penitence and – “ He held up a second digit.
“Two. Multiple witnesses were able to attest to the fact that the abbess had performed a miracle, and this will stand her in good stead for the achievement of sainthood and her eventual arrival in Heaven. I expect she is there already, in fact.”
He nodded in a pleased fashion.
“But what about your task? You completely sabotaged any chance of success. I understand your motives, of course, but Crowley –“
“I attached the job number of my temptation to Hild’s soul and submitted the paperwork.”
Aziraphale gaped.
“Upon her arrival in Hell, she was identified as Aethelflaeda.”
“But –“
“Yep.”
“You can’t –“
“I did.”
“Good God above!”
“Debatable.”
Crowley wandered over to the bed, threw himself upon it, and heaved in a great breath.
“The only – teensy, tiny - fly in the ointment,” he said, pinching his finger and thumb to demonstrate, and looking over at Aziraphale, who was still sitting like a stunned blowfish, “Was that I got caught.”
The enormity of all of this was swirling around Aziraphale’s head. Not for the first time, his wonder at the demon’s kindness, keen sense of justice, unmitigated gall, and brazen duplicity was all-encompassing. That Crowley thought for an instant that such a hare-brained scheme would actually work was a testament to his unlimited optimism and fervid imagination. Again, not for the first time, he was provoked by the patent unfairness of Crowley’s fate.
“How on earth did you think that such an outrageous piece of flimflam would work?”
“It did work,” he retorted, “It worked beautifully. Hild went to Hell and Aethelflaeda went to Heaven. And ‘flimflam’? Really?”
Ignoring the barb, the angel barged ahead.
“But Hild would always have gone to Hell. And Aethelflaeda would probably have gone to Heaven as well.”
“I made sure of it.”
“At the possible cost to your existence? Crowley, that’s madness!”
“No.” Crowley sat up suddenly, swinging his legs onto the floor. “No. That was what followed.”
“What do you mean?”
Crowley shot a quick glance at the angel, a sorrowful, questioning swipe, and then, dropping his head, rubbed his palms together forcefully.
“Look, I’m just gonna run through this next bit, alright? It’s…not really relevant. Just stuff, you know?”
“Alright.” Aziraphale became instantly tense, wanting to know, but not wanting to feel, what came next.
“So,” Crowley launched himself once more to his feet and the inevitable pacing began again. “I was in China for a bit after that. Helped them out with a new thing I thought Hell might be interested in – the fire-lance. You know, gunpowder and all that. Now, before you get all shirty, they already had most of it figured out and were deploying a version of it in the Jin-Song wars. Very effective, but needed a better delivery system, which was where I came in. Strictly on the design front, you understand. Anyway, I was busy as a bee, happy as a clam and then – WALLOP – found myself standing, a bit singed, in front of Satan.”
He walked faster, occasionally turning to Aziraphale with an arm gesture, but resolutely making no eye contact.
He audibly gulped.
“Turns out that, hilariously enough, I had missed a performance review while I had been asleep. Hell, being as administratively challenged as usual, did not discover this until shortly before I went to China. The…umm…the error finally being discovered by the Temptations Oversight Committee, they instituted an in-depth retrospective reappraisal of the last hundred years of my work.”
Waves of stress began to roll off the demon, his normally loose-limbed posture now hunched a little at the shoulders and slightly bent, as he seemed to curl over his own anxiety. Aziraphale felt a corresponding wrench in his own guts and found his fingers twisting the sleeves of his monkish robe.
“Naturally enough, all was breezy. Until they came to Hild. Like everyone who winds up in the Infernal Regions, she had complained loudly that she was not supposed to be there and that she was not Aethelflaeda. Unsurprisingly, the clerk in admissions did not believe her. He hears it all the time. Still, he made a note in the file. Efficient little rat bastard! Umm…anyway, this note was uncovered during the review and Hild was interviewed. She was predictably cooperative and outspoken, expressing some frank views upon my professionalism.”
He gulped again, and rolled his hand at the wrist.
“Then they summoned me and, it kinda went downhill from there.”
Aziraphale’s heart expanded in sympathy, and he felt the familiar prick of tears.
“Crowley…”
Crowley stopped, mid-step, then loped towards the door.
“Fresh air. Back soon.”
There was a whirl of cool air and a slam, and the angel was left only with the hiss of the fire and pounding of his own heart. He twisted his ring and agonised about whether or not he should pursue the demon.
And do what exactly? Sympathise with him on being hideously tortured? Like you know anything about it! Don’t be a fool. He doesn’t want you there. You know what he’s like. Always needing to appear cool and in control. It must be exhausting.
The sound of violent retching reached him, followed by coughing and – was that sobbing? Aziraphale, knowing he couldn’t help, also knew he couldn’t sit still. He got up awkwardly and walked around the room, feeling foolish and inept as he straightened blankets, plumped cushions and generally futzed around. He checked on the wine, refilled the cups and pointlessly wiped the table. A faint creeping sensation gnawed at the back of his brain and the angel paused, wondering what was troubling him. Then it struck him. Apart from the cups and the cask, the table was empty. Where was Brihtwine’s letter?
Struck by an uprush of nervousness, Aziraphale looked rather wildly around him. He was sure he had left it there. How could he have been so careless? How could he have forgotten? With Crowley sitting right there. He cast around the floor. Nothing. He reached into the pouch on his belt – and there it was. Heaving an enormous sigh, he pressed the parchment to his chest and then returned it to the pouch.
I must have put it back before I passed out. Really, you need to pull yourself together. There’s poor Crowley out there, hanging by a thread and you’re worried about whether he’s seen a letter from an old lover! As if he would care! He’s too busy trying to navigate an existence where every mis-step leads to unimaginable torment. Oh, God, let me be better at this. Let me do the right thing!
The front door swung open slowly and Aziraphale saw the tall figure of the demon framed by the night. Both elbows were propped on the door surround, and wispy flakes of snow drifted in. His glasses dangled from his right hand.
“Alright?” Aziraphale was tentative.
“Yep.” Crowley sauntered into the room with excessive casualness, and the door swung to behind him. “Still snowing. Not as much, though”
“I’ve poured more wine. Come and sit down. Do you want something to eat?”
Shaking his head, Crowley almost toppled into the chair, flinging his glasses carelessly onto the table.
“Nah. Not hungry.”
Aziraphale had spent a lot of his existence trying to build up a sort of interpretive guide to Crowley, one of the most guarded beings he had ever met, and much of it hinged on the sunglasses. Now, at this very vulnerable moment, the demon had discarded them. Aziraphale did not know what this indicated, but he held himself ready. Sitting down slowly, he watched the bent coppery head in front of him. Twitching fingers started to drag through the gleaming strands convulsively.
“I really do think some food would settle you down, you know.”
“Stop fussing, angel. Look –“
Crowley looked up, right into Aziraphale’s eyes, and the emotion there nearly paralysed the angel. The golden eyes were intense, searching, the brows quirked in worry, the wide mouth mobile and trembling slightly. His fine features shone with a mist of perspiration.
“It’s all my fault. All of it. Your friend. Everything.” His voice broke. “I’m so sorry”. Then he spoke in a furious rush, hands jerking and twitching. “Satan said ‘Go get the Abbot of Glastonbury. You’ve got a human lifetime to do it. You like the humans, don’t you? Like making decisions on their behalf? Trying being one for a bit. Tricky, Crowley. Doubt if you’ll make it. Especially in the shape you’re in now.’ And I thought I was finished. I mean, I was going to give it my best shot. Odds weren’t good, but -. And then, there you were.”
This last sentence was so sad, so broken that it was everything the angel could do not to reach out to the demon, to comfort him. He didn’t think that he had ever seen Crowley so vulnerable, and it hurt almost beyond endurance. Marshalling every ounce of self-possession that he owned, clenching his fists under the table, he put all the empathy he could into his face and voice.
“I know. I understand. But look, it’s not your fault. You’ve explained it to me before and, believe me, it’s the only thing that makes anything we’re forced to do bearable. Aethelflaeda, Hild, and Brit – Brit, perhaps, even more than the others – made their own decisions, Crowley. They had free will. They owned their choices – Brit made that expressly clear to me. If anything, Hell punished you for not doing as you were told, for hoodwinking them. And since you’re a demon, and they are an infernal organization operated by demons, it seems pretty unreasonable of them. No, they punished you just for being who you are.”
He paused. “And my lot are about to punish me just for being who I am.”
Crowley frowned. “Bastards, all of them.”
“Crowley! At least Heaven are trying to do the right thing.”
“Don’t you try and defend that outfit to me!”
Aziraphale bristled. “They are NOT an ‘outfit’! Heaven is divinely ordained to carry out the Almighty’s ineffable plan!”
“Oh, here we go again…” groaned the demon, slumping back and throwing his arms out in extravagant resignation. Letting his arms fall, boneless, past the arms of the chair, he looked like nothing more than a wilted plant. “Satan! Come get me! He’s going to witter on about ineffability again.”
Aziraphale tutted in only partially mock alarm. “Don’t say that, for goodness sake!”
“Why don’t YOU have something to eat? It has the added benefit of shutting you up.” He thought for a second. “Well, almost. Go on. Devour something.”
“I’m not hungry, either.” Aziraphale pushed his chair back abruptly and stood up. “I want to talk to you.”
He was aware of Crowley watching him narrowly.
“You are, in fact, talking to me, angel.”
“Yes. Right.” Aziraphale tried to organize his thoughts and quell his anxiety at the same time. The one process was not necessarily assisting the other. He moved out from behind the table and took a couple of steps. He caught himself fidgeting once more with the sleeves of his robe, put down his arms deliberately, and then was not at all surprised when they bounced back up again. Sighing, he clasped them at his waist and tried to compose himself. He bowed his head briefly and then looked into Crowley’s now rather concerned face.
“Remember when you were the Black Knight?”
“Pretty random, but yes. I was fomenting, if I recall.”
“Indeed. And remember we had a little discussion about how we cancelled each other out?”
“Actually, we had a row, and you marched off in a snit.”
“I did NOT march off…well, alright, that’s fair. Well, these last few days, with everything that’s happened, I’ve been thinking about what you said then, about submitting the reports anyway.”
“I’m confused, angel. If anything, the poor filing of reports, and that poor filing being brought to light, is what got us into this mess.”
“Yes, I know, but with a little more…reorganisation, I think we could have a workable plan.”
Now that he had come to the point, Aziraphale thought that he was going to throw up. This was…treason, fraternising with the enemy.
“You alright?”
“Not really, no.” He put one hand on the table, hissing a long breath out between pursed lips.
“Whatever it is, why don’t you leave it for now? Revisit it later?”
“No, I need to do it now, before I go and meet with Gabriel. I’m fine, really. Right!”
He stood upright and just rushed at it.
“If the last few weeks has taught us anything, it’s that we’re vulnerable. We’re out on a limb. Especially you. We open ourselves up to the humans, in order to do our jobs, and it can have a profound effect on us. Neither of our, er, employers, appreciate that. In fact, we are castigated for it.
What we need is some kind of protection, insurance if you will. And the only insurance we have at our disposal is each other. What I propose is an…an Arrangement.”
Aziraphale bounced a little, the excitement of something new gradually throwing his fear into the shade.
Crowley was frowning in concentration.
“An Arrangement? With a capital letter, indeed. Go on.”
Aziraphale sat down and leaned forward eagerly.
“Basically, we would keep in touch and help each other out when the need arose. If the work became too much, we could help each other with the blessings, the temptations, the miracles and so on. You know, the milder ones that we could each readily cope with, bearing in mind free will and all that. That would free both of us up to do those things that have cost us so dearly, like sleeping for you, or reading for me. Let’s say there was a miracle and a temptation to be done in the Oxford area, for example. One of us would go and do both, submit their own paperwork and give the other paperwork back to be submitted by the correct party. That way, both jobs are done, Heaven and Hell are satisfied, and we are both safe.”
Crowley was still frowning, the angel noted worriedly.
“What do you think?”
The demon shifted in his seat. He took a tentative sip of wine.
“How would we decide who does what?”
“Well, maybe one of us will have a particular preference and, if not…we could just toss a coin, I suppose.”
“And it would mean that we kept in touch more regularly?”
“Yes. We could miracle notes to each other and then destroy them upon receipt. That way, there’s no trace, and we don’t get caught out by performance reviews and any other work business. It would be much easier to stay on top of things.”
Crowley was still quieter than Aziraphale had expected. He was such a loner, so closed off, so used to making all his own decisions, maybe he didn’t like the idea of being more closely connected.
“It wouldn’t be all the time, you understand. Just those occasions where the jobs were close together. I wouldn’t be living in your pocket or anything.”
There was a sharp inhalation and Crowley began to choke on some aspirated Spanish wine. Little maroon drops sprayed the table.
“Look, we didn’t come through all this just for you to discorporate from choking!” Aziraphale began to wipe up the dribbles and droplets as Crowley coughed and wheezed. “If you don’t like the idea, just say so!”
“’S’not that,” he gasped. “Breathed at the wrong time. Jussa minute.”
Eventually, his chest stopped heaving and, wiping his mouth, he looked at Aziraphale with a serious aspect.
“It’s dangerous.”
“It’s already dangerous, Crowley. How could it be worse? We’re already…” he waved a hand back and forth between them, “whatever this is. We already…associate. This arrangement would simply help us to be a little more organised, and a little safer as a result.”
“And would you be happy to do the tempting? You know, prodding people towards damnation? I know you, angel, you’re as soft as clouds.”
For a moment, Aziraphale nearly beamed at the backhanded compliment, but managed to master himself just in time.
“I’ve thought a great deal about it, especially recently. As long as it was nothing too…extreme. You know, no violence. Or body parts. Or sexual deviance.”
“What the almighty fuck do you think I get up to?!” shouted an apoplectic demon, trying not to choke on his beverage a second time.
“Well, how should I know?” protested the angel irately, “You never tell me anything!”
There was a long, tense pause.
“Right,” Crowley muttered.
The pause lengthened.
The demon sucked down a long draught of wine. The angel eyed him apprehensively, scanning the reserved countenance opposite.
Finally, Crowley swirled his goblet.
“So…sheep-shagging’s out then?”
Aziraphale hunted around in vain for something to throw at Crowley’s head, as the demon crumpled into a hooting, guffawing pile of black, red and yellow.
“You’re an impudent, vile, obnoxious fiend, and I don’t know why I bother with you!” His lips were twitching treacherously.
“You bother with me because I am charming, debonair and infinitely entertaining.” He pursed his lips and tossed his head prettily, and Aziraphale could not help but laugh.
“And you are wildly conceited.”
For a second, the angel could not help but allow himself to wallow in the moment. It always happened, sooner or later, in all of their encounters. Past the fear, past the ideologically adversarial stance, past the awkwardness of just being so different, they had this. This…connection. There was always an instant that both of them were mellow enough, or drunk enough, to just enjoy each other. It wouldn’t last of course. While he was happy to provoke the demon, and to flirt with him a little, Crowley seemed oblivious. That head toss, though. Aziraphale wriggled deep down inside himself. Oh, he had enjoyed that. Exquisite, glorious Crowley.
“Am I dribbling or something?”
“No!” The angel snapped out of his reverie reluctantly. “No, I was just thinking about what you asked. Seriously. I think I can do it – the tempting. You’ve explained it to me before, and Brit has, too. I know it’s just a suggestion, a hint, and that the humans can either accept it or decline it. It’s their decision.”
“Look, you might find it’s easier said than done but – hey, I’ll give you some training.”
“You will! Oh, that’s splendid! And what about you? Do you think you could handle being…nice?”
A glower started to erupt.
Aziraphale held up an admonishing hand, and then abruptly faked an ostentatious yawn, flapping a palm over his mouth.
“Forgive me, I forgot. You are a malign, despicable, wicked and depraved minister of Hell.”
“Exactly.” The tone was mollified.
“Perverse, monstrous, vile, immoral, vicious – “
“Alright, alright, thank you!”
“Corrupt, loathsome, sadistic, tainted, putrescent –“
“Oi!”
Aziraphale grinned.
Crowley crossed his legs huffily. “I will manage the blessings just fine. Might hurt a bit. Be a nice change of pace, though.”
The angel felt a buzz of anticipation, of excitement.
“You’ll do it, then?
Crowley’s head tilted back, his yellow eyes focussed on the ceiling, their elliptical pupils wide, and Aziraphale could see his jaw working. Crowley lowered his head and stared at the angel, chin still moving.
“I’ll do it.”
He thrust out a lean hand towards the angel. Aziraphale, thrilled, and not a little awed by the solemnity of what this simple handshake might entail, grasped it eagerly with his right hand and, not quite satisfied, covered it with his left as well. Crowley’s hand was warm and smooth, enfolded within his own, and he held it lingeringly, and shook it firmly.
He smiled sunnily and breezily at the demon, who gazed back at him calmly, but with an amiable smile of his own. Then he softly withdrew his hand from the angel’s grasp, and Aziraphale instantly mourned the loss of contact.
“Well, this feels pretty official,” stated Crowley, “So let’s make a toast. After you, angel.”
Aziraphale lifted his cup. Licking his lips, he thrust the cup forward.
“To the Arrangement!”
Their cups collided, wine slapping up the sides.
“To the Arrangement!”
They drank.
Inevitably, there was more wine, more laughter, and much more talking. Their new deal, more than the vast quantities of alcohol, seemed to have relaxed them both, as if there was an assurance now, an agreement of mutual aid, a firmer bond. Aziraphale had not always trusted Crowley – he was a demon after all. He had to admit however, that the mistrust had come from an eternity of embedded thinking. Crowley never, at any point, gave him any reason not to trust him. In the final analysis, it was that lived experience with the demon that finally swayed him.
He glanced over at Crowley, who was sprawled like an upended spider on the bed, limbs every which way, hands gesticulating passionately about…whatever. They had agreed that Aziraphale would leave soon and that Crowley would, after a nap, take the horse and the cart back to the abbey, himself suitably disguised.
Crowley had been starting to get anxious about the angel’s impending performance review.
“Do you think they’ll keep you long?”
“No idea. Depends how peeved Gabriel is, and what he decides to do about my…failures.”
Gloomily he pondered the looming deluge of condescension, veiled accusation, not so veiled contempt. He did not relish trying to talk his way around his ineptitude regarding Brihtwine. Did not relish crushing down his own emotions in order to lie more fluently to his boss.
“What are the options?”
“Umm…re-education in human relations with Michael. Or Gabriel. That’s if I’m lucky.”
“Human relations! That pair! What do they know about humans?”
“It’s not what they know, Crowley. It’s Heaven’s idea of how they want an angel to act. Nothing to do with actual experience.”
“Humph. And if you’re unlucky?”
Aziraphale had chewed his lip.
“Sandalphon.”
“Really? What does the Happy Smiter bring to the table?”
“Emphasis.”
Aziraphale had then changed the conversation.
It was time to go. He knew it. Well past time, probably. Time to face the music. Time to put this week behind him. Time to grieve for Brit properly.
He was still watching Crowley. He was curled on his side this time, propped up on one elbow. The subject, apparently, was gardening, and it seemed to be a hot topic, judging by the fluidity of the other arm.
“Another thing Aethelflaeda did, apart from the watering regime, was that she talked to the bloody plants! Actually talked to them! How extraordinary! I mean, that has to be nonsense, hasn’t it? What do you say to a bloody plant? What do you actually say?”
Just five more minutes, Aziraphale promised himself.
Just five more minutes.
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