Happy Holidays, cassie-oh!

[goe_mod]

Title: The Lines Drawn Between Us

Summary: Crowley has always acted as if demonic summonings are not a big deal. Aziraphale discovers the truth.

A trio of humans stood in front of a Circle, brightly lit. Inside the Circle, hanging suspended in the air, was a human form. The figure appeared to be a thin male. His long limbs twitched as if he could not control them, and he made a soft, choking noise. Not a human, Aziraphale determined. A human would be dead the moment they stepped into the Circle. And not an angel. An angel would be on his way to Heaven. Which left...demon. Aziraphale studied the wretched creature as his body spasmed again. The movement caused his dark, chin length hair to further cloak his face. It was clear from the noises that came from the demon that he was in pain. With what looked to be considerable effort, the demon took a shuddering breath and pulled his head upright.

It was Crowley.

Characters (primary): Aziraphale, Crowley, Adam Young

Characters (appearance) the Them, Dog, Beelzebub, Dagon, minor human OCs

Pairings: Aziraphale/Crowley

Rating: PG or PG-13 / Teen

My giftee is cassie-oh!

Prompt & Related Information: I opted for Prompt 2: Aziraphale/Crowley, T+, a demonic summoning story, perhaps Aziraphale didn't really think summonings are that big a deal because in Crowley has always pretended not to be bothered. I did try to work in some of the things from the favorite things list, namely angst, historical settings, and hurt/comfort.

England, Spring 1991

Crowley would probably never forgive him. With a sigh, Aziraphale snapped his book shut. His head fell back against the headrest as, outside the train window, the British landscape sped by, unconcerned. There was no probably about it, Aziraphale decided. Crowley wouldn't forgive him for this. Aziraphale looked down at his book. His fingers ran along the spine. With a sigh, he pulled it against his chest and returned his attention to the window.

It could have been different if Crowley had trusted him. Had the demon come to Aziraphale and told him what was going on, they could have found a way to beat Hell at its own game. Aziraphale was intelligent. Crowley was clever. When they worked together, they could accomplish quite a lot. They stopped Armageddon!

Okay, well, the Antichrist had done that.

Still.

He could have helped. If nothing else, he could have at least taken care of Crowley or offered some support or...or something! Foolish serpent! And instead of telling him the truth, Crowley not only actively hid it, but he'd lied. For all Aziraphale's opinions on the morality (or lack thereof) of demons, Crowley wasn't one to lie to Aziraphale. Oh, he might divert a conversation and avoid answering questions, but he didn't lie about the big things. Things that could affect the Arrangement were disclosed. It was, after all, part of the Arrangement. Yet, for three weeks, all Aziraphale had received were lies.

He wasn't sure what he'd done to lose Crowley's trust. Perhaps he never had it. If he was honest with himself – a struggle, but he was working on it – he could admit that he may have taken Crowley for granted. Aziraphale had assumed Crowley had long considered Aziraphale his friend. Crowley had acted as if Aziraphale was his friend for a good number of years. It used to be annoying. He wasn't sure when that changed....

Maybe it hadn't. Maybe Crowley was just kind to him because, despite being a demon, Crowley had a kind streak a mile wide. Maybe it was more selfish, and it was that Aziraphale was a useful colleague and Crowley hated doing extra work when he could be playing with his car or sleeping or....

He needed to stop going down these paths. It didn't matter if Crowley didn't consider Aziraphale his friend, because Aziraphale saw Crowley as his friend. Perhaps he had a tendency to only admit it in his mind, when he was quite sure no one could hear it, but it was true. Crowley was his friend, and he was going to help him, whether Crowley wanted it or not. It was better to have Crowley alive and hating him than for Crowley to cease to exist.

Determined not to let his mind circle down problematic holes, Aziraphale flipped open his book and forced himself to read. After two sentences, he snapped the book shut once more. Perhaps, he thought to himself, this was not the best choice of a train book. After all, a book in which a character was summoned was not the best reading material at a time like this.

~*~

The first time Aziraphale witnessed a summoning with Crowley involved an accusation.

~*~

Ancient Babylon

It had been another average day in ancient Babylon when he spotted the demon leaving a tavern. Truth be told, Aziraphale didn't know much about the demon, other than that there was one in town. He'd received a memo telling him to keep an eye out for wayward demons. This instruction had proven to be a bit difficult. He'd expected it to be a simple task of looking around and spotting an Evil Doer, but he had failed to take humanity into consideration. Frustratingly, they seemed to be quite taken with Doing Bad, something that could only be traced back to that serpent demon all those years ago in the Garden. At least, Aziraphale comforted himself, that fellow didn't seem to be around any more.

After wrongly identifying and following at least a dozen potential demons who all turned out to be humans, Aziraphale stumbled upon the actual demon quite by accident. He literally stumbled and crashed into him.

“Gosh,” the demon reached out to steady Aziraphale and prevent him from falling. “I'm sorry. You okay?”

Aziraphale stared. His mind was telling him this had to be the demon. Humans did not have eyes like that, and their feet were not covered in scales. Were all demons snake-like? That had not been covered in his training, but the only demon he'd met before was literally a serpent and this new demon definitely reminded him of a human snake. But, his brain screamed, the demon was apologizing? Was it a trap? Was this the start of some sort of temptation?

“Okay. Um. Right then.” The demon backed away slightly. “Sorry again. Uh.” He turned to continue on his way. “Have a nice day. Ciao.”

Even more odd. The demon must, Aziraphale realized, have noticed that Aziraphale was an angel and was now trying to get as far away as possible. He would not escape easily. No, Aziraphale would follow him, and, when he got up to No Good, Aziraphale would thwart him. The demon might even do something so evil, it would require smiting. This gave Aziraphale pause. He'd smited before, during the Battle. He didn't much like it. He pushed the thought away. He was an angel. He had a job to do. This demon had Evil Plans, and Aziraphale had to stop him. Reassuring himself that he was doing what was Good and Right, Aziraphale set about to discretely follow the demon.

It did not take long for Aziraphale to discover that the demon's plans were particularly convoluted. Aziraphale knew that they had to be evil, but he wasn't quite sure how. The demon certainly wasn't acting very demonic. First, he stopped to study a tree. He didn't set it on fire, or convince a human to climb it and get hurt. He just...looked at the tree. After he finally moved on, Aziraphale inspected the tree, but could find no sign that the tree was diseased or that there was anything particularly wrong with it. It was just a tree.

Next, the demon watched some children invent a game that involved jumping over stones tossed on blocks that were drawn in the dusty street. Aziraphale waited to see if he would encourage some evil behavior such as gambling, or goad the children to fight over who was better. Instead, the demon seemed intent on allowing the children to teach him the game and playing with them. He even appeared to be waiting to take his turn.

The third stop on their meandering trip through the city had the demon listen to a street performer. He leaned against a building in the shade, his yellow eyes fixed on the performer as she sang. At first, Aziraphale thought that the interest had to be lustful. The demon definitely seemed entranced. That theory was discarded as whatever interest the demon had in the performer vanished the moment she finished her song, at which point he politely applauded with the others and then moved on into an alleyway.

Aziraphale had had just about enough of this odd behavior and was ready to confront his Enemy. He followed the demon into the alley and hollered, “You there! Demon!”

The demon turned and spotted him. His eyes widened. Then, without so much as a whisper, he disappeared from view.

