Work Text:
>1926—London, England.
Crowley was a devastatingly powerful woman.
Of course, she was quite the formidable man, as well. And a magnificent in-between. She had this magnetic draw about her. It was built into her form, as it were. It showed itself in her saunter, her posture. Her general air of coolness, smooth but quiet bravado. An essence of confidence that was surely an exaggerated act, and yet every living being seemed to fall for it heartily. She was a demonic force of nature when it came to attraction, and when she was actually trying, her abilities were nothing short of obscene. Part of that was by design, of course. The body that was prescribed to her was a versatile (and no doubt, appealing) one. But then the rest of it was intrinsic to such a degree that surely she would be no less desirable in any other body. With every new style she adopted (whether for her own preference, or in hopes of attracting a particular target), Aziraphale was positive she had reached her peak. And yet, the demon had a way of one-upping herself at every turn.
Aziraphale always had some trouble pretending not to notice. Angels were not naturally skilled liars. So, he often covered his… complicated emotions with pearl-clutching shock. As was the case when Crowley emerged from the bookshops backroom in her latest fashion
She was breathtaking. Blood-constricting, in fact. It was positively outrageous. But it was not the usual way she tended to tempt.
She was dressed in a modified, off-white flapper dress. It was modified to ever so slightly cinch the waist, which was out of fashion, but popular fashion always tended to bend to Crowley's will anyway. The colour was cream, with a layer of beige lace over it that extended to tassels, equipped with white beads. The dress hemmed just above her knees (too high of a hemline, and yet it seemed more classy than scandalous) while the tassels draped lower, to brush the tops of her stocking-covered calves. The neckline scooped low, displaying the decolletage of her flat chest, where she hung two long strings of pearls that matched her pearl earrings. The dress was only as flashy as was currently in fashion—less so, in fact—and was considerably more understated than Crowley tended to be. Her heels matched in colour, but they were simply one solid colour, with only a strap on her ankle to dress them up. On her arms were long white silk gloves, complete with a pearl bracelet. Her dazzling red hair was lighter, closer to a natural ginger, and bobbed in fluffy curls around her face.
Whenever Crowley dressed to tempt, she always had her face painted with a glamorous amount of makeup. Just like everything else, she tended to go over the top. But not on this day. Today, her makeup was minimal. Instead of her usual over the top colours and contrast, her makeup was light and natural. Her cheeks and lips were pink. The natural shape of her eyes was only accentuated by a black line on her lid, and she had a birthmark drawn on her cheekbone.
She was lovely. A vision. And entirely too exposed for Aziraphale's liking.
There were a plethora of things he wanted to say to her. (And do, if he was being crass, but he pushed those thoughts out of his mind as quickly as they came.) They all fluttered around in his mind like doves released from a cage. He had to grab onto one—so he chose to be appalled. He crossed his arms indignantly, leaning back against the wall. He was not typically one to lean, but Crowley had left him waiting for a considerable amount of time as she got dressed. He gave Crowley a disapproving look.
“Isn't that a tad… risqué?” He asked, giving Crowley an accusatory once-over (that undoubtedly had an ulterior motive.) Crowley was paying him no mind. Clearly she didn't perceive her emergence in that outfit as a note-worthy entrance. It was just another day for her, but in the meantime, Aziraphale's tongue felt heavy in his mouth.
“Mhm,” Crowley hummed absently, adjusting the gloves on her arms, “That's th’ point, angel.”
“Dear, this is England,” Aziraphale urged, overpowering his distracted mind, “We aren't in France or America—you have to maintain a certain modesty.”
She rolled her eyes at him and met his gaze. A hand landed on her cocked hip and Aziraphale thought he could keel over and die from that sight alone. “I'm a temptress, angel. Modesty will get me nowhere.”
Aziraphale swallowed heavily and leaned off of the wall, straightening his back. “On the contrary,” He began, “In a civilized society, I'm positive they find modesty quite… tempting indeed.”
“P’haps in a civilized society,” Crowley scoffed, “But this is Earth. The humans only pretend to be civilized, as do we when we're around them.”
Aziraphale turned up his nose at that. “That's awfully cynical.”
“It's realistic,” Crowley retorted simply, the words said as if it was the gospel truth. She was fussing over her dress, untangling the tassels, adjusting the straps on her shoulders. She didn't seem entirely comfortable with her current get-up, which Aziraphale figured was to be expected. It was worlds different from what she usually wore, after all. Still, if she was so uncomfortable, he didn't understand why she couldn't just change. She could snap her fingers and be in flashy shades of red and black in an instance.
He couldn't resist commenting on it. “The colour is an… interesting choice.”
She must've finally noticed him, watching her pick at and adjust her garments to such a meticulous degree, because she stopped. She gave the dress one final straighten out and then left it be. “All part of the image, angel.”
“But, white? Why white?”
She smirked and gave him a coy shrug. “The colour of purity,” She answered, as if that were reason enough. When he raised a skeptical brow, she waved him off. “It's a costume, angel. A character. You don't have to understand it. It’s not for you, anyway.” She began toward the door, with Aziraphale trailing behind her like a duckling to it’s mother. They left the bookshop, the bell ringing as they went, and broke out into the evening air. It was a warm, late summer evening—thankfully for Crowley, who hadn't bothered with a wrap to keep herself warm in her attire. Just outside the bookshop was her newest toy: a brand new car. It was a black Bentley, finished in the spring of that year and released for purchase not long after. Crowley had already gotten attached, but Aziraphale wasn't sure how long that would last. The demon's attachments were like that of a constant stream. They changed in a rush, never the same twice. She had some consistencies. Some rocks, large and sturdy enough to withstand the ever-moving current. But there was no telling what would stick and what wouldn't. Time would tell if the Bentley was a sturdy stone.
Crowley unlocked the driver's side, as Aziraphale rounded to the passenger's seat. As she opened the door, she commented, “I don't understand why you'll be in attendance tonight, anyway.”
“Why shouldn't I be? I'm appreciative of the arts,” Aziraphale answered unconvincingly. Crowley gave him a pointed look, her thick lashes low. The defensive tone in the angel's voice gave him away, so he may as well relent his true intentions. So he went on, “Besides, someone has to look out for you. I still can't believe that Hell would send you into the lion's den all by yourself.”
Crowley breathed a laugh. She climbed into the car and reached over to open the door for Aziraphale. As he sat beside her, Crowley was smirking and starting the engine. “You know, despite it being entirely against the nature of our existence, Hell happens to trust me. Unlike some angels.”
Aziraphale took genuine offense to that. The two of them may not have much as far as traditional relationships were concerned, but time alone had allotted them trust at the very least. Crowley should know that trust had absolutely nothing to do with it. They had experience with less than kind humans (to put it lightly), particularly when Crowley was working these sorts of missions. Humans were animals, after all. Hungry animals. And there was nothing that triggered a bite quite like dangling food in front of a salivating beast.
“I trust you just fine,” Aziraphale argued, “It's those animals I'm skeptical about.”
Crowley was still smirking, looking nothing but amused, as she pulled away from the curb. “You are so paranoid, angel. They're harmless.”
“I can recall a plethora of events in which they were not, as you call them, harmless.”
“I am quite capable of taking care of myself, Aziraphale,” Crowley shot back. It was apparently her turn to be defensive, but she didn't make a show of it. She was much too cool for that. “I've been doing this for thousands of years. If you are such a purveyor of the arts, as you claim, you could just enjoy the show rather than trailing after me like a lost puppy.”
Aziraphale often wondered if Crowley was leagues more nervous than she let on. She had a tendency to be the most nonchalant—the most unbothered and calm—as a front for Aziraphale's sake when things were really bad. She was the strongest when she was rescuing him. She became this force of nature, unstoppable and unbothered with her own personal safety. She couldn't be scared then. Not when Aziraphale was scared. The only other time that side of her surfaced was when she was on one of these sorts of missions. Then, all of a sudden, she wasn't bothered by anything and every concern Aziraphale had was nothing but a petty annoyance. Aziraphale saw through her more often than not, he just chose not to comment on it. He always had a sneaking suspicion Crowley was more scared—and especially more insecure—than she let anyone believe. Just the way she fidgeted with her clothing, or darted her eyes away, was enough for Aziraphale to know she was much too self conscious. And when she made an effort to suppress that, that was when he knew she was anxious. Now, here she was in the car, driving at an unbelievable speed with one hand on the wheel and one to prop her head against the window. He knew she was unsettled by what was to come.
“I'm a good multi-tasker,” Aziraphale answered.
Crowley let it go. Aziraphale was grateful. He didn't want to argue, and he certainly wasn't going to fold and let Crowley go alone.
The gallery opening had already started when they arrived, which Aziraphale figured was by design. Crowley liked to make an entrance, after all. But beyond that, the beginning of a gallery opening always dragged with speeches, and Crowley was impatient in general with those sorts of things.
When they came to a stop, Crowley remembered herself and snapped her fingers. A pair of dark tinted glasses appeared on her face, effeminate and thinly framed with brown lenses instead of her usual black. Then, the car was passed onto a valet as the two of them walked up the steps into the gallery. Aziraphale was fixing his suit jacket, rebuttoning it as they walked up the steps. But Crowley was fidgeting again. She was fussing over her pearl bracelet, adjusting its placement on her wrist. She also wasn't engaging with Aziraphale, nor was she even looking ahead to the gallery's entrance. What was she so worried about?
Aziraphale wouldn't bother asking. She wouldn't admit to anything, anyway. So instead, he reached out and did something unspeakable. He took her by the wrist. They continued walking, but she tensed up like she'd been shocked. Undeterred, Aziraphale put her hand in the crook of his elbow, like they were any other man and woman walking into the gallery together.
“I'm sure you've heard enough from me about your appearance already, my dear,” He said, his voice low as they walked through the doors, “But I believe I forgot to say that I think you look lovely.”
Crowley looked over at him with an incredulous amount of disbelief and a lack of amusement. “Oh, really?” She replied sarcastically. But Aziraphale was perfectly earnest as he smiled back.
“Really. You should have no problem reeling the poor man in.”
That seemed to ease Crowley. She laughed, which Aziraphale took as a resounding success. She didn't respond—responding would require accepting the compliment, which she was never wont to do. But she didn't outwardly reject it either.
The gallery wasn’t necessarily crowded—it was too large to be crowded, even with a sizable group. But it was crawling with finely dressed, wealthy men and women, walking slowly and talking in hushed voices as they examined the art. There was soft jazz playing from another room that bled into the main hall. As they got in, Crowley's head was on a swivel, looking for her target. Aziraphale didn't know who to look for, so he decided to focus on the art.
The first piece he saw was what looked to be a woman's full body, painted in an abstract pose with two stark red poppies above her. The plaque read that it was from 1916, by an artist called Vanessa Bell. He scanned the other paintings and found a distinct theme of nude bodies, in varying degrees of detail. It seemed every painting on the walls featured a person with little to no clothing.
Aziraphale was positively scandalized. He leaned over to Crowley's ear and quietly exclaimed, “Crowley, the people in these portraits are all naked!”
Crowley was unphased. All she did was laugh at him and focus on the paintings momentarily, noticing them for the first time. “Ah, the beauty of post-war art,” She answered, “Still think my outfit is too risqué, angel?”
Aziraphale stared at her in discontent. “This won't do. Did you know they—”
“There he is,” Crowley said suddenly, more to herself than to Aziraphale. As soon as she said it, she was slipping her hand away from his arm and starting to walk away, like a hook on a line being reeled in. Aziraphale was left grasping for what to do with himself.
“Wait—where are you going?" He demanded. Though he knew, of course, he was terribly embarrassed to be viewing this kind of art all by himself. He'd look like some sort of pervert!
"Another day at the office, angel,” She said, with a flippant wave of her hand, “Enjoy the art.” Aziraphale was slack jawed, watching Crowley leave him to his own devices. He felt like he was out at sea without a life raft.
He wanted to remain close to Crowley, but didn't want to rouse the man's attention—nor Crowley's, for that matter. So he joined the masses, who seemed to be taking in the art in an organized line, stopping at a piece for a while before moving onto the next one. Crowley had skipped that line to land beside an older man. From appearances alone, he was clearly older than Aziraphale's body looked, but not a senior by any means. His hair was salt and pepper and balding on the top, still thick on the sides. He had a big, crooked nose and small beady eyes, skinny legs with a bloated belly, and a resting face that looked like he was smelling something funny. He was wearing a dark blue pin striped suit that looked expensive, with a gold pocket watch connected to his jacket's button by a chain. No one was paying him any mind, so he was either very unimportant (which Aziraphale doubted, since Crowley had been sent to tempt him) or very unpleasant. Either way, Crowley skipped the line to sidle up to him like it was second nature.
Aziraphale watched her sink into the part like she was shedding skins. Her posture straightened, but not with confidence. She put on an act Aziraphale had never seen before: a cautious young lady, not yet self assured, yet poised and well-mannered. She stood straight-backed, yet she crossed one of her ankles behind the other with her heel raised, like a naive young girl that felt out of place, and such was trying to make herself smaller. It was always impressive, the way she could entirely transform into a new person. And the person she was portraying this time certainly explained her colour choice and the simple, youthful makeup. Despite her body being unchanged (and it never screamed youth to begin with), her fashion, makeup and now mannerisms set the clock back decades.
“Inspired,” She began, initiating the conversation with a skilled ease. Aziraphale tried not to seem like he was watching, so he stared straight ahead at a painting of a group of nude men, diving and wading through abstract waters. Bathing, by Duncan Grant from 1911. He was grateful to land in front of a less incriminating painting than the ones he briefly glazed over on the walk in. He had to strain to hear Crowley and the man, especially since Crowley was talking in a higher, posh voice that she kept low in volume to be polite. But Aziraphale could see them perfectly in his periphery, and that brought him some comfort.
“Do you think so?” The man responded, instantly taking the bait. Aziraphale got to watch the moment he took in Crowley's appearance, and the shock on his face that a woman like that would choose to engage with him. The man made no attempt to hide his oggling, looking Crowley up and down and releasing a breath before he finally focused back on the painting. “I happen to think it's one of the less… captivating pieces here.” He clearly wanted to sound superior, and Crowley was glad to let him. She looked over at him like he'd said the most fascinating thing in the world. The man held out a hand, palm facing up. “Ken Davies.”
Crowley smiled with rounded cheeks—a clever expression that made it seem like she was blushing, without the need of natural colour in her face. “Antoinette Crowley, at your service,” She replied amicably. She let her hand delicately rest in his and he gave it the gentlest, most fragile shake as if he were afraid he'd scare her away. A man like him had likely scared away his fair share of women before. Aziraphale just got that feeling off of him.
“Antoinette?” He repeated, not yet releasing Crowley's hand. Aziraphale wished he would. Maybe it was silly, but it was the exact hand that rested on Aziraphale's arm just moments ago. He felt entitled to it. “French?”
As if sensing Aziraphale's unease, Crowley took her hand back and folded both her hands in front of her as she responded, “Only by blood.”
Aziraphale knew it was foolish. He wouldn't even let himself consider that the feeling he had was jealousy. Jealousy, in his opinion, had to be earned. And he hadn't earned any ownership of Crowley. Six thousand years didn't equate to ownership, not in their case anyway. They made an effort to remain detached, even if that effort was entirely in vain. Because Aziraphale was attached. Heartbreakingly so. To the extent that he couldn't leave Crowley to do this kind of work alone, but he also couldn't stand to sit idly by and watch her do it either. Both outcomes were too unbearable to manage and there was no alternative. He could be there or not. Those were his choices. And he'd rather be around Crowley, no matter what she was doing, than be separated from her in the event she needed him.
“Good to hear,” Davies said decisively, with that upturned, bad smell look returning to his face. “The French are a horrid people.”
Crowley feigned playful offense. “Careful sir, don't let my father hear you say that.”
Davies began looking around immediately, like a teen boy being caught with a girl in her bedroom. “Is he here?”
Crowley pretended not to notice. She shrugged with a lack of care and looked back at the painting. “Somewhere, I'm sure.”
That appeared to put Davies at ease. The short, rotund man released a breath and returned his eyes to Crowley. The painting was just another thing in the room. Crowley had his undivided attention. “I daresay I'd like to meet him,” He said, though Crowley, Davies and Aziraphale alike knew that was untrue.
Crowley raised her brows, giving him a good natured accusatory look. “Don't tell me you're more interested in my father than me, sir,” She chastised.
“Quite the contrary,” The man jumped to retort, “I'd just be curious to meet the man who created such a captivating woman.” Crowley looked down at her shoes—another clever way of pretending to be flattered by his inane conversation.
“You're too kind, Mr Davies,” She replied. When she raised her head again, she kept it inclined so she could blink up at him through her lashes. “Tell me. Do you enjoy art?”
Davies huffed and shook his head. “Oh, no one enjoys art,” He said, determined to sound smart once again to blow this naive young girl out of the water, “We all just like to have something to turn our noses up at and scoff. Makes us feel superior.”
Crowley chose to go along with him this time, rather than be impressed. She made a similar frown to his and said, “I quite agree.”
“Well, of course you do,” Davies replied, “Lovely women like yourself have no need for the arts.”
“Why is that, sir?”
“Because you see something far more beautiful when you look in the mirror.”
Crowley dipped her head again, but this time Aziraphale saw that it was to hide an amused smile. She glanced over her shoulder and found him. She must've known that he wouldn't be far behind her, because it took no time at all for her to find him. She rolled her eyes, sharing the joke with him and Aziraphale found himself smiling along with her. Then, just like it had never happened, she returned to her character. “You're a dangerous man, Mr Davies,” She commented.
“Brave,” He corrected, with a tone that he must've thought was charming, “Not dangerous. I assure you, Miss Crowley, you are very safe with me indeed.”
She nodded with a pleasant smile. “I'll have to take your word for it.”
“Yes, I suppose you will.” They continued on to the next painting with the crowd and Aziraphale moved with them. Davies hadn't noticed that they were being watched. Aziraphale had to assume he was too taken by Crowley to notice anything at all while she was around and amenable.
They went on, talking idly, with Crowley being the very picture of an interested but gullible young woman. She kept by his side, keeping a respectful distance even as he tried to inch closer. She acted as though he were the most enthralling man in the world, when he was really just putting in an obvious amount of effort to seem even slightly interesting. He wasn’t a subtle man. It wasn't lost on Aziraphale that the only paintings he lingered on were the more suggestive nudes. Those ones were apparently very inspired, in his lofty opinion. And Crowley was the perfect blushing virgin, embarrassed yet enraptured with every painting and passing word.
Aziraphale found the whole charade impressive, even if it skeeved him out. He certainly wouldn't be able to do what Crowley was doing–pretending to be charmed by this self-important man. And yet Crowley took it in stride. Even if it was apparent it made her uneasy, she was clearly in her element as far as skillsets go. She hadn't even dropped her act to throw Aziraphale any more looks. Perhaps she thought he'd seen enough and went on his way, to take in the art as he claimed he wanted to. But if she thought that, she was sorely mistaken. Aziraphale wouldn't leave them alone for a second if he had a choice.
Then, all of a sudden, he didn't have a choice. Davies got to the end of the line with suggestive paintings and turned to Crowley with a devilish look in his rodent-like eyes.
“You know, this isn't all they have here,” He began, setting the path before him. Crowley let herself fall for it, hook line and sinker. After all, she wasn't the catch here. She was just doing her best impression of one.
“Really?” She asked, with a level of secretive excitement that Aziraphale thought could give away her cover. But humans saw what they wanted to see. That was both their greatest strength and downfall, especially when it came to Hellish work.
Davies was nodding enthusiastically. “They keep the really good stuff in the back rooms, where it's exclusive. I'm a contributor to this gallery. I could show you, if you like.”
Crowley acted thrilled—yet frightened—of this prospect. She glanced over both her shoulders, though she wasn't actually looking for any eavesdroppers. She just wanted to make it seem like she feared the appearance of them slipping away. Then, in a low voice, she innocently asked, “Mr Davies, this isn't some ruse to whisk me away, is it?”
Mr Davies put on his best scandalized face—which Aziraphale saw through, clear as a window. “Miss Crowley, I wouldn't dare! What sort of man do you think I am?” He retorted. “As I said, you're quite safe with me. Remember?” He smiled to reassure her, but it was like that of a wolf. All teeth.
She relaxed and nodded. “Alright. Lead the way.”
He did so all too eagerly, Aziraphale must note. He put his hand on the small of Crowley's back to guide her away from the general mass of people in the room, toward the back of the gallery. Aziraphale wanted to lop that hand off of his body. But Davies moved the two of them with such ease and confidence, he mustn't have been lying about his contributions to the gallery. He knew his way around well and he got away from Aziraphale all too quickly. The angel scrambled. He was held up for longer than he'd like, pushing through wealthy humans who looked at him (and swore at him) as he shoved by. By the time he got to the back of the gallery, Davies and Crowley were nowhere to be seen.
The back of the gallery split into two hallways, one on the left and one on the right. They were both narrow, seemingly devoid of paintings, unlike the main rooms. He just had to hope they converged in the middle somewhere. He made his choice—he didn't have much time to consider it—and went right. He moved fast but quietly down the hallway, careful not to run and accidentally alert himself. He glanced into open rooms and through door windows, but didn't catch a glimpse of that cream dress. His stomach dropped. The man had taken Crowley away, just like that. And while Crowley had made it very clear she intended to take care of herself, the whole thing unsettled Aziraphale greatly. Something just felt uncomfortable about it. More uncomfortable than usual with these kinds of things.
As he'd hoped, the hallway did wrap around. When he got to the end of the right hallway, there was a turn to the left with an exit door in the centre. He really hoped they hadn't gone all the way out, but surely Crowley would've given him some alert if she was disappearing from the gallery entirely. Right?
So he passed the exit door and continued on down the back of the left hallway. There were more doors and more open doorways. At first, he continued to rush. But when he began to hear hushed voices near the middle of the hallway, he started walking on the balls of his feet, creeping without making a singular sound.
Crowley was saying something, but he couldn't make out exactly what. It sounded like discouragement, muffled by the rustle of fabrics, and possibly something on or near her mouth. Aziraphale shivered at the thought and prayed he was mishearing things. As he got closer, he could make out Davies reassuring her at first. The typical “We’re alone, what are you afraid of, don't you trust me” crap that creeps like him were so devoted to. Crowley managed another attempt to dissuade him, and then there was an awful symphony of sounds. A tearing of fabric, Crowley's demurely offended gasp, a single word out of her mouth before the finale—a loud smack.
Aziraphale's heart quickened and he jumped into action. He didn't care about sound now, he wanted to be seen and heard as he bursted into the doorway and caught the opposite of what he expected.
He had hoped against hope that Crowley had done the smacking. But when he saw the image before him, he knew he was wrong.
Crowley was standing against the back wall in the room. One of the straps of her dress was pulled down her arm hard enough to stretch out the fabric irreversibly. The bottom of the dress was ripped, exposing the top of her thigh up to the strap that secured her stocking on that leg. And her head was turned to one side, a hand covering the whole side of her face. She wasn't looking at the man now, but her expression was shocked and disturbed.
Aziraphale opened his mouth immediately. “What is going on in here?” He demanded, voice booming in the hopes of drawing a scene to remove the man. Apparently, he wouldn't need one. The man spun around and when he saw Aziraphale, his face immediately grew grave and pale. He ran from the room instantly as Crowley turned to face the wall and catch her breath. In his wake, Aziraphale released a sigh and rushed to Crowley's side. “My dear, are you alright?” He asked immediately, the words practically pouring out of him like a dam had been breached, “Let me get a look at you—”
“Aziraphale?” Crowley managed, turning away from the wall just in time to see her perpetrator scurrying out of the room with his tail between his legs. Aziraphale expected relief, but instead Crowley dropped her hand from her face and hit the wall behind her. “Shit! He's gone!”
To say Aziraphale was shocked would be the understatement of the century. “Yes,” Aziraphale confirmed with obvious confusion (and a cocktail of barely contained anger), “Good riddance.” The man—beast, more like—had trapped and attacked her! Aziraphale expected a heavy sigh of relief. Foolishly, he'd even hoped to embrace Crowley. To hold her and feel for himself that she was safe and taken care of. But instead, she leaned off the wall and paced with exasperation.
Aziraphale got a good look at her face now. It was burning red on the right side beneath her makeup, from her chin to her temple. The heathen had hit her hard enough to split her bottom lip, which created a crimson line down the side of her lip that was just beginning to sprout blood. Her glasses had been knocked off in the exchange, and Aziraphale didn't bother to locate them on the floor.
“You don't understand,” Crowley shot back. She seemed entirely unconcerned with her injury. She actually sounded angry with Aziraphale, which the angel found positively unbelievable. “I still need him.”
Aziraphale opened his mouth in shock. It took him a futile, flabbergasted moment to form an intelligible response. And even then, all he could do was state the obvious. “Crowley, that man was going to defile you!”
Crowley looked at him like he was the one being unreasonable. “Yes,” She stressed, “Satan willing.”
Aziraphale could've fainted. He could've ripped his hair out. He could've grabbed Crowley by the shoulders and shook her. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Instead, he just stared at her in disgust. “Don’t tell me you were actually attracted to that beast?"
“ ‘Course not!” She exclaimed, “Don't be ridiculous, angel.”
“Then why would you—”
She released a huff with great restraint, her hands landing on her hips. “Aziraphale, hear me when I say this,” She began slowly, “I am in no way interested in some insecure jack-off man who gets his kicks pushing around young women. I was interested in his abhorrent soul—or, Hell is, anyway."
Aziraphale thought his horror had reached its peak, but all it was doing was swelling. “All this,” He started furiously, “Just for another soul for Hell? You can't be serious! They must be desperate.”
“Not desperate,” Crowley sighed, “Just inefficient and wholly uncreative in their methods. What are you doing in here, anyway? You actually followed me?”
"I said I'd come along and watch over you!” Aziraphale insisted, gesturing to Crowley's person in its entirety in his flurry, “This is me watching over you! It seems I'm not doing a very good job, because I didn't get here before the man busted your lip.”
Crowley waved off his concern with disinterest. “I think I'll live, angel,” She responded sarcastically.
“The man hit you!” Aziraphale burst, “He tried to—”
“That's more than enough, angel,” Crowley interrupted. All the air seemed to leave her body, utterly discouraged and lacking her usual energy. She frowned down at her shoes, her usual posture returning to her now that Davies was long gone. Aziraphale had a rage bubbling up inside him that was difficult to restrain, but seeing Crowley lose her spirit just sucked the fight out of him as well. He wouldn't just stand there and yell at her, not after all she'd been through, not even if it was warranted. Instead, he relented and took to caring for her instead.
“Fine. Just—let me get a look at you,” He relented.
He took a step closer to her to get a better look at her face. Thankfully, she was distracted and deflated enough that she didn't jolt away from him as he reached out and took the untouched side of her face. She actually let him turn her face to the side so he could get a good look, but she didn't look happy about it. She was frowning and huffing like a child being examined closely by their mother. She didn't fight him. She just averted her eyes, looking out at the empty doorway.
Aziraphale clicked his tongue in disappointment. The man didn't seem that strong by first appearances, but he packed a mean punch. The smack left a reddened handprint on the side of her face that was already beginning to swell up, and the blood from the split in her lip was trailing down her chin, the blood dark but not heavy. Aziraphale's eyebrows were downturned, his eyes as watchful as they were sad. Her beautiful face. How could someone do this to her?
On the bright side, he could fix it on the surface easily. However, he couldn't go back and stop it from happening in the first place. He'd be angry at himself forever. He'd blame himself forever. If he'd just taken the other turn, gone left instead of right, he would've made it to the room long before anything happened. Crowley would be even more furious at him then, surely. But she wouldn't have been harmed.
How did he not anticipate this? He had a bad feeling, but it arose too late. If he'd just been faster, if he'd just made the correct choice. If, if, if. He could've avoided this so easily.
He couldn't dwell on that now. He just had to start problem solving.
“Here, let me—”
Now, Crowley came back to life. She pulled her face away from Aziraphale's hand and put a foot of distance between them. “I'd rather you didn't.”
Aziraphale tried not to get frustrated. She was hurt. She was definitely scared, even if she refused to admit it. But Crowley's strongest emotion—the one that ruled her—was always shame. Aziraphale had never mastered his way around that. “My dear, it won't hurt to just—”
“I have to disagree. If either of our people get wind of it, it will hurt. Besides, Heavenly healing on a demon? Too risky for my liking.”
It was on the tip of Aziraphale's tongue to explain that there was no risk. That he'd done it before. When the Library of Alexandria burned down and Crowley's Earthly body was clinging to life, Aziraphale hadn't even considered that a Heavenly miracle could harm her. He just wanted her to get better, and he saw no route in which his healing would make her worse. He should have, but he didn't.
However, as far as Aziraphale knew, Crowley had no idea that happened. She was unconscious at the time and entirely unresponsive to stimuli. Now was certainly not the time to regale her with that story. So instead, he settled for another argument. “Crowley, neither Heaven nor Hell will be alerted by me using one tiny miracle to patch you up.”
“I don't want to take that chance,” Crowley growled. “Besides, if it's such a tiny miracle, it's really not worth the hassle. After all this time, we aren't going to be found out over something so frivolous.”
The demon was too stubborn for her own good, as usual. “Alright, you win. Let's at least straighten you up in the bathroom, hm?”
“Fine by me.”
They left the backroom. Thankfully, getting to the bathroom didn't require reentering the gallery with Crowley looking so disheveled. They were already in the vicinity, and when they found it, it was plenty big enough to fit them both. Aziraphale had wanted so badly to put an arm around her or a hand on her waist to offer her support. But she'd have to be nearly dead or incapacitated to accept that sort of help from him, like when the laudanum had her entirely unsteady back in Edinburgh. She'd shove him away like he had a contagious disease if he tried. So he gave her distance.
In the bathroom, they shut and locked the door and Crowley looked at herself in the mirror while Aziraphale pretended not to watch. She looked crestfallen about her appearance—both her clothing and her face. Aziraphale found the former quite odd, since Crowley made it known he never purchased clothing anyway. She just miracled it into existence. She snapped and the clothes were back in order, good as new, but it brought her no reassurance. As she got to looking at her face more closely, turning in the mirror to see it clearly, Aziraphale noticed she wasn't making a move to fix that with a demonic miracle. Surely she had the means, but instead she just lamented over it. It was as if she wanted the residual sting. Like she was punishing herself.
Aziraphale wouldn't pry (on that front, at least). Not when she looked so upset, and was trying so hard not to look upset. Instead, if she wanted to leave it alone to it's Earthly ways, Aziraphale would make an Earthly effort to deal with it.
He navigated around her in the small space and grabbed a tissue. He wet it under the tap and squeezed out some of the excess water. “Sit down,” He instructed her.
She rolled her eyes at him. “What're you going to—”
Before she could get out a witty quip to make fun of his efforts, he turned to her with a determined look. “Must you complain about every little thing? You don't want me to miracle it, I won't. Just sit down.”
Crowley let out an unintelligible gaggle of protests, but in the end, she did as she was told. The only other place to sit was the toilet, which she certainly wouldn't do, so she turned and lifted herself up to sit on the edge of the low counter, beside the sink. She released her tense body, slumping in her seat as Aziraphale stood in front of her. There was too much distance between them for him to reach up and clean the blood away with her knees in the way, so he shooed his hand in front of her.
“Move so I can get it done,” He said. He was remarkably firm, which he wasn't normally good at. He should try to be firm more often, however, because she begrudgingly obeyed. She opened her legs enough for him to stand between them, close enough to be slotted in front of her and tend to her face. She was still upset. Bordering on resentful toward either Aziraphale, or herself. That much wasn't clear. But when Aziraphale was as close to her as he could physically get, taking up all the space between her legs and bracing one hand on the counter just beside her thigh, she squirmed and her shame came back like a feral cat, wanting to be fed. This would surely feed it, but Aziraphale wished the damn thing would find a new place to live. The three of them felt like quite the crowd in that small bathroom.
“I've come to your rescue on these matters before.” He started in on the blood on her chin. He had a worthy distraction to take his mind off of their proximity, and the incriminating nature of their position. It was still a looming presence in the room (and in his mind, but his mind was awfully mean to him where Crowley was concerned), however he had the strength to endure it. “I haven't the slightest idea why you're so sensitive about it now.”
Crowley opened her mouth to speak as Aziraphale was carefully dabbing away the still wet blood that had pooled down from the wound. He flicked up to meet her eyes, and it was clear she had a myriad of things to say. Aziraphale had been on many tempting endeavors with Crowley, but he'd never seen her in quite this position before. Not just the smack—she'd been hurt by humans on many occasions that Aziraphale witnessed. That went for both of them, as some humans had a weak grasp on their self control. But this particular kind of mission. A mission in which she was expected to follow through for Hell. He'd never been privy to that. Now he knew why she hid it, and why she always tried to resist him coming along in the first place.
“They'll be mighty disappointed Downstairs,” Crowley said, by way of answering that really told Aziraphale nothing. “They've been after our new friend Mr. Davies for a while now.”
“Surely they already have him,” Aziraphale offered. He wanted to be reassuring, but he had a rock the size of a golf ball in his throat at the thought of that awful man. He swallowed hard to contain himself, “After he struck you. And we know precisely… what he would have done next.”
That didn't seem to rock Crowley as vehemently as it rocked Aziraphale. That only made Aziraphale feel more tense about the whole thing. How could she be so calm, so disappointed? Didn't this horrify her the way it horrified him?
“Doesn't work that way. Intentions don't get us anywhere. I'm sure it's the same with Heaven.”
Aziraphale scoffed at that. He tossed the now bloody tissue into the bin and went for another, using the same process to dampen it before he continued. “I assure you, Heaven has nothing like this.”
Crowley nodded in mock belief. “Alright, then tell me: is it enough for a soul to go to Heaven simply for thinking nice thoughts? Or do they have to do nice things too?” Aziraphale sputtered for an answer that would satisfy his point, but he couldn't come up with one before Crowley took that as confirmation and went on. “That man has been evil in his thoughts his entire life. This was his one opportunity to be evil in action and earn himself a one-way ticket to damnation.”
That was disconcerting. A man like him, who would do the things he'd do given the chance, could end up in Heaven simply for inaction. For lack of opportunity, as Aziraphale had been the one to strip that opportunity from him. Not that he regretted it even one bit. He'd do it a million times over, again and again, no matter how angry Crowley got with him. But the sorting system the Powers At Be had worked out was simply unacceptable. No one should have to get hurt, just to prove a man deserves his sentence in Hell.
Aziraphale had to ask the burning question on his mind. But he chose to do so cautiously, while his eyes were only on his work and not on Crowley. If the serpent felt too watched, she would only get defensive. “Have you done this before?”
Crowley paused suspiciously. “Depends. If I say yes, will I get a lecture for it?”
Aziraphale opened his mouth to respond but promptly shut it again. Because yes, his plan was absolutely to lecture Crowley on how reckless and stupid she'd been. Since he had nothing else he could possibly say without lying, he chose to remain silent.
Crowley exhaled and Aziraphale felt the breath brush against his hands. Chills ran up his arms, but he continued on as if it didn't affect him.
“I'm sure you've done unpleasant things in your ever-present servitude to Heaven?” Crowley offered.
Aziraphale frowned. “Unpleasant, yes, but never something so violating.”
Crowley was positively incredulous in response. So much so that it got an amused smile out of her, which Aziraphale could at least be grateful for. She asked, “Well, what did you think I was here to do?”
“Tempt!” Aziraphale retorted, “That's your forté, isn't it? Just because you tempt him doesn't mean you have to deliver, does it?”
Crowley pursed her lips, which made Aziraphale's job a little easier, even though that wasn't her intention. “Not always,” She answered, “But sometimes, yes. It's the nature of thing. Just the same as Eden. I tempted Eve with that shiny red apple, and I'm a serpent of my word so I let her have it.”
That was a terribly unfeeling way to put it. It sounded so transactional. She was detached from it to a level that Aziraphale couldn't begin to wrap his head around.
“But you don't always…”
“Nah. Only when it must be done. Only when half-measures aren't quite satisfactory.”
Aziraphale didn't want to hear any more. He couldn't stand it, and he couldn't see this conversation ending with him suppressing his opinions and accepting Crowley's reasoning. Thankfully, he had a good reason to stop the conversation short. At least for now.
“Stop talking,” He told her. He brought his hand up to the side of her face, resting along her jawline. That did more to silence her than anything he said ever could. She was more about actions than words, anyway. She always has been. She'd argue until she was blue in the face, but if Aziraphale so much as brushed against her, she became instantly tongue tied. Aziraphale decided not to read too much into that and instead just be grateful that she wasn’t always so completely unpredictable.
Aziraphale had to take a breath and steady himself before he made his next move. He'd imagined touching Crowley this way thousands of times over. He saw it clearly in his mind, usually when they were drinking. He watched himself hold her face, pull it closer to his, eyes fixed on her lips as she responded eagerly. That fantasy always had a particular ending—one he wouldn't admit to even if he was under threat of Hell fire. It floated to the surface of his thoughts when humans felt entitled to Crowley's body, her space. He imagined himself replacing them and the demon emerging from her charade to settle into herself once again.
He'd damn-near been expecting this sort of contact from the moment they were secluded to Earth, as the primary representatives of their respective sides. But he'd never seen it happening this way—purely clinical, both of them upset and holding that feeling back, and an expectation of Aziraphale feigning obliviousness and pulling away immediately afterward. He had to admit, he was disappointed they finally got this close under such unsavoury circumstances. Still, Crowley was permitting a level of intimacy she never normally would. So Aziraphale would take what he could.
His whole hand rested on her sharp jawline, fixed in place like part of a puzzle. (It was cruel and unusual, how naturally they fit together.) He raised his thumb and brought it to Crowley's bottom lip–which was still pink from her smudged lipstick. Carefully, with a level of precision (and frankly, self control) he didn't realize he was capable of, he gently pulled Crowley's lip down so he could get a better angle on the split. He barely had to apply any pressure. Barely had to touch her lip, in fact, and yet he could feel the sensation of it under his thumb with more thorough clarity than any sensation he'd ever felt. Her lip was soft, plump and smooth and gave to his touch compliantly.
Aziraphale couldn't breathe. He hoped Crowley didn't notice, but he wouldn't dare meet her eyes to check.
The wound didn't go too far into the inside of her lip, and it wasn't too wide. It could be easily taken care of, which would cut their brief intimacy even shorter. Aziraphale figured that was a good thing. It wasn't right, anyway. It wasn't how it was meant to be.
He took the clean, dampened tissue to the split. He started on the inside, dapping away the blood that had sprouted and working his way precisely downward. Crowley kept still and quiet, though Aziraphale knew she hated being fussed over so thoroughly. He thought it'd be a kindness to take her mind off of it.
“Quite devious of you, to take me here when you knew what the featured art would be like,” He commented, knowing Crowley couldn't respond. Still, he saw one side of her mouth quirk up with a careful smirk. “Still, there were a couple pieces I liked. The ones with clothed figures, of course. It's nice to see that the finer things are returning so vehemently after the war. I suppose nothing helps humanity recover quite like some quality artwork.”
The war was a touchy subject. They'd both had their part in it. Nothing major, thank goodness, but parts nonetheless. Crowley went off as a soldier in the trenches, where their communication was sporadic and minimal. While Aziraphale worked as a nurse (of sorts) in hospitals and convalescent homes, caring for injured soldiers. Aziraphale had written to her almost constantly, but Crowley didn't return the favour. To this day, Aziraphale was unsure how much of what he wrote was actually read, and whether or not half of them even reached her. He never asked. Not after seeing the aversion the soldiers he treated had to discussing their service.
“We could rejoin the crowd, when we're finished here,” Aziraphale offered tentatively. “I'm sure the band is still playing. They sounded rather lively, from what I heard.”
Crowley still didn't respond, but now Aziraphale wasn't sure if that was because of her lip, or because of the offer. He could rectify the former. He was finished working on Crowley's lip anyway. He hesitated slightly to let her go. It was a selfish indulgence. He just wanted to linger there a moment longer, live in the fantasy he'd imagined up millenia ago. Feel Crowley's receptive skin, the ease of her lip. For all he knew, she'd never let him this close again—not unless she was harmed in the same way or worse and met with the same level of soul-sucking discouragement. Aziraphale would never wish that on her, and he'd take all the necessary steps to try and prevent it without risking her being in harm's way. So, based on his own determination, he had to assume it would never happen again.
He let her go. He retracted his hand from her face, gently allowed her lip to rise back into place, and took a step away from the space between her legs. She was quick to straighten herself up. She closed her legs, moved her mouth from a thin line to a gape to test the waters. Aziraphale knew that would only stress the fresh bust, could possibly cause it to start bleeding again, but he made the respectable decision not to scold her for it. She climbed down from the counter. She didn't thank him, but she managed a string of unintelligible grumbles that sounded like her half-hearted version of gratitude.
She turned to face the mirror and it became clear she wouldn't be giving him an answer to his offer for them to rejoin the party. He’d inexplicably landed himself in the doghouse with her—whether from the moment he interrupted her “temptation” or from his comments after didn't matter. He supposed it also didn't matter if he continued his interrogation, then. He wasn't quite figured, and if she was done with him (for now) anyway…
“Alright, excuse my rudeness dear, but I simply can't move on,” He began. There was no reason for him to employ tact now, not when she'd written him off so wholly much before. She'd be angry, sure, but his curiosity had to be quenched. And they bickered plenty. She'd move on by the next time they met. He stepped up beside her, leaving a sizable amount of space, as she was settled in front of the mirror—looking at herself pointedly rather than at him. He stood with his hip nearly touching the counter, facing her entirely as she appeared utterly disinterested, focused more on swiping at the smudged lipstick with the knuckle of her gloved index finger. She'd ruin the white gloves, but she'd miracle that just like the rest of her clothes. “Once you've proven they would do it, you shouldn't have to go any further. You've gotten what you needed, haven't you?”
“Proving they would do it isn't enough. I know they would do it—I can sense it off them from the get-go,” Crowley responded, more patiently than expected but still with a hint of irritation, “It's not worth anything. They have to actually do it.” She waved a hand as she tried to properly put it into words. “Humans all have something they would do, given the chance, but if they never get the chance, it doesn't matter. They've never done it. They spend their lives swearing they would never do it.”
“So, your sense means nothing?” He asked. Crowley shrugged and seemed to find some satisfaction with the state of her makeup. “So much for trust with Hell.”
“My sense tells me who's suceptable. Who wants to be persuaded, before I have to persuade them.”
“And then you do what they want?”
Crowley flicked her eyes over at him briefly, before she rolled them and begrudgingly answered, “Sometimes. Only sometimes, Aziraphale.”
Sometimes. Sometimes was still too often. Too many. How could she have never told him? In all the years of their Arrangement—all the years since they added Aziraphale serving as a sort of body guard for her. He'd seen humans do what he considered crossing the line with Crowley. Grabbing her, kissing her, making comments that made Aziraphale's blood boil. He made an effort to hold himself back, let Crowley handle it because she always insisted she could. But he'd stepped in before. He'd stopped things from escalating. She'd been embarrassed. Every once in a while she was grateful. She never gave him details on what she was planning or what would happen. She expected Aziraphale to just stand there and wait. She acted like she didn't want him there in the first place. But she'd never slipped away from him the way she did tonight. She never went somewhere so he couldn't find her. She pretended to defy him, but she followed the unspoken rules.
He now knew she'd been hiding tempting missions from him for a long time. She'd been doing some unknown amount of them in secret. He began to think back to how he found out about this one in the first place. He'd asked her to go to dinner with him the day before, and she said she couldn't. She had a mission to do but she could see him after. He'd pressed and pried until she accidentally implied what sort of job it was, with almost no specifics beyond the location. So, naturally, he insisted on coming to ensure her safety. She sputtered on the phone in an attempt to deter him, but he was immovable on this subject. He would be coming, whether she agreed or not, so she took the path of least resistance and agreed to meet him at the bookshop. He naively thought (as he always did) that she secretly wanted his company. That it would be helpful to have him there. And now it was crushingly clear that wasn't true. She never wanted him along for this, she just wanted to placate him. It was insulting. Why didn't she just tell him? Or better yet, why didn't she just tell Hell to stuff it? She didn't follow their every word to begin with. She did less than half of what they said and made up for it by claiming credit for terrible things she hadn't done. Why, in all of Dante's nine circles of Hell, was she so obedient in this matter?
Before he could bite down on his blasphemous tongue, he heard himself blurt out, “What if I said I wanted you?”
Crowley froze and looked up at him with the same measure of shock and dismay as when she was struck. “What?”
Well. The paste was out of the tube now. “What would you do?” He plowed ahead. He made a gesture to her form—her wanton manner of dress, her perfectly designed makeup that'd been tainted, her undeniable, irresistible beauty that she wielded at every turn like a weapon of mass destruction and yet chose to deny whenever it wasn't actively serving her. “You make all these efforts to be tempting, and here I am—an angel, and no doubt a great soul for Hell to claim—as a spectator to the whole show. What if I weren't just a spectator? What if I said I wanted you, would you feel obligated to deliver then?”
She stared at him, lips parted. At first, her eyes shone like she'd lash out and hit him—which she'd never done before. But she blew out a tense, controlled breath and shook her head at him. “Don't mock me, angel.”
Her voice. That lacklustre response. She sounded… hurt.
He tried, “I'm not mocking—”
“You're being mean,” Crowley exploded, cutting him off instantly with a vicious growl emerging from her clenched jaw, “And judgemental. I suppose it's your right. There's no greater judge than Heaven’s foot-soldiers. But excuse me, I foolishly thought you set all of that aside with our Arrangement!”
Aziraphale felt sick to his stomach. “I'm not judging you, I—” He attempted a step toward her with an outstretched hand but she practically leaped away from him, putting up a hand to restrict him from getting any closer
“Save it!” She shot back. “We both know what you're doing and dare I say, it's not very kind. You want to judge me, fine. Maybe you can't help it—I accepted that a long time ago. But I don't need to stand around and be mocked by you. I don't have to listen to you chastise and tease me like I'm one of your Heaven-bound souls.”
Aziraphale was out of steam. Out of tries to get through to her, and out of tries to rectify this. He couldn't just let it go. They both considered Crowley the stubborn one, but the truth was, he could be hard-headed too. Once he knew they wouldn't make up before the end of this night, he just couldn't help but push his luck. He hadn't intended to push it fully over the edge.
She miracled another pair of sunglasses with considerably less flair than the first time and started toward the door. His heart lurched out inside his chest. It had a mind of it's own, and it wanted him to grab onto her and plead with apologies until she accepted them. But all he managed was a weak, “Crowley… I just want you to be safe.”
She swung the door open and was itching to storm through it, but she hesitated. Only momentarily, turning her head in his direction and yet not really looking at him. In a tired voice, she said, “The rescue was a nice thought, angel. Just—save it next time, alright?”
Then, she was gone. The door swung shut and Aziraphale was left stranded in a cold, echoey bathroom with nothing but a mirror to keep him company.
He turned away from his reflection. He couldn't stand to look at himself as he began to cry.