Happy Holidays, ImprobableDreams900!
Dec. 28th, 2018 08:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Notes:
Happy Holidays, ImprobableDreams900! Enjoy.
Special thanks to my betas Not-A-Space-Alien, Gnome-Official, and Maniacalmole
Rated: G, but Aziraphale does say a Swear Word.
Pairing: A&C, but with subtle notes of *sniffs wine* pre-slash.
Words: 2800
Summary:
The year is 1020, and Aziraphale and Crowley have just become allies. Allies help each other, right? Aziraphale wants to give a very special gift to a close human friend of his, and to their abbey, but Crowley is reluctant to assist. He would rather not participate in bone theft, thank you very much. Even if it’s Saint Valentine’s bones.
Context:
“As a result, an accurate account is often impossible to distinguish from one containing a kernel of truth or one that is complete fabrication. This is particularly true when dealing with accounts of relic thefts… When, for example, one reads that Jumièges acquired the relics of Saint Valentine when a priest from that famous Norman monastery on pilgrimage to Rome was given them by a total stranger eager for the ultramontane provinces to benefit from Valentine’s patronage, one suspects the veracity of the tale.”
- Geary, Patrick J. 2011. "Relics and Saints in the Middle Ages." In Furta Sacra: Thefts of Relics in the Middle Ages, by Patrick J Geary. Princeton University Press.
“Not only did that actually and totally happen, but that stranger was Aziraphale.”
-Me, Your Secret Gifter. 2018. “Aziraphale’s Idea of a Valentine’s Gift.” In Good Omens Holiday Exchange 2018, curated by Irisbleufic, Vulgarweed, Lunasong365 et al. Dreamwidth University Press.
“Join me in Rome,” the letter said. Or, more accurately, the dove said, in a human voice. There was no one else the message could be from except Aziraphale. The only other people Crowley knew who’d use a live medium to pass notes were his superiors, and their orders were usually more detailed.
“Where and when in Rome?” Crowley asked.
The dove cocked its head to the side, unblinking, uncomprehending.
“Join me in Rome,” it cooed again, this time sounding more birdlike and less human as whatever charm had been laid on it started to fade.
“No, I got that part, thanks,” Crowley muttered to the dove, but mostly to himself.
It was going to be a long and arduous trek. He’d have to sneak aboard a trading vessel to cross the channel, and then fly by night and sleep by day at inns and hospices the rest of the way down the continent.
If he passed through Jumièges, he could probably spend a couple nights at the abbey where Aziraphale lived and posed as Frère Esdras. Provided Aziraphale was there for company and provided that no one tried to wake him before sunup to partake in the liturgy of the hours, he could cope with staying at an abbey. It might even be nice. But then there was the question of whether Aziraphale was still even in France. He might be on his way to Rome already.
Bless him for his lack of foresight, Crowley thought. Still, he didn’t so much as think of turning down the strange invitation. To be frank with himself, he missed talking to the angel. It was just earlier that same year that they’d come to an Agreement of not interfering in each other’s work. Nothing would get done, Aziraphale had argued, if they were constantly undoing each other’s deeds. Granted, nothing much would get done either if they didn’t interfere, considering their respective work ethics, but Crowley didn’t bring that up. It was nice to have an assurance that he could talk to Aziraphale without sitting through an awkward, half-hearted lecture on his Wickedness.
And talk they had. They’d had a fascinating conversation that night on human nature. Crowley wasn’t quite sure all of Aziraphale’s points held water, but he hadn’t thought of any counter-arguments yet. What mattered was that it had been a lovely night and a lovely skin of red wine. Crowley had long held a strong conviction that the two of them had far more in common with each other than with either of their respective sides, and he had a strong suspicion Aziraphale was beginning to think the same way.
For all these reasons, it seemed worth it to go down to Rome and see the angel again. Maybe he could convince him to come up to Britain next time.
The bird fluttered out the window, presumably headed back towards Rome.
**
Aziraphale waited patiently near the entrance of the Milvian Bridge and scanned the crowd for a familiar face. He was catching his breath from walking across it. It was a cool day in late autumn, but it was still warm enough that the exertion made him overheat unpleasantly. He had walked across the bridge several times.
The second message he’d sent Crowley had reached him partway across the countryside just south of Siena, as he was flying at night. The dove bore a message saying that they should meet at solar noon at the end of the Milvian Bridge, and that it didn’t matter the day because Aziraphale planned to go out and wait several days in a row.
He realized all too late that he hadn’t specified which end of the Milvian Bridge, and there wasn’t any chance of sending the bird back out. There had apparently been some sort of midair collision. Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure what had happened. His Birdspeak was very rusty. Physically, his little pet was fine, probably because Crowley had healed it, but emotionally, it was very reluctant to go back out with more messages.
To make up for his inability to specify which side of the bridge they were supposed to meet at, Aziraphale had decided to walk across the bridge several times, and wait at either end for five minutes at a time to catch his breath. The kind of human Aziraphale was undercover as wasn’t the kind to be overly given to athleticism or other prideful displays of the body. That same kind of human was also wearing a heavy black woolen habit that marked him as a brother of the Benedictine order, and a cowl over it besides. He was beginning to regret the idea of meeting at noon, but there really was no other way. His demonic friend wasn’t likely to agree to any sort of activity before lunchtime. Whoever said that evil never slept hadn’t heard of Crowley. Even noon was really pushing it.
**
It was nearly two when Aziraphale, panting wearily on the North side of the bridge, spotted a tall, stylishly dressed man with hair past his eyes. He was waving at Aziraphale quite energetically. Aziraphale waved back.
“Good to see you again!” called Crowley, stepping closer.
“You too, dear boy!”
By this point, they were standing close enough that Aziraphale could have gone in for a hug or a handshake, but he wasn’t sure what level of friendship they were supposed to be on, so he went for a mild pat on the upper arm.
“You look like you need a drink,” Crowley observed. “You didn’t run here, did you?”
“No, no,” Aziraphale said. “Just walked. And I won’t be having a drink, thanks. I just need to get out of the sun for a bit. Drink later, first–something else.”
“First what?”
“I’ll tell you about it,” he said, “once we get out of the sun.”
**
“We’re visiting a tomb first,” said Aziraphale, once he had cooled down.
“Er. Right. What for?”
“In a bit, in a bit. I said I’d tell you. Just wait.”
Aziraphale’s cagey vagueness was beginning to unnerve Crowley.
“So what’s the deal? Are you going to pay your respects or something?”
Aziraphale looked thoughtful for a second.
“Well, yes…in a way.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow.
“Would you care to elaborate, angel?”
Aziraphale pursed his lips.
“No and yes. It’s just a bit complicated. Let’s walk and talk, shall we?”
**
“You know how when we talked earlier this year,” Aziraphale began, “you suggested we might, ah, ‘cover for each other’? You do a good deed for me, I do a bad deed for you?”
Crowley nodded.
“And you remember I’d said I wasn’t quite ready to do a bad deed?”
“Right,” said Crowley, trying not to sound too amused. Sure, Aziraphale wasn’t the sort to break rules (not even the ones that, in Crowley’s opinion, deserved to be broken), but the implication that he had never done anything amiss, ever, in his life, was ridiculous. He often bent rules, provided that he could justify it to himself.
“Right, well, my dear, I need you to help me with a deed.”
No need to lay it on thick, Crowley thought.
“What kind of deed, Aziraphale?” he asked coolly.
Aziraphale hemmed and hawed.
“Is it a good deed?”
“Er.”
“A bad one?”
“No, not quite! Not either. I’d call it…a mixed-value deed, if I might.”
“This way, please,” he added, before Crowley could ask him what that meant, or ask himself what it was that the angel could not wholly justify to himself.
Aziraphale led them into a building, then down some steps. It was dark, and Crowley’s pupils expanded to the point that they could almost pass as round. The first thing he noticed was that the steps kept going. It occurred to him that if he’d been a human, and not in the company of his closest ally, he’d be quite afraid. Right now, all he felt was mild apprehension, not to mention annoyance at being kept out of the loop–and out of the sun. Hell’s teeth, it was cold. They seemed to be pretty far underground. Aziraphale stopped and produced a leather pouch from the folds of his robe.
“Hold this for me a second, will you, dear?”
He produced a torch from the bag, miracled it lit, and turned to walk deeper into the catacomb.
Crowley stayed put and cleared his throat.
“Listen. Now that we’re down here alone, there’s no reason for you not to tell me what we’re doing. So I’m not going to step forward till you do.”
Aziraphale started to say something, but then sighed and decided not to fight it.
“You’re right. You should know. Well, look, I have a very great friend back at Jumièges, a human friend. Leon. A wonderful priest. He wants some relics for the community, and I’d like to give some to him. I’m going to disguise myself for that actual part, of course. He doesn’t know I’m here. I’m thinking I’ll give him Saint Valentine. No reason, particularly. It’s mostly because I remember where he was buried.”
Crowley said nothing.
“It-it would make a lot of people very happy! It’ll be good for the area, for local people’s health and, er, spiritual well-being. Besides, altars need relics,” Aziraphale added quickly.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think the holy bread counts,” Crowley said. “For altars, at least. And last time I checked, there’s less stealing involved.”
Aziraphale winced a bit.
“Well, yes, dear boy, the ‘holy bread,’ as you say, ‘counts,’ as you say, but people seem to place a real importance on bones. And it’s not–I wouldn’t say it’s–it’s not quite, er, stealing, really. It’s more like… respectfully transporting from one place to another.”
“And you believe all that?”
“I don’t think it’s really for me to decide.”
The angel sure knew how to pass on responsibility, Crowley thought, but didn’t say. Instead, he said,
“Look, do saints’ bones even do anything?”
“Saints, I am reliably informed, do indeed do things. And, er, they care where their bones are. In fact,” he continued, building up some steam again, “if Valentine didn’t want to be, er, respectfully transported back to Jumièges, he’d stop us with paralysis, or a storm, or an earthquake. That sort of thing has been known to happen. So there.”
Crowley scoffed.
“Really!” said Aziraphale. “I think it’s fair for everyone involved. No one’s venerating him here. And no one’s really heard of Jumièges. Leon and the people living in and around the abbey would rejoice at having something for their hometown to be known for.”
“Somehow,” Crowley said, “I’m not entirely convinced that you’re entirely convinced this is the right thing to do. Is that where I come in? Am I expected to do this for you because it’s somehow beneath you?”
Aziraphale looked deeply hurt.
“Of course not, Crowley, I would never–of course not. I’m going to do it myself. I don’t even know if you can touch the stuff, honestly, and I wouldn’t make you take that risk. I just need you here to talk me through it. Immoral support, as it were.”
“Absolutely not. In fact, I’d rather talk you down from stealing human remains. You know it’s messed up, right? On some level you must already know that.”
“It might not sound so good out of context,” Aziraphale admitted, looking at his feet.
“You aren’t even sure about all this relic stuff,” Crowley continued. “You only said that people seemed to place a real importance on saint’s bones. You never said you did.”
“Well, it’s people that I’m doing this for,” he protested. “I’m not doing this for me, I’m doing this for my friend. And well, our abbey too, of course. Besides, it’s the thought that counts. Let’s put an end to this discussion, please, and get to work now.”
“This is lunacy,” Crowley muttered to himself.
“Maybe so,” said Aziraphale, “but hold my torch and pass me my hammer and chisel from the bag, would you? This is the place. The mortar isn’t very strong right here, so I can probably get some of the bricks out of the way in no time.”
Crowley held the torch, but refused to pass Aziraphale any of his tools. Aziraphale fished them out of the bag himself, and started loudly hammering at the bricks that formed a wall over one of the catacomb’s niches.
Perhaps it was a trick of the subterranean echo, but Crowley thought he could hear another repetitive tapping-like sound. It got louder, and was joined by a voice crying out,
“Who goes there?!”
Ah. Not a trick of the echo.
“Oh, bollocks,” said Aziraphale, blanching.
Crowley snuffed out the torch to buy them time.
“Run,” he said.
“I can’t see in the dark in this body, not like you,” wailed Aziraphale.
Crowley reached for his hand, and Aziraphale thrust something dry into his other hand.
They booked it to the exit as fast as they could, surfaced, ran down the closest street, made sure they weren’t being followed, turned right, kept running for several blocks, and dashed into an alleyway. Crowley screwed his eyes shut once they no longer had to run. It was too bright outside. He could hear someone panting, and then realized it was himself. His heart kept thudding loudly in his chest.
**
The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Aziraphale’s wide-eyed face.
“Crowley, your hand!”
He looked down at his hand. There was nothing wrong with it. He was holding a saint’s skull and nothing was wrong with his hand. It didn’t so much as itch or tingle.
“Huh,” he said, and then, “are you sure we got the right guy?”
“Positive!” said Aziraphale. “I double- and triple-checked.”
“Maybe old Val wasn’t all that saintly,” Crowley suggested.
Aziraphale frowned.
“Or maybe you have to admit that relics aren’t all they’re cracked up to be,” he continued.
Aziraphale released a sigh of irritation and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Speaking of cracked,” Crowley added, “you’ve got to take this skull before I freak out and drop it. I’m telling you, this whole business gives me the heebie-jeebies. It’s macabre.”
Aziraphale accepted it quietly and placed it in his bag.
“Hey,” said Crowley, “you’re not cross with me, are you? Look, I hope your friend’s happy with your gift, okay? I mean, I bet he’ll appreciate it. I’m sorry you can’t let him know it was from you.”
“Thank you,” said Aziraphale quietly, “and I’m not cross, I’m just thinking. What if it doesn’t hurt you because you’re not really so demonic after all?”
Crowley thought about it for a moment.
“Nah, that can’t be it. I’m not sure that’s how it works.”
“Right,” said Aziraphale. “Ha. Silly me. What do you say I invite you to dinner downtown to make up for your troubles?”
“It’s going to take a lot more than a dinner to make up for making me your accomplice, angel,” Crowley answered. “But sure, why not?”
**
Postscript:
When you’re an ancient immortal being, you find that you have too many memories to think of them all regularly. This particular memory stayed buried in the recesses of Crowley’s mind for hundreds and hundreds of years. It didn’t resurface during the near-Armageddon. It only resurfaced on the Sunday afterwards at the park, when he also remembered that some of the water in the bucket over the door had splashed onto him, to no effect at all.
“Huh,” he said, and dropped his bag of breadcrumbs and cracked seeds.
Notes:
Happy Holidays, ImprobableDreams900! Enjoy.
Special thanks to my betas Not-A-Space-Alien, Gnome-Official, and Maniacalmole
Rated: G, but Aziraphale does say a Swear Word.
Pairing: A&C, but with subtle notes of *sniffs wine* pre-slash.
Words: 2800
Summary:
The year is 1020, and Aziraphale and Crowley have just become allies. Allies help each other, right? Aziraphale wants to give a very special gift to a close human friend of his, and to their abbey, but Crowley is reluctant to assist. He would rather not participate in bone theft, thank you very much. Even if it’s Saint Valentine’s bones.
Context:
“As a result, an accurate account is often impossible to distinguish from one containing a kernel of truth or one that is complete fabrication. This is particularly true when dealing with accounts of relic thefts… When, for example, one reads that Jumièges acquired the relics of Saint Valentine when a priest from that famous Norman monastery on pilgrimage to Rome was given them by a total stranger eager for the ultramontane provinces to benefit from Valentine’s patronage, one suspects the veracity of the tale.”
- Geary, Patrick J. 2011. "Relics and Saints in the Middle Ages." In Furta Sacra: Thefts of Relics in the Middle Ages, by Patrick J Geary. Princeton University Press.
“Not only did that actually and totally happen, but that stranger was Aziraphale.”
-Me, Your Secret Gifter. 2018. “Aziraphale’s Idea of a Valentine’s Gift.” In Good Omens Holiday Exchange 2018, curated by Irisbleufic, Vulgarweed, Lunasong365 et al. Dreamwidth University Press.
“Join me in Rome,” the letter said. Or, more accurately, the dove said, in a human voice. There was no one else the message could be from except Aziraphale. The only other people Crowley knew who’d use a live medium to pass notes were his superiors, and their orders were usually more detailed.
“Where and when in Rome?” Crowley asked.
The dove cocked its head to the side, unblinking, uncomprehending.
“Join me in Rome,” it cooed again, this time sounding more birdlike and less human as whatever charm had been laid on it started to fade.
“No, I got that part, thanks,” Crowley muttered to the dove, but mostly to himself.
It was going to be a long and arduous trek. He’d have to sneak aboard a trading vessel to cross the channel, and then fly by night and sleep by day at inns and hospices the rest of the way down the continent.
If he passed through Jumièges, he could probably spend a couple nights at the abbey where Aziraphale lived and posed as Frère Esdras. Provided Aziraphale was there for company and provided that no one tried to wake him before sunup to partake in the liturgy of the hours, he could cope with staying at an abbey. It might even be nice. But then there was the question of whether Aziraphale was still even in France. He might be on his way to Rome already.
Bless him for his lack of foresight, Crowley thought. Still, he didn’t so much as think of turning down the strange invitation. To be frank with himself, he missed talking to the angel. It was just earlier that same year that they’d come to an Agreement of not interfering in each other’s work. Nothing would get done, Aziraphale had argued, if they were constantly undoing each other’s deeds. Granted, nothing much would get done either if they didn’t interfere, considering their respective work ethics, but Crowley didn’t bring that up. It was nice to have an assurance that he could talk to Aziraphale without sitting through an awkward, half-hearted lecture on his Wickedness.
And talk they had. They’d had a fascinating conversation that night on human nature. Crowley wasn’t quite sure all of Aziraphale’s points held water, but he hadn’t thought of any counter-arguments yet. What mattered was that it had been a lovely night and a lovely skin of red wine. Crowley had long held a strong conviction that the two of them had far more in common with each other than with either of their respective sides, and he had a strong suspicion Aziraphale was beginning to think the same way.
For all these reasons, it seemed worth it to go down to Rome and see the angel again. Maybe he could convince him to come up to Britain next time.
The bird fluttered out the window, presumably headed back towards Rome.
**
Aziraphale waited patiently near the entrance of the Milvian Bridge and scanned the crowd for a familiar face. He was catching his breath from walking across it. It was a cool day in late autumn, but it was still warm enough that the exertion made him overheat unpleasantly. He had walked across the bridge several times.
The second message he’d sent Crowley had reached him partway across the countryside just south of Siena, as he was flying at night. The dove bore a message saying that they should meet at solar noon at the end of the Milvian Bridge, and that it didn’t matter the day because Aziraphale planned to go out and wait several days in a row.
He realized all too late that he hadn’t specified which end of the Milvian Bridge, and there wasn’t any chance of sending the bird back out. There had apparently been some sort of midair collision. Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure what had happened. His Birdspeak was very rusty. Physically, his little pet was fine, probably because Crowley had healed it, but emotionally, it was very reluctant to go back out with more messages.
To make up for his inability to specify which side of the bridge they were supposed to meet at, Aziraphale had decided to walk across the bridge several times, and wait at either end for five minutes at a time to catch his breath. The kind of human Aziraphale was undercover as wasn’t the kind to be overly given to athleticism or other prideful displays of the body. That same kind of human was also wearing a heavy black woolen habit that marked him as a brother of the Benedictine order, and a cowl over it besides. He was beginning to regret the idea of meeting at noon, but there really was no other way. His demonic friend wasn’t likely to agree to any sort of activity before lunchtime. Whoever said that evil never slept hadn’t heard of Crowley. Even noon was really pushing it.
**
It was nearly two when Aziraphale, panting wearily on the North side of the bridge, spotted a tall, stylishly dressed man with hair past his eyes. He was waving at Aziraphale quite energetically. Aziraphale waved back.
“Good to see you again!” called Crowley, stepping closer.
“You too, dear boy!”
By this point, they were standing close enough that Aziraphale could have gone in for a hug or a handshake, but he wasn’t sure what level of friendship they were supposed to be on, so he went for a mild pat on the upper arm.
“You look like you need a drink,” Crowley observed. “You didn’t run here, did you?”
“No, no,” Aziraphale said. “Just walked. And I won’t be having a drink, thanks. I just need to get out of the sun for a bit. Drink later, first–something else.”
“First what?”
“I’ll tell you about it,” he said, “once we get out of the sun.”
**
“We’re visiting a tomb first,” said Aziraphale, once he had cooled down.
“Er. Right. What for?”
“In a bit, in a bit. I said I’d tell you. Just wait.”
Aziraphale’s cagey vagueness was beginning to unnerve Crowley.
“So what’s the deal? Are you going to pay your respects or something?”
Aziraphale looked thoughtful for a second.
“Well, yes…in a way.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow.
“Would you care to elaborate, angel?”
Aziraphale pursed his lips.
“No and yes. It’s just a bit complicated. Let’s walk and talk, shall we?”
**
“You know how when we talked earlier this year,” Aziraphale began, “you suggested we might, ah, ‘cover for each other’? You do a good deed for me, I do a bad deed for you?”
Crowley nodded.
“And you remember I’d said I wasn’t quite ready to do a bad deed?”
“Right,” said Crowley, trying not to sound too amused. Sure, Aziraphale wasn’t the sort to break rules (not even the ones that, in Crowley’s opinion, deserved to be broken), but the implication that he had never done anything amiss, ever, in his life, was ridiculous. He often bent rules, provided that he could justify it to himself.
“Right, well, my dear, I need you to help me with a deed.”
No need to lay it on thick, Crowley thought.
“What kind of deed, Aziraphale?” he asked coolly.
Aziraphale hemmed and hawed.
“Is it a good deed?”
“Er.”
“A bad one?”
“No, not quite! Not either. I’d call it…a mixed-value deed, if I might.”
“This way, please,” he added, before Crowley could ask him what that meant, or ask himself what it was that the angel could not wholly justify to himself.
Aziraphale led them into a building, then down some steps. It was dark, and Crowley’s pupils expanded to the point that they could almost pass as round. The first thing he noticed was that the steps kept going. It occurred to him that if he’d been a human, and not in the company of his closest ally, he’d be quite afraid. Right now, all he felt was mild apprehension, not to mention annoyance at being kept out of the loop–and out of the sun. Hell’s teeth, it was cold. They seemed to be pretty far underground. Aziraphale stopped and produced a leather pouch from the folds of his robe.
“Hold this for me a second, will you, dear?”
He produced a torch from the bag, miracled it lit, and turned to walk deeper into the catacomb.
Crowley stayed put and cleared his throat.
“Listen. Now that we’re down here alone, there’s no reason for you not to tell me what we’re doing. So I’m not going to step forward till you do.”
Aziraphale started to say something, but then sighed and decided not to fight it.
“You’re right. You should know. Well, look, I have a very great friend back at Jumièges, a human friend. Leon. A wonderful priest. He wants some relics for the community, and I’d like to give some to him. I’m going to disguise myself for that actual part, of course. He doesn’t know I’m here. I’m thinking I’ll give him Saint Valentine. No reason, particularly. It’s mostly because I remember where he was buried.”
Crowley said nothing.
“It-it would make a lot of people very happy! It’ll be good for the area, for local people’s health and, er, spiritual well-being. Besides, altars need relics,” Aziraphale added quickly.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think the holy bread counts,” Crowley said. “For altars, at least. And last time I checked, there’s less stealing involved.”
Aziraphale winced a bit.
“Well, yes, dear boy, the ‘holy bread,’ as you say, ‘counts,’ as you say, but people seem to place a real importance on bones. And it’s not–I wouldn’t say it’s–it’s not quite, er, stealing, really. It’s more like… respectfully transporting from one place to another.”
“And you believe all that?”
“I don’t think it’s really for me to decide.”
The angel sure knew how to pass on responsibility, Crowley thought, but didn’t say. Instead, he said,
“Look, do saints’ bones even do anything?”
“Saints, I am reliably informed, do indeed do things. And, er, they care where their bones are. In fact,” he continued, building up some steam again, “if Valentine didn’t want to be, er, respectfully transported back to Jumièges, he’d stop us with paralysis, or a storm, or an earthquake. That sort of thing has been known to happen. So there.”
Crowley scoffed.
“Really!” said Aziraphale. “I think it’s fair for everyone involved. No one’s venerating him here. And no one’s really heard of Jumièges. Leon and the people living in and around the abbey would rejoice at having something for their hometown to be known for.”
“Somehow,” Crowley said, “I’m not entirely convinced that you’re entirely convinced this is the right thing to do. Is that where I come in? Am I expected to do this for you because it’s somehow beneath you?”
Aziraphale looked deeply hurt.
“Of course not, Crowley, I would never–of course not. I’m going to do it myself. I don’t even know if you can touch the stuff, honestly, and I wouldn’t make you take that risk. I just need you here to talk me through it. Immoral support, as it were.”
“Absolutely not. In fact, I’d rather talk you down from stealing human remains. You know it’s messed up, right? On some level you must already know that.”
“It might not sound so good out of context,” Aziraphale admitted, looking at his feet.
“You aren’t even sure about all this relic stuff,” Crowley continued. “You only said that people seemed to place a real importance on saint’s bones. You never said you did.”
“Well, it’s people that I’m doing this for,” he protested. “I’m not doing this for me, I’m doing this for my friend. And well, our abbey too, of course. Besides, it’s the thought that counts. Let’s put an end to this discussion, please, and get to work now.”
“This is lunacy,” Crowley muttered to himself.
“Maybe so,” said Aziraphale, “but hold my torch and pass me my hammer and chisel from the bag, would you? This is the place. The mortar isn’t very strong right here, so I can probably get some of the bricks out of the way in no time.”
Crowley held the torch, but refused to pass Aziraphale any of his tools. Aziraphale fished them out of the bag himself, and started loudly hammering at the bricks that formed a wall over one of the catacomb’s niches.
Perhaps it was a trick of the subterranean echo, but Crowley thought he could hear another repetitive tapping-like sound. It got louder, and was joined by a voice crying out,
“Who goes there?!”
Ah. Not a trick of the echo.
“Oh, bollocks,” said Aziraphale, blanching.
Crowley snuffed out the torch to buy them time.
“Run,” he said.
“I can’t see in the dark in this body, not like you,” wailed Aziraphale.
Crowley reached for his hand, and Aziraphale thrust something dry into his other hand.
They booked it to the exit as fast as they could, surfaced, ran down the closest street, made sure they weren’t being followed, turned right, kept running for several blocks, and dashed into an alleyway. Crowley screwed his eyes shut once they no longer had to run. It was too bright outside. He could hear someone panting, and then realized it was himself. His heart kept thudding loudly in his chest.
**
The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Aziraphale’s wide-eyed face.
“Crowley, your hand!”
He looked down at his hand. There was nothing wrong with it. He was holding a saint’s skull and nothing was wrong with his hand. It didn’t so much as itch or tingle.
“Huh,” he said, and then, “are you sure we got the right guy?”
“Positive!” said Aziraphale. “I double- and triple-checked.”
“Maybe old Val wasn’t all that saintly,” Crowley suggested.
Aziraphale frowned.
“Or maybe you have to admit that relics aren’t all they’re cracked up to be,” he continued.
Aziraphale released a sigh of irritation and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Speaking of cracked,” Crowley added, “you’ve got to take this skull before I freak out and drop it. I’m telling you, this whole business gives me the heebie-jeebies. It’s macabre.”
Aziraphale accepted it quietly and placed it in his bag.
“Hey,” said Crowley, “you’re not cross with me, are you? Look, I hope your friend’s happy with your gift, okay? I mean, I bet he’ll appreciate it. I’m sorry you can’t let him know it was from you.”
“Thank you,” said Aziraphale quietly, “and I’m not cross, I’m just thinking. What if it doesn’t hurt you because you’re not really so demonic after all?”
Crowley thought about it for a moment.
“Nah, that can’t be it. I’m not sure that’s how it works.”
“Right,” said Aziraphale. “Ha. Silly me. What do you say I invite you to dinner downtown to make up for your troubles?”
“It’s going to take a lot more than a dinner to make up for making me your accomplice, angel,” Crowley answered. “But sure, why not?”
**
Postscript:
When you’re an ancient immortal being, you find that you have too many memories to think of them all regularly. This particular memory stayed buried in the recesses of Crowley’s mind for hundreds and hundreds of years. It didn’t resurface during the near-Armageddon. It only resurfaced on the Sunday afterwards at the park, when he also remembered that some of the water in the bucket over the door had splashed onto him, to no effect at all.
“Huh,” he said, and dropped his bag of breadcrumbs and cracked seeds.
(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-29 02:38 am (UTC)besides being a pleasantly surprising reference, the note perfect characterization of this line knocked me out: "the implication that he had never done anything amiss, ever, in his life, was ridiculous. He often bent rules, provided that he could justify it to himself." that sure is our boy! "a mixed-value deed" he indeed!
oh, and the bird! that's such an interesting twist on... possession and whatever the holy equivalent thereof is, though I guess that's... also possession? you know what I mean, anyway, it's really cool! I love the idea of messenger birds, first of all, and then also, tangentially, aziraphale knowing birdspeak, which just makes the whole ducks thing 100x better.
this was just really lovely! the plot, the view of their awkward early-Arrangement relationship, aziraphale's visible air-quotes around "counts", the way they are both supremely uncomfortable being friends and yet can't help it the whole time. really great stuff!
(and I'm not ashamed to say the postscript made me a little teary-eyed. or a lot. love the implication both that crowley is more than a bit not-bad and also that saint's bones ARE holy and the two of them were all together all wrong the entire time fshdjkl)
(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-29 04:47 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-29 10:26 am (UTC)"Immoral support, as it were.” lol
Also, nice references to canon.
Thank you for this funny and interesting story! I love stories about relics.
(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-29 02:33 pm (UTC)“Maybe so,” said Aziraphale, “but hold my torch and pass me my hammer and chisel from the bag, would you?”
This was absolutely adorable! I love your characterisation <3
Aziraphale isn't sure about their "level of friendship" but he is sure his "Immoral support" wouldn't say no to him :D
And the ending is just lovely <3
(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-29 02:48 pm (UTC)Also the ps? Wonderful. We all know that Crowley isn't as demonic as he thinks he is and that confirms it.
Well done
(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-29 03:12 pm (UTC)And it is so wonderful that Aziraphale had invited Crowley to talk him into stealing the bones, but he ended up convincing Crowley instead! :D
I wonder if after this incident Aziraphale would treat Crowley differently.
I also adore how they think about each other and about the friendship that has just begun. Crowley, flying across the continent just because he misses talking to the angel, and Aziraphale who needs Crowley just to metaphorically hold his hand. :D Aaaw!
(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-29 05:46 pm (UTC)Also I love how clearly Aziraphale is an Absolute Disaster in this one. Like, he always is, but sometimes he can give the illusion that he's not, but mo such luck here today! And he's very caring and very smart and wildly hypocritical, so yes, lovely characterization there.
I love how this could *almost* be framed as Aziraphale's First Bad Deed except it really can't because he's done worse things before, and he won't admit to how unsavory this is even if he's thinking it.
I love the historical story its based on which I'd never heard of before and then the end... oh my heart!!!!
(And a lot of people have mentioned it before but "immoral support" is Iconic)
(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-30 12:20 am (UTC)-Me, Your Secret Gifter. 2018. “Aziraphale’s Idea of a Valentine’s Gift.” In Good Omens Holiday Exchange 2018, curated by Irisbleufic, Vulgarweed, Lunasong365 et al. Dreamwidth University Press."
>> AAAHAHAAAA! Omg, what a GREAT way to start this fic! :DD
Aaaah, I love the idea of Aziraphale not actually using the pigeon to deliver the letter, but to deliver the message itself :D
And then it doesn't want to fly out anymore because it collided, aaaaw XD
"Granted, nothing much would get done either if they didn’t interfere, considering their respective work ethics"
>> hahahaaa XD
"Whoever said that evil never slept hadn’t heard of Crowley. Even noon was really pushing it."
>> same :'D
"He often bent rules, provided that he could justify it to himself."
>> YES, good one!
"It was dark, and Crowley’s pupils expanded to the point that they could almost pass as round"
>> Yeeeees, I love Crowley's eyes working like that! :>
"“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think the holy bread counts,” Crowley said. “For altars, at least. And last time I checked, there’s less stealing involved.”"
>> Yeah, Les Mis is later
Aaaaw, this was so lovely! :) How Zira wants Crowley there for moral support, how they argue about the moral nature of the undertake, how Crowley helps Zira to flee because he can't see in the dark.
I very much enjoyed this fic, and I'm sure so does your recipient <3
(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-30 07:25 pm (UTC)The scholarly citation for yourself at the beginning was absolutely hilarious! "Dreamwidth University Press" indeed! XD And the Patrick Geary book that you quoted at the beginning is actually the exact book that I was thinking of when I wrote that part of the prompt!! The furta sacra scholarly world is a small one. :D
The Milvian Bridge scene was hilarious, especially the part where Aziraphale neglected to mention which /side/ of the bridge to meet Crowley on. XD It was interesting to see Crowley as the one trying to lure Aziraphale to Britain instead of the other way around—though it makes sense that Aziraphale would feel at home in a place as steeped in religion (and luxuries) as Rome.
Crowley healing the bird was a nice reference to canon, as well as the part about Crowley sleeping until noon. XD
The part where Aziraphale waffles about whether or not stealing relics is wrong was hilarious as well. “And it’s not–I wouldn’t say it’s–it’s not quite, er, stealing, really. It’s more like… respectfully transporting from one place to another.” —I mean, that's super historically accurate and super funny and 100% a stance Aziraphale would have on the subject. :D
And of course the twist at the end was neat, because we all know that Crowley isn't half as demonic as he pretends to be. ;)
Other lines I liked:
>A&C, but with subtle notes of *sniffs wine* pre-slash
>It was nice to have an assurance that he could talk to Aziraphale without sitting through an awkward, half-hearted lecture on his Wickedness.
>The angel sure knew how to pass on responsibility.
>"Immoral support"
>“Maybe old Val wasn’t all that saintly,” Crowley suggested.
Overall, it's a great piece of historical writing about one of my favorite historical themes with Crowley and Aziraphale being super endearing throughout. Thank you so much!!! <3
(no subject)
Date: 2019-01-02 05:01 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2019-01-04 05:07 pm (UTC)and the way that it turns out in the end (confirmed twice) that Crowley wasn't so demonic after all, is really heart-warming!
(no subject)
Date: 2019-01-04 07:32 pm (UTC)Aziraphale's failure at making plans with others and his stubborn insistence on just putting up with the difficulties of it anyway is...too relatable, I have to admit XD I love him. And I love how he invited Crowley down there so Crowley would support him, but it turned out that Crowley just argued against him, which is the quickest way to make Aziraphale believe that HE is doing the right thing (at least back then, at least for the moment, or maybe it just makes him do the thing anyway out of pure stubbornness XD)
I love the idea of Crowley becoming immune to holy water and similar things :D
This is such a fun heist!!!
(no subject)
Date: 2019-01-08 01:24 am (UTC)Either way, I loved this fic, well done author!