It wasn't a complete shock that the demon was also a coward. It was, however, a complete surprise that demons could do that. Aziraphale was quite sure Above was not aware of this new demonic skill. It was certainly not one angels had. He needed to learn how the demon did it and inform his superiors.

It took Aziraphale another three days to once again find the Enemy. When he did, he found the demon sitting under the awning of an outdoor cafe, enjoying a plate of dates and a jug of wine. He made his way to the demon's table, then stood beside it, glowering down at the foul creature.

“Oh.” The demon looked up. “Uh, hello. Hey! I know you.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “You tried to push me down on the street.”

“No. I mean, yes, I ran into you. I didn't mean to. I was distracted. But I know you. You're...” He waved his pointer finger in the air, as if trying to remember. “Az-something. Hang on. I know I can remember. Azir, no Azra.” He snapped his fingers and grinned. “That's right. Azra. From the Garden. The one with the flaming sword.”

It was the serpent! He wasn't serpent shaped anymore. He must, Aziraphale realized, be able to change his shape. Although it was likely futile, Aziraphale tried to memorize the features of the demon's current corporation so he could better identify him in the future.

“You are Azra,” the demon sounded a little unsure, “Aren't you?”

“Aziraphale,” Aziraphale corrected crossly, memorizing how the demon's dark hair fell over his snake-like eyes.

The demon looked somewhat apologetic. “Oh, gosh, sorry. Names can be hard.” He took a moment to murmur “Aziraphale. Aziraphale” under his breath as if trying to commit it to memory. Looking back up at Aziraphale, he smiled again. “What can I do for you, Aziraphale?”

“I demand to know,” Aziraphale used his best Guardian voice, “what sort of demonic magic you used in the alleyway.”

The demon frowned. “Huh?”

“Do not try to play dumb,” Aziraphale warned him. “I saw you. You disappeared completely.”

“Disa...oh. Um...you mean the summoning?” The demon rubbed at the back of his neck. “It's – look, it was a summoning. I didn't do anything. You know how it goes. You have them too. A human wants to talk to you and then – bam – you find yourself summoned.”

“What,” Aziraphale asked, “sort of idiot do you take me for?”

“I don't?” The demon seemed genuinely confused. “Doesn't your lot get summoned?”

“We are given Orders from–”

“No, no,” the demon waved a hand at him. “When the humans want to talk to you. What happens?”

“They pray.” Aziraphale said, as if it was obvious. Because it was.

“And then you appear in front of them?” the demon prompted.

“No. Of course not.” That would terrify a human. These days, angels had to even keep their wings tucked away for fear of spooking a human.

“Then,” The demon tilted his head to one side, “how do you know what the prayers are?”

“The Prayer Department collects them and distributes them to the requested angel,” Aziraphale replied, as if he received prayers on a regular basis. He wasn't about to tell a demon that humans didn't know his name and that his prayer deliveries were limited to Current Resident prayers.

“Huh.” The demon seemed perplexed.

“Why?” Aziraphale asked. “What happens to you?”

“What you saw the other day. You're living your life one moment and then you feel a bit of a tingle and suddenly you're in a Circle and there's a human who wants to talk to you. Some of them want things – you know, money, fame, power – and then you take down their information and pass it on to the Immortal Soul Department to send an agent 'round to finish the deal. Some of them, though, are just lonely and want someone to talk to. Those are the worst, because they won't let you go until you listen to their life story.” The demon shrugged. “Once they release you, you're sent right back to where you were before and you can go about your business. You mean your side doesn't have to do the meetings face to face?”

“I believe that sort of thing is frowned upon, absent extenuating circumstances,” Aziraphale said carefully.

“Oh.” The demon shrugged again, then held up his plate. “Want a date?”

“I'm sorry?” Aziraphale asked.

“Date.” The demon took one and popped it in his mouth. “Really good. You should try one.”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “It's sinful.”

“Dates are sinful now?” The demon set the plate down. “Missed that memo.”

“You're offering it to me,” Aziraphale said. “So it must be sinful.”

“That's just ridiculous,” the demon said. “That's like saying anything you do is automatically good because you're the one doing it.”

“It is.” Aziraphale told him. “That's how it works.”

“What,” the demon asked, “is it?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said that's how it works.” The demon elaborated. “What is it?”

“The system. The world. The Plan.” Aziraphale said. “You do Evil. I do Good. Everything works out the way it is meant to.”

“What if,” the demon looked contemplative, “everything doesn't? Seems to me that humans get to make all sorts of choices. Haven't you noticed? Now that they realize they have free will, they really go all in on it. What if one of them chooses to do something that isn't part of this Plan of yours?”

He hadn't thought of that. It was an interesting argument. It was also likely not something he was supposed to be thinking about. Of course, that was probably the demon's point. They were tempters, after all. They sowed discord and encouraged sin. “I am not having this conversation with you, demon.”

“Crowley,” the demon said.

“What?”

“My name,” the demon offered. “It's Crowley.” He motioned to the plate again. “Are you sure you don't want a date? I'm not going to be able to finish these.”

Aziraphale took that as his cue to harrumph and leave. To add insult to injury, when he did report what he had learned from the demon Crowley, his superiors already knew all about this summoning thing. His investigation had been a complete waste of time, and he never did discover the demon's evil plan.

~*~

The second time Aziraphale witnessed a summoning with Crowley involved an interruption.

~*~

Imperial Rome

Despite knowing better, Aziraphale had somehow developed a bad habit of conversing with the demon Crowley. He didn't intend to be on slightly-less-than-hostile terms with his Enemy. He intended to spy on him, to thwart him, and to make sure no Evil Deeds were successful. It was just, over the years, Aziraphale found it was more comfortable to spy on Crowley from across tables in taverns or while sitting against barrels in vineyards or in other pleasant locations. Crowley seemed to enjoy the finer things in life, and Aziraphale couldn't think of any reason why he couldn't keep an eye on the demon over a nice glass of wine. Honestly, he was doing a service to Good. The more time Crowley spent talking to Aziraphale, the less time Crowley could be making trouble.

That was why, Aziraphale told himself, he was currently sitting opposite Crowley, trying to convince him to try the imperial bathing facilities. Aziraphale was not one to follow the newest human trends, but even he had to admit this was fantastic. And Crowley – who was always talking at him about progress and inventions – had never bothered to step inside!

“I cannot believe,” Aziraphale swirled his wine in his goblet, “that you haven't been to the thermae.”

Crowley looked at him over the top of his own cup, yellow eyes slightly glazed from drink. “I cannot believe,” he replied, “that you go there.”

“Why wouldn't I go there?” Aziraphale asked defensively. “It's a perfectly respectable place. Plenty of fine, upstanding people visit.”

“Because it's a hall of gluttony, of course.” Crowley replied. “Baths and massages and oil anointing and, well, all of it.”

“If that's the case,” Aziraphale asked, “why haven't you been there? Isn't gluttony what you do?”

“I'm more of a sloth demon myself,” Crowley said. “Don't get me wrong. Gluttony's great. It's one of the Big Seven. But sloth? Nothing beats a good sloth.”

“And lounging about in a nice, warm room while being pampered isn't slothful?” Aziraphale countered. “Honestly, Crowley, the place has 'you' written all over it. One would expect you would be trying to tempt me inside, and not the other way around.”

“Is that what you're doing?” Crowley's voice took on a strange tone. “Tempting me?”

“Of course not.” Aziraphale quickly corrected course. “I'm an angel. I don't tempt. It was just, just...a figure of speech.”

“Mmm.” Crowley's eyes unfocused, and, for a moment, seemed a bit brighter. Slowly, he blinked once.

It struck Aziraphale that he couldn't remember Crowley actually blinking before. Or maybe that was the wine talking....

Crowley set his goblet on the table. “What do you think would happen,” he finally spoke, “if a human saw me bathing?”

“Don't take this the wrong way,” Aziraphale took a pragmatic approach. “I truly doubt any of them will be seized with uncontrollable lust. It's not that you do not have a...” he waved a hand at Crowley, “...perfectly adequate corporation, but they're quite used to seeing the naked human form.”

“I was talking about my feet, angel.” The edge of Crowley's mouth pulled upward. His eyes glittered in the candlelight. “Why did your mind go to my naked form?”

Demons! Infuriating creatures! Crowley had just been talking about the seven deadly sins, of which one was lust. Why else would Aziraphale have raised it? The demon was trying to bait him and he would not give him the luxury. “If they noticed at all, they would probably think you were a deity,” he suggested, pointedly ignoring Crowley's last remark. “They mistakenly believe serpents are guardians.”

“At least they're kind to them,” Crowley murmured, picking up his glass again. “Some places think they're evil.”

“And who's fault is that, I wonder?” Aziraphale shot the demon a pointed look.

Crowley blanched.

Aziraphale pretended not to notice. “If you don't want people to see you, I could arrange a private visit - although I cannot imagine anyone will be looking at your feet. No one seems to pay them much attention when you walk down the street.”

“My tunic and toga have got a pretty long cut for a reason,” Crowley said. He paused to drink his wine. Aziraphale could practically see the gears turn in his head. Crowley set the drink down. “You really think you could get us in without the humans being around?”

“I think it could be arranged,” Aziraphale said carefully. There was a favor he could call in. And then, because he couldn't help himself, he added, “Oh, Crowley, you really must see it. They have a library.”

“A library,” Crowley repeated dully.

“Yes, a library,” Aziraphale said. “You do know what a library is, don't you? It's a room with books–”

“I know what a library is.” Crowley scowled. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Why are there scrolls in a bath house? Seems to me that the water would destroy them.”

“They're in a different room,” Aziraphale explained. “No one reads while bathing. Although...” Pleasant images began to fill his mind. “Being able to read while soaking does sound nice, doesn't it?”

“You could always bring one of your own books along,” Crowley suggested. He rubbed at the back of his neck again. “No one will care if you destroy your own – oh bless it!”

He disappeared.

Aziraphale blinked. He blinked again. The demon was gone, vanished into thin air. He debated momentarily whether he had been so drunk that he imagined the whole conversation with Crowley before he remembered that time in Babylon when Crowley had been whisked away by some human in a summoning. That, Aziraphale decided, was the most logical explanation. He wondered how long it would take, and poured himself another goblet of wine to wait for Crowley to return.

When Crowley hadn't returned two goblets later, Aziraphale decided to call it a night. Who knew how long Crowley's business for Hell might take? Aziraphale couldn't wait forever.

Crowley tracked him down a week later, contrite about being pulled away from their evening. He brought a nice bottle of wine to make up for it, and Aziraphale decided all was as forgiven as things could be when dealing with a demon. It was a very nice vintage, after all.

~*~

Tadfield, Spring 1991

“Adam!” the little girl called over her shoulder. “One of those weird men is here to see you!”

“Aw, not again,” another voice grumbled from behind a pile of rubbish. From the sign painted on an old piece of plywood, it was apparently a 'fort.' It looked nothing like any fort Aziraphale had seen, and he had seen most iterations of the structure throughout millennia of history. He reminded himself that he was trying to work on passing less judgment on others. He glanced again at the 'fort.' He could work on that tomorrow. It was a really terrible fort. Had they even consulted any sources? Before he could begin a more in depth analysis of everything wrong with the structure, a light haired boy appeared around the side of the 'fort.' He came to a stop, frowned, and said, “Oh. It's you. I was expecting the other one.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said.

“Yeah.” Adam shoved his hands into his pockets. An awkward silence ensued until he said, “I can't do any more on your side, if that's what you're here for. You'd need to talk to my...” he stopped as if searching for the word before shifting to, “The one like me who talks with your bosses.”

Aziraphale was suddenly seized with dueling desires. Part of him wanted to ask whether Adam had met Him, part of him wanted to know if Adam talked with Crowley's bosses, and part of him desperately wanted to tell Adam that the word he was looking for was 'counterpart.' None of that will get you what you want. Aziraphale forced what he wanted to say down and instead went with, “I'm fine. I was hoping to talk with you about Crowley.”

Adam studied him, and Aziraphale got the distinct impression he was being measured up. “Why?”

“I think he might be in trouble,” Aziraphale explained, “because he wanted to stop the end of the world.”

Adam became very still and very quiet. After a long moment, he turned to the little girl. “Keep an eye on Dog, will ya, Pep?” Without another word, he walked past Aziraphale, away from the fort.

Aziraphale looked at the little girl, who was already ignoring him. Another glance around the area turned up nothing useful. Two other boys were watching from over the top of the fort. A dog – the hellhound most likely – was lying near a pile of rusting supermarket trolleys, chewing a bone. It was then that Aziraphale realized he was supposed to follow Adam. He hurried to catch up.

Adam was waiting for him, perched on the remnants of a stone wall that backed against a hedgerow along a road. His face was troubled. As Aziraphale joined him, he looked up from where he had been staring at the ground. He nodded in the direction they'd come. “Don't want them knowin' about this.”

“About your...” Aziraphale tried to think of a kind way to phrase it. How did one discuss the Antichrist's powers in polite society? This was not the sort of thing that was covered in any of the etiquette books back at his shop. “Your situation.”

“They know 'bout that. I didn't ask them to forget.” Adam said. “The other stuff. The awful stuff that happened to the other one.” His voice became soft. His heels kicked against the stones in an almost mournful manner as he hung his head again. “No kid should know about that.”

Aziraphale blinked. He wasn't expecting Adam to know about that. He'd been rehearsing a gentle way to explain things during the train ride. “About,” Aziraphale chose his words carefully and slowly, “how Crowley has been hurt?”

Adam nodded.

Aziraphale felt floored. He couldn't quite believe that Crowley had confessed about the torture to Adam. He rarely acknowledged it to Aziraphale, and Crowley had known Aziraphale since the Beginning. Aziraphale turned so he could lean back against the wall beside Adam. “He told you.”

“I found out by accident at the air base.” Adam sounded much older than eleven, and it struck Aziraphale that this was not fair. He might be the Antichrist, but he was still a child, and he was being asked to be involved in things that adults could not handle. “I couldn't control stuff that day. I saw his mind by accident.”

Aziraphale had a vague memory of Crowley passing him a wine bottle and telling him that he felt like Adam had seen “my entire life history, Angel. It was terrifying.” He had thought Crowley was being dramatic and using hyperbole. “Oh.” He felt the rough stone of the wall driving into his hands. “I'm sorry, Adam. You're right. Kids shouldn't have to know about that. Hell is awful.”

“Humans do it, too.” The boy pointed out. “I don't understand...” He stopped, then started again, “I don't know why anyone would want to do that stuff.” Adam's hands balled into fists. Then, with what appeared to be great difficulty, he unwrapped them. “Did they take him away?”

“No.” Aziraphale said. “He's in London.”

“Did he mess people about?” Adam asked.

“Crowley? As far as I know, the only things he's been messing about are his plants.” Aziraphale frowned. “Why?”

“That's the deal,” Adam explained. “You were different, you don't work for them, but him – we made a deal about him, after. They were supposed to leave you both alone, but he came back here 'cause he thought they wouldn't. We talked with the buzzing one and came up with this agreement. They say he works for me, but there's gotta be rules.” He made a face. “I have enough with Pepper, Wensley, Brian, and Dog, so rules are that he's not to mess people around or hurt anyone. I figured, that way, he won't get hurt for agreeing that the world should....you know. People shouldn't be hurt for doing the right thing. He comes 'round about once a month to report. He don't have to, but it seems to make him happy.”

“He hasn't been doing anything particularly demonic,” Aziraphale confirmed. “Unless you think gluing coins to the sidewalk or playing petty pranks are demonic deeds.”

“Nah. That's Brian type stuff.” Adam agreed. “He can do that stuff.” He frowned. “If he doesn't break the agreement, they're not allowed to touch him.”

Aziraphale wondered what would happen if Hell broke its agreement with Adam before realizing that Hell wouldn't. Demons were odd about contracts. They'd do plenty of awful stuff, but they never, ever violated a contract. If there was a contract between Adam and Hell about Crowley, Hell would follow it to the letter. If they were punishing Crowley, that meant they'd found a loophole somewhere that permitted them to. “What were the exact words? Because they're not touching him, just having him summoned.”

“They're not allowed to do anything that would hurt him,” Adam said. “Those were the words.” He looked at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye. “Words matter.” He frowned. “Does summoning hurt?”

~*~

The first time Aziraphale learned the truth about summoning was in a waking nightmare.

~*~

Florence 1348

It wasn't stealing. Stealing was against the Commandments, after all. Aziraphale was an angel and he didn't break Commandments, so therefore, he couldn't be stealing. He was rescuing. The owner of these books was dead. Aziraphale knew; the body was lying on the floor in the next room. Any family members who had been alive at the time they realized the inhabitant of said next room had the pestilence had fled. They were, most likely, dead by now as well. The books had been abandoned. No one wanted them. Leaving them to rot was wasteful. He was doing a service saving these books.

Aziraphale ran a perfectly cleaned and trimmed fingernail over the spine of the nearest book. Lazily, he read the carefully printed title. His breath caught in his throat. This book was not something he expected to find. Mazzeo's prophetic text was considered heresy to the few who knew about it. Aziraphale had heard whispers of it for the last seventy-odd years, but had not, despite his best efforts, been able to get his hands on a copy. And here one was, just sitting there abandoned on a dead man's bookshelf. He could feel himself tremble as he opened the volume, waiting for a page inside to read Ha Ha Just Kidding. Instead, the words of the text stared up at him from the parchment.

Aziraphale shut the book and clutched it to his chest. He had managed to develop quite the little collection of books, but few were as rare and valuable as this. Only his original, signed copy of Revelation ranked higher, and that was only because it was the original, signed copy. The actual prophesies in that one were widely known. The prophesies in this book, however...he'd heard of some of them, but they were unsubstantiated rumors and now...now he had the book.

There was a clattering downstairs. Aziraphale spun in the direction of the doorway. For a moment, he wondered if the former residents had returned before adopting a more realistic theory – looters. People had come to scavenge and steal what they could find. How base. He slid his prize into the bag looped over one shoulder and returned his attention to the small stack of books on the shelf. He lifted the top one and opened it to discover a book of hours. Aziraphale ran a hand over an illumination, admiring the work. Someone had dedicated a considerable amount of time to its creation.

A strangled noise, as if someone was choking back a scream of pain, ripped through the silence. That could be a problem. Had the looters begun fighting among themselves? Aziraphale took a few steps towards the sound, then hesitated. You're under strict orders, he reminded himself, not to get involved. Except that didn't sound like a person dying of pestilence, and Aziraphale knew the house had been devoid of human life when he'd entered. His fingers fiddled with the strap of his bag. It was one thing not to search out people who may need help and heal them. It was another to ignore someone suffering directly under his nose. One was not getting involved. The other was walking to the other side of the street when seeing a man attacked by bandits.

Shoving the second book into his bag, he headed towards the door. Aziraphale paused in the hall, listening. Downstairs, someone suddenly proclaimed “I bind you!” in Latin. Two other voices repeated the words. Angels were not supposed to get goosebumps, but Aziraphale's corporation had missed that memo. He took a deep breath through his nose and let it out. As he did, his brain went through several scenarios in his mind, none of them good. The most likely explanation was that the humans had decided another human was possessed or was an evil spirit in disguise, and were now trying to defeat whatever evil was afoot in hopes that it would stop the disease and death ravaging the land. Aziraphale had seen it before. None of the humans targeted had anything to do with evil. Whatever ritual was being performed would end in the death of an innocent and needed to be stopped. Now.

Aziraphale took the stairs two at a time. Reaching the ground floor, he followed the chanting voices to the back of the palazzo. A set of double doors stood open. Blue-white light poured through them. Aziraphale took a long, cautious step into the doorway.

A trio of humans stood in front of a Circle, brightly lit. Inside the Circle, hanging suspended in the air, was a human form. The figure appeared to be a thin male. His long limbs twitched as if he could not control them, and he made a soft, choking noise. Not a human, Aziraphale determined. A human would be dead the moment they stepped into the Circle. And not an angel. An angel would be on his way to Heaven. Which left...demon. Aziraphale studied the wretched creature as his body spasmed again. The movement caused his dark, chin length hair to further cloak his face. It was clear from the noises that came from the demon that he was in pain. With what looked to be considerable effort, the demon took a shuddering breath and pulled his head upright.

It was Crowley.

Almost instantly, he noticed Aziraphale standing in the shadows of the doorway. Crowley's eyes widened. Aziraphale barely had time to register that Crowley looked awful, with dark circles under his eyes and his skin paler than the angel remembered, before Crowley's eyes took on a look of complete and utter betrayal.

One of the humans noticed Crowley's diverted attention and spun around. “Who's there?”

Understanding dawned in Crowley's expression, followed immediately by fear. “Aziraphale!” He shouted, before adding in an ancient language, “RUN!”

He wasn't sure what was going on, but he knew he couldn't leave Crowley behind like this. Ignoring the order, Aziraphale stepped forward so that he was illuminated by the light spilling from the Circle. “What,” he addressed the humans coldly, “do you think you are doing?”

One of the humans scrambled to pick up a sword that had been lying outside the Circle. At a motion from another, he stopped. The motioner took a step towards Aziraphale. “What makes that your business?”

“I am an ordained priest,” Aziraphale said. It was, technically, true. He might have been posing as a scholar most recently, but he had been ordained several centuries earlier in order to gain entrance to a monastery with an extensive collection of rare scrolls. “And you're summoning demons. Consorting with the vile creatures of Hell is a sin, so this appears to be very much my business.”

“We don't want to consort with it,” the final human spoke up.

Motioner held up a hand, silencing his companion. His eyes never left Aziraphale. “You don't look like a priest.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley spoke again in the language Aziraphale only used when reporting to his superiors, “get out of here. I'll be okay.”

The human with the sword pointed at Aziraphale. “He speaks to him in a demonic tongue!”

“I beg your pardon!” Aziraphale glared at him. That was a language of Heaven.

“He is no priest!” the human with the sword declared.

“He knows the demon,” Motioner agreed. The humans shifted as if intending to take up positions surrounding Aziraphale. “They must be working together to call the pestilence upon us.”

“Oh for the love of...” Aziraphale inclined his eyes heavenward. He did not have time for this – not if Crowley was suffering every second they had him in that Circle. Uttering an annoyed sigh, he felt his wings burst into the mortal plane, splitting his tunic.

The humans froze.

A soft, warm light appeared above Aziraphale's head. Oh. Huh. It seemed his halo decided to make an appearance for this one. Ah well. Probably for the best. Wings could be questionable, but humans understood halos meant angels.

As if on cue, one of the humans whispered, “Angel,” with a voice that was one part wonder, two parts fear. He immediately dropped to his knees and bowed forward, head to the ground.

“Yes, well, there's no need for that,” Aziraphale said. He wasn't sure how he'd explain this away if anyone Upstairs found out about it. He desperately hoped they wouldn't. This was very much the opposite of not getting involved. He supposed he could come up with something about needing to protect the humans from the dangers of the wily demon Crowley if it came to that.... “I'm only a principality, not the Almighty.”

It was too late. All three humans were on their knees, bowing low.

This was so embarrassing. Aziraphale made a point of not looking at Crowley. He cleared his throat. “You have been summoning demons.”

“Forgive us,” Motioner pleaded. “We meant no evil.”

“We only did it to seek the Lord's favor,” Sword added.

“You summoned a demon,” Aziraphale reminded them.

“The priests that have not died have abandoned us,” Motioner confessed in a shaking voice. “We have sinned and brought about this pestilence.”

That's not why this happened. Aziraphale tried to keep on topic. “And the demon?”

“If we sacrificed a demon to show our contrition,” Motioner explained, “the Lord may look kindly upon us and remove the pestilence from the land.”

Aziraphale's eyes fell on the sword. He recognized the design as one that had been popular with those on Crusade. A priest had likely blessed it at one point. He wasn't sure what happened to a demon run through with a blessed blade, but he wasn't about to find out with Crowley. He felt his blood run cold. “It is written,” he said, trying to keep the fury from his voice, “Thou shall not kill. There is no exception for him.” He pointed back at the Circle. “You shall not sacrifice anyone – not another human and not a demon. Such judgment is not yours to make.”

The humans trembled. “Have mercy!” Motioner cried out.

“Angel.” Crowley continued to speak in their original tongue, his voice shaking nearly as much as the humans. “Angel, it's...I'll be okay. They...just send them away. They won't do it again.”

“They were planning to kill you,” Aziraphale snapped at him in the same tongue. “Permanently.”

“I would have talked them out of it,” Crowley protested. His body shook suddenly and he choked back a whimper. “Aziraphale, please. They're so scared. They don't know why He is allowing this to happen. They don't mean to do evil. Please.”

There was probably some sort of ulterior motive to Crowley's plea, but Aziraphale would be darned if he could see it. Not that it mattered. He had no intention of harming the humans. “Be quiet,” he told Crowley, “and let me handle this.” He returned to the language the humans had been speaking. “You will leave this place. You will not return. You will not summon another demon. You will not bring harm to anyone.”

Three heads nodded vigorously.

“To anyone. You shall not touch a hair on their heads.” Aziraphale emphasized. “If you obey my orders, you shall be spared a smiting. Now go.”

Motioner and one of the other humans jumped to their feet and fled. The third human, the one with the sword, remained.

“Leave now,” Aziraphale tried to encourage him. “I shall handle this demon.”

“Great angel,” the human didn't dare look at him, “please. How can we regain the Lord's favor?”

“You have not lost it.” Aziraphale tried to sound slightly less like a judging Heavenly force to be reckoned with. He wasn't completely sure he'd succeeded. “Please, go. Allow me to handle this.”

The human slowly raised his head. He looked like he wanted to ask something else, but was too fearful to do so. He swallowed, then scrambled to his feet and followed his friends.

Aziraphale shut the doors behind the fleeing humans with a motion from his hand. He moved to the Circle. “Just a moment,” he told Crowley, “and I'll get you out.” With one hand, he reached for one of the candles set onto the Circle. As he pulled it away, his other hand reached out and caught Crowley's wrist. Aziraphale tugged. The demon came free as the Circle blinked out and the light vanished.

Crowley stumbled, crashing into Aziraphale. Without thinking, Aziraphale wrapped his arms around the demon. He could feel Crowley trembling and opened his mouth to say something comforting.

“Off.” Crowley shoved him, hard. “Off.”

Out of shock, Aziraphale felt himself take several steps backwards. “Crow-” Before he could ask what had gotten into the demon, Crowley doubled over and got sick on the floor.

~*~

Tadfield, Spring 1991

“How much?” Adam asked. His eyes were fixed on a half-dead tree in the distance.

“How frequently are they summoning him?” Aziraphale asked. “He's trying to hide it from me, but as near as I can tell, it's been once every two or three days and has been going on for the last three weeks, at least.”

“They aren't allowed to do this.” Adam declared. “It's against the agreement.” He climbed off the wall. “Come on. We'll need to go back to my house to call them.”

It was not many children – many people, for that matter – who would talk about calling Hell the way they would talk about calling a utility company. Aziraphale moved to follow the Antichrist. “You contact Hell from your house?”

“Only if I have to,” Adam said. “I don't much like talking with them. They're almost as bad as Greasy Johnson. Come on. Home isn't far.”

Aziraphale fell into step beside him. “Won't your, uh, won't your parents by a bit concerned if you draw a Circle on their floors?” He couldn't imagine how Adam would explain that one to his parents. Suspicion might slide of the Antichrist, but surely his human mother couldn't miss that there were new markings and melted candle wax on her floor.

Adam looked at him as if he'd grown two heads. “Why'd I do that?”

Aziraphale felt his brow furrow. “To call Hell, of course.”

Adam's confusion intensified.

“You've called Hell before,” Aziraphale said. “You said you did. When Crowley came back and asked for your help, you had to get in contact with them somehow.”

“Yeah.” Adam said. “We just called them.”

Remembering the Bentley, Aziraphale had a sudden burst of insight. “On the radio?”

“Radios don't make calls.” Adam's expression was starting to suggest he thought Aziraphale a bit daft.

“Yes, well then, how,” Aziraphale asked, “do you call Hell?”

Adam looked completely at a loss. “With a phone.”

“Oh.”

“How do you call Hell?” Adam asked.

“I am an angel,” Aziraphale heard himself become what Crowley called 'huffy.' “I don't talk to Hell.”

“Oh. Well.” Adam shrugged. “I can give you the number in case you ever want to. Oh - and I have to warn you. They're very big on these new Phone Tree things, but there's a trick to 'em - if you hit 0, you'll get a live demon.”

~*~

Florence 1348

It should have been an overcast day or a dark stormy night. They had just left a demonic summoning in the midst of plague-ravaged Florence. Crowley was barely standing. As it was, Aziraphale was taking most of his weight and half dragging him towards the door of the palazzo. And yet, bright cheerful sunlight streamed through windows as if everything wasn't going to hell outside.

“Wait.” Crowley's hand tightened against the fabric of Aziraphale's clothing. “My glasses. I need my glasses.”

“Manifest a new pair,” Aziraphale said, tugging him forward. “We aren't going back in there.”

Crowley tried to twist back towards the direction they came from. All he succeeded in doing was stumbling, sending his dark hair forward across his face. As if an artist struck by sudden inspiration, Crowley suddenly reached up and tried to draw his hair further over his eyes.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale paused and really looked at the demon. This was all wrong. He pushed Crowley's hair out of the way to lay a hand on his forehead. “Impossible.”

Crowley weakly tried to bat his hand away. The movement caused him to fall forward against Aziraphale. His head landed on the angel's shoulder, and Aziraphale heard him take one long, shuddering breath. “Mmm fine.”

“You're burning up.” He could not think of any reason why an immortal being was running a fever. They weren't, to Aziraphale's knowledge, supposed to be able to do that. Angels – and demons, for that matter – were impervious to human illnesses. Aziraphale wasn't sure why, but he knew their corporations, while human-shaped, were not human. Crowley should be perfectly healthy, and yet, he was showing all the early signs of being afflicted with the pestilence. He was pale and his skin clammy. He was shivering as if cold, but his body felt like a furnace. It should be impossible.

And yet....

There was magic involved in Circles. It wasn't just any old magic, either. It was Ancient and Powerful. It was magic tied directly to Heaven. Those men had been looking to offer a demon to God in order to end the disease that was ravaging their home. They successfully created a Circle and trapped Crowley. They had been performing some sort of ritual when Aziraphale had arrived. “What did they do to you?” Aziraphale breathed.

“Summoning.” Crowley murmured.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale tried to help him back to a standing position. It was an exercise in futility as the demon remained where he was collapsed against the angel. “Summoning doesn't cause pestilence.”

Crowley let out a deep breath. “Don't have the pessstilence. Mmm fine. Jussst out of sssorts a bit. Sssummoning. Be fine in a minute.”

Summoning? Aziraphale felt himself go still. His mind began replaying the times he'd seen Crowley summoned. Crowley had always acted as if it was nothing more than a bit of inconvenience, yet it was impossible to ignore that Crowley most certainly would not be 'fine in a minute.' He looked like he was about to collapse. Aziraphale also found he could not ignore the fact that he'd never seen Crowley immediately after the demon had been summoned; every time Crowley had been summoned, he would fail to reappear for several days after. “Does this always happen,” Aziraphale asked, “When you get summoned?”

Crowley ignored the question, took another deep breath, and then, straining, tried to push himself off Aziraphale and onto his feet. He moved to comb his hair over his eyes again.

Aziraphale caught his wrist. “You can't use your magic,” he surmised, “Can you?”

Crowley tried to pull himself free. The demon's yellow eyes regarded him with suspicion. No, it was more than suspicion, Aziraphale realized with a jolt. It was fear.

Crowley was afraid of him.

Too late, Aziraphale realized the mistake. Crowley had apparently been weakened by the humans with the Circle. He was now injured and ill, and the Enemy had discovered he no longer had his magic. It was the perfect combination to awaken the paranoia Crowley had told him lived in the heart of every demon.

He had always been the one who had been distrustful of Crowley. He had often questioned the kind things the demon did, wondering if it was a trick or a way to get him to lower his guard. There had been many confusing encounters when Aziraphale thought Crowley was trying to tempt him or trap him, where, in actuality, Crowley was genuinely trying to be nice. Despite example after example, there were still times when Aziraphale questioned Crowley's intentions. It had never occurred to him that Crowley was capable of feeling the same way towards him. Crowley never treated Aziraphale as a threat – not even during that first meeting on the wall – yet part of him, deep down, had clearly questioned whether Aziraphale would one day turn on him.

Of course he questions it, Aziraphale's mind pointed out, It's the only course of action he's known. If what Crowley had told him was true, Hell was every demon for themselves. When Crowley disappointed Heaven, he was cast out. While Aziraphale didn't know much about Falling, he had heard enough in drunken slip-ups to know that Crowley was hardly welcomed by his fellow demons with open arms. In the darkest moments of his existence, Crowley had learned not only was there was no one who he could rely on when things were bad, but that, if he failed to keep his wits about him, he would be harmed. No matter how friendly Aziraphale might be during a dinner here or a shared bottle of wine there, Aziraphale was a threat.

“Let go, Angel.” Crowley managed to pull some assertion into his voice. “I'm fine. Mm going home.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale grabbed the demon's other arm and gently held him in place. His brain spun as he tried to think of something – anything – to convince Crowley that he was not going to try to hurt him. He needed Crowley to stay with him. He didn't even want to think what a human would do if they saw Crowley, staggering down the street as if ill, with his bright yellow eyes on full display for all the world to see. The humans were so scared. Death was everywhere. If the humans from the palazzo were any indication, they were looking for something – anything – to do to win God's favor, and sacrificing a sick demon was practically custom-made for the occasion. “Crowley, listen to me. You are in no state to go anywhere. You can barely stand on your own. You certainly can't walk. Please. I'm trying to take care of you.”

“No,” Crowley tried in vain to free himself. “I'm a demon.”

Yes, but you're a demon who is sort-of a friend. Aziraphale seized on a sudden burst of inspiration. “Yes. I'm an angel, you're a demon, and we have an Arrangement. We made a contract, remember?”

Crowley stilled.

Demons, for reasons Aziraphale had never understood, had very particular beliefs when it came to contracts. Crowley approached forming the Arrangement, for all its basic simplicity, with the sort of intense reverence as the most devout approached the Almighty. While nothing was put to parchment, contracts did not need to be written to be binding. Aziraphale knew that, in Crowley's mind, the Arrangement was a contract, and that Meant Something. “Non-interference in certain activities,” he recited, loosening his grip. “Assurances that the balance is maintained. Neither of us win, neither of us lose. I can request your help. You can request mine.” He paused, dropping his hands. “I'm already helping you. That means I can't use it to harm you. It would go against the Arran- the contract.” He paused to give all of that a chance to sink in. “May I keep helping you?”

Crowley looked at him a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“Can you manifest glasses to hide your eyes?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley silently studied him until Aziraphale could nearly see the calculations being run in his head. Finally, he shook his head once.

“Alright. Here.” Dropping his hands away, he pulled off his cloak and wrapped it around Crowley. At a motion from his hand, the ripped fabric repaired itself. Aziraphale yanked the hood up, over Crowley's head, letting the cowl provide some privacy. “I'm afraid I don't know much about your glasses, but this should help hide your eyes. Where's your place? I'll take you home.”

Crowley let out a little laugh. It sounded crazy. “Pretty sssure,” he said, “I'm nowhere near it. The humanss' wordsss were wrong. We aren't in Venice, are we?”

“Florence,” Aziraphale confirmed. What, he wondered, had Crowley intended to do once he'd got away from Aziraphale? Find an abandoned building somewhere and hole up? Actually, it probably was what Crowley had been planning. It was essentially his only option unless he wanted to lay in the streets. Aziraphale hesitated, then asked, “Do you trust me?”

Crowley pondered that. “We have an Arrangement,” he confirmed.

“I'll take you back to mine, then. It's about six blocks. Think you can make it?”

“Don't think I have a choice.” Crowley let his head hang but managed to hold at least some of his weight.

Aziraphale shifted his grip on the demon and half drug, half led him through the door and into the nightmare that was Florence.

~~~

Crowley spent three days in a fever. Aziraphale split his time trying to do what he could for the demon and reading. Mostly, Crowley slept. When he was awake, he curled in on himself and avoided talking, mumbling about how his head hurt when Aziraphale tried to speak to him. On a few occasions, he asked Aziraphale to read to him, only to fall back into sleep within a quarter of an hour.

Crowley had now been asleep for at least half a day, and, in the silence, Aziraphale had started finding chores to do to keep himself from worrying. He'd straightened the room, organized his books three times to find the best, most confusing organizational system, and was now focusing on cleaning Crowley's tunic. His fingers ran across the fabric. The silk was the sort reserved for the highest levels of society, and it was clear that Crowley had taken care of it. Had he, Aziraphale wondered, actually purchased it? For all Crowley's talk, his behavior was often different from what he bragged he did. Hanging the tunic to dry, he moved to clean the doublet. A check of the workmanship was all he needed for his suspicions to be confirmed. Tiny imperfections and differences in the stitching here or there suggested that not only was this purchased, but that it came from an apprentice. Aziraphale ran a hand over the garment. The type of money a man of means would pay for something like this would make a difference in the life of the human who made it.

“They have very nice things in Venice,” Crowley's voice came from the bed. When Aziraphale looked over at him, he rubbed at his eyes and propped himself up on an elbow. “How long was I out?”

“You slept most of the day this time.” Aziraphale set the doublet aside and moved to the bed. Reaching out, he felt Crowley's forehead. “Your fever seems to have broken. How do you feel?”

“Fine,” Crowley said. Aziraphale waited, and was rewarded with a more honest answer. “A little weak, but my head doesn't hurt anymore, my stomach feels normal, and it's not freezing in here.”

“It's been three days since you were summoned,” Aziraphale supplied. “That sound about right?”

Crowley flopped back onto the bed. “Yeah.” He turned his head to look at Aziraphale. “You have questions.”

“They can wait,” Aziraphale said. “I'm more worried about you.”

Crowley's eyebrows rose. He seemed to weigh several thoughts as he pushed himself to a seated position. The bedclothes pooled around his waist and he played with the edge of his shirt. “Would it be too much trouble to ask to borrow one of yours?” Crowley gave a tug to indicate his shirt. “Not quite up to, you know....”

Aziraphale moved to retrieve one of his linen shirts. “How long does it take for that to come back?”

“Probably another day,” Crowley confessed. “Do you remember that time in Babylon, outside the tavern, when you came upon me right after a summoning?”

Aziraphale's hands paused from where they'd been opening his small clothes chest. “You offered me dates.”

“Did I? I don't remember much about it,” Crowley said, “other than that I was terrified. I'd gotten back a couple months before from an inconvenient discorporation, and my superiors told me if I came back within the century, they'd find someone else to take my job who didn't waste bodies at such an alarming rate. I still felt pretty awful that morning, but I knew if I got something to eat, I'd feel better, so I went out to get some food and then there you were. An angel. I kept waiting for you to figure out I was defenseless and smite me.”

Aziraphale pulled a linen shirt free from the chest and laid it over a stack of books. “I had no idea. I thought you were just being a cheeky bastard.” He set his humble wooden chair beside the fireplace. “Come over here and sit down. I'll wash your hair for you.”

Crowley looked skeptical, even as Aziraphale lit the fire and set a basin on the floor. After a bit of quiet deliberation, though, he climbed from bed and padded over to where Aziraphale indicated. It took little effort to get him to tilt his head back, and he didn't recoil when Aziraphale set about wetting his hair and working soap through it. At the feel of fingers massaging his scalp, Crowley let out a little hissing sigh and his eyes closed.

“Why were you going through so many corporations?” Aziraphale asked

“Hm?”

“You said when you saw me in Babylon, you'd recently been discorporated,” Aziraphale prompted.

“Horses,” Crowley replied. “It's always the bloody horses. You have to wonder what the Almighty was thinking with them. And the humans use them for everything! Let me tell you, Angel, they should all do things like how they're done in Venice. They use boats there. Boats don't throw you off because they don't like you. Have you been?”

“To Venice? I haven't been there since the latest reconstruction of San Marco,” Aziraphale replied. “Keep yours eyes closed while I rinse this out.”

Crowley obeyed, holding his head still over the basin. “It's fantastic. A true republic of progress. All the finest things come through the ports and they use them to make all sorts of goods. They're so creative.” A small smile appeared on his mouth. “They built a city on the sea. And the music, oh, Angel, you can't walk along a canal without hearing the music. You should come visit me....” he trailed off as reality set in. The fire crackled in the silence. “It's not,” he said finally, “like that anymore.” He twisted in the chair, yellow eyes becoming desperate. “Have your people said anything?”

“Just that I'm not to get involved,” Aziraphale replied. He handed Crowley a strip of fabric to dry his hair.

“The humans say it's the end of the world,” Crowley said, ignoring the fabric. “I think they might be right. I've seen the Four. Heaven! Pestilence and Death were everywhere back home.”

“It's been the same here,” Aziraphale confirmed. “But I haven't been told to be on stand-by to join my regiment. No one's breathed a word about the Antichrist. I would have been informed if it was time for the End.” He would have been informed, wouldn't he? “Have, er, have you heard anything from your people?”

“Well, no,” Crowley admitted. He finally began drying his hair with the cloth, rubbing at his head almost violently. “But that doesn't mean much. I'm a nobody. I'm hardly going to be at the top of the list of people to tell when Armageddon rolls around.”

“Maybe not, but I don't think,” Aziraphale paused, took a breath, and continued, “I don't think this is it.”

“But it has to be.” Crowley protested. “The humans are, they're dying, Aziraphale. They're dying in such high numbers in such an awful way and if this isn't the end, if the end is worse....” He looked at the shuttered windows as if he knew what lay beyond them. Of course, he did. They both did. Shutters did not block out the horror of the truth. “I don't know what could be worse.”

“This isn't the first time this has happened,” Aziraphale reminded him. “It likely won't be the last.”

“Are they being punished?” Crowley suddenly grasped Aziraphale's hand. “Is that why you were told to not to get involved?”

Aziraphale stared at him as if he had lost his mind. His eyes flickered to where Crowley was clinging to his hand in a two-handed death grip, then looked back at the demon. He wanted to change the subject or deflect the question, but there was something so achingly sincere in those bright eyes. It almost felt as if Crowley's heart was breaking having to watch the suffering around him. Aziraphale tried to push the thought away – Crowley was a demon, after all, who condemned humans to all sorts of awful things, and Crowley probably shouldn't care what happened to them – except he had gotten the distinct impression that Crowley did care, deeply, about humanity. “When they're punished,” Aziraphale heard himself respond, his voice barely above a whisper, “we're involved. The Principalities and other Guardians are given an explicit stand-aside order while those assigned to carry out whatever is coming act. I don't know how to explain it to you, but the orders are different. So. No, they are not being punished.”

Crowley recoiled slightly. He let Aziraphale's hand fall away. He blinked once.

“Whatever this is,” Aziraphale continued, “it's not coming from my side.”

Crowley's gaze focused on the fire. He remained silent.

Aziraphale cleared his throat and tried to find his most authoritative voice. “I think that's enough about that. Dry your hair and change your shirt, and then get back in bed. Tell me more about summoning sickness.”

He was rewarded by another slow blink from the demon. Then, whatever darkness had been stewing dissipated, and he appeared to return to his usual self. “You've seen the worst of it.” Crowley stripped out of his shirt and laid it over the back of the chair. Taking the one Aziraphale held out to him, he pulled it on over his head. “You get ill for a few days, and then it's over, your magic comes back, and things go back to normal.” He stood, the movement causing the borrowed shirt to billow down over his braies and down to his knees like a tent. Crowley didn't seem to mind and obediently padded back to the bed. “What else do you want to know?”

“When it's over, are you returned to where you were when you were summoned?” Aziraphale asked.

“You mean if an angel doesn't interrupt?” Crowley said. “Yeah. It sort of spits you back out the way it sucked you in. Anything else?”

“I've figured most of it out,” Aziraphale confessed. He took a seat on the edge of the bed. “I suspect it happens every time you're summoned.” He waited until he got a short nod from Crowley. “And I think it has something to do with the Circle itself. I know holy objects can harm demons, and Circles are meant to be for angels to communicate with Heaven.”

“They're meant to transport you there,” Crowley said.

“Only in emergencies,” Aziraphale replied. “Transport through a Circle into Heaven results in discorporation.” He took a moment to take that to its logical conclusion. “That's it, isn't it? A demon can't pass through the Circle into Heaven, so they're stuck, all while the Circle tries to do what it's meant to do. It's breaking apart your corporation so it can whisk you to Heaven, and because you can't enter Heaven, you can't leave the Circle, and your magic is trying to heal you until....” He swallowed. “Crowley, what happens to a demon left in a Circle too long?”

“Don't know.” Crowley sounded solemn. “Don't want to know.”

“How often,” Aziraphale asked, “Does it happen to you?”

“Used to be once a century,” Crowley said. “Been getting more frequent. Maybe once every couple decades now. More humans, more summonings.” He gave a small shrug against the bedclothes.

“I suspect you're more popular than most demons,” Aziraphale said. “You are in the stories, after all.”

“Maybe, but it wouldn't get me summoned more. Summonings aren't demon-specific. Even if a human wants a specific demon, it doesn't matter. They don't get a choice in who they talk to. There's a queue, and when it's your turn, you go.” Crowley explained.

“That seems very....” Aziraphale tried to think of a way to phrase it. “Egalitarian.”

“Oh, it's pragmatic, is what it is,” Crowley put in. “Only way to keep the citizens of Hell from turning on leadership. Summonings are heavenly and they almost make you wish for the lake of fire. No one really wants to know what would happen if demons didn't all share the suffering, but everyone suspects it would be a rebellion. Even Beelzebub takes a turn, not out of any sense of decency but to ensure job security.”

“So there's not a way out,” Aziraphale concluded.

Crowley's mouth formed a small smile. “Not for demons. It's okay, Angel. It's not that bad. I feel lousy for a few days, and then everything's back to normal. Once you take your turn, you know it won't happen again for years.”

~*~

London, Spring 1991

His head was ringing. Crowley choked back a whimper, wrapping one arm over his forehead. The added pressure did little to stop the pounding and nothing to stop the ringing.

Wait. That wasn't the ringing he had grown accustomed to. That was the telephone. He took a moment to listen and identified it tentatively as the telephone in his office. General line, not private line. That meant it was probably a telemarketer. The ansaphone could get it. Crowley reached for a pillow, then stopped. It could be the angel.

Aziraphale had to be suspicious by now. Crowley had canceled plans with him at least three times. While Aziraphale might have bought Crowley trying to get out of driving him to the book fair, Aziraphale had to be questioning why Crowley had canceled on the opening of the wine bar. Not to mention that, since last summer, Crowley had been hanging around the bookshop on a near daily basis unless Aziraphale needed to get things done. He hadn't been to the shop since this whole thing started three weeks ago. Aziraphale might be bad at noticing things, but he wasn't stupid. By now, he had to know something was up.

Whatever happened, he did not want Aziraphale dragged into this. Hell knew Crowley was a dirty rotten traitor, but Crowley had also pulled a bit of a fast one by making a formal agreement with the Antichrist. Aziraphale hadn't. Heaven likely believed he was back to being a good little angel after a momentary lapse in judgment. They probably even excused Aziraphale trying to stop Armageddon as Aziraphale's angelicness malfunctioning as a result of being ordered to guard part of Creation all those years ago. That seemed like Angel Logic. He could even hear them rationalizing it out in that way of theirs. Aziraphale should be safe as long as Aziraphale kept his head down and kept out of things.

The phone was still ringing. Why hadn't the ansaphone picked up? Why was it still...oh bloody heaven it needed to stop. Crowley rolled over, hated himself for moving, and managed to shove his feet onto the floor anyway. He swayed as he stood, then gave up on any heroics and reached out to lean against the wall.

He could do this.

It was just down the hall.

He could do this.

He stumbled forward a few steps, trying valiantly to ignore the churning of his stomach and the pounding in his head. How was it, he wondered, that every beat of his heart felt like a sledgehammer hitting against his temple? He considered lying on the floor, then dismissed the idea. For whatever reason, the phone still rang and lying on the floor wouldn't make it stop.

The door to the office brought a fresh wave of pain as he stepped into the sunlit space. Crowley squinted at the afternoon light filtering through the windows. The curtains should have taken that as their cue to close, but Crowley found his magic so depleted that not even the most powerful thought could make the curtains so much as rustle. He shut his eyes against the offending brightness and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“CROWLEY?”

The receiver slipped through his fingers. It clattered onto the desk. No. Oh no oh no oh no. He had hoped...well, it didn't matter what he had hoped. You never could get away, could you? They'd always get you, in the end. He swallowed, retrieving the receiver and placing it against his ear. He tried to keep his hand from trembling. The other hand grabbed the edge of the desk as he struggled to steady himself. “Yes?” he managed.

“CROWLEY, THIS IS DAGON. LORD OF THE FILES, MASTER OF MADNESS, UNDER-DUKE OF THE SEVENTH TORMENT.”

As if, Crowley thought, there were other Dagons. He didn't introduce himself as Demon Crowley, Serpent of Eden, Original Tempter, Connoisseur of Fine Wine. Not that it really mattered.

He wondered what it would be this time. Bad. It would be very bad. They had to have found his reports on the Spanish Inquisition by now. They would have scoured Hell's archives to find the worst things the humans had invented, and prepared them just for him. It was a perfectly ironic punishment, when you got right down to it. He tried to remind himself that Hell might not have enough imagination to go for ironic. They'd go for pain though. You didn't need imagination to understand pain. His fingers tightened on the edge of the desk as he leaned against it. “Yes?”

“WE ARE CALLING TO CONFIRM OUR AGREEMENT WITH YOUR NEW EMPLOYER THAT YOU WILL NO LONGER BE IN THE SUMMONING ROTATION.”

The sentence did not compute. Crowley tried to make sense of it again and failed. He knew he had to say something, though. “I see.”

Dagon apparently found the answer satisfactory, because the voice on the phone continued. “I HAVE BEEN ASKED TO FURTHER INFORM YOU THAT AFTER BEING NOTIFIED ABOUT YOUR RECENT INCREASE IN SUMMONINGS, WE INVESTIGATED AND CONFIRMED THAT THIS WAS NOT CAUSED BY ANY OFFICIAL ACTION FROM HELL. OUR INVESTIGATION INTO THE COMPLAINT REVEALED AN EMPLOYEE VIOLATED ORDERS THAT MADE CLEAR NO ONE WAS TO TAKE ANY DIRECT OR INDIRECT ACTION WITH REGARDS TO YOU AFTER YOUR EMPLOYMENT WAS TRANSFERRED. THE EMPLOYEE RESPONSIBLE ACTED INDEPENDENTLY AND HAS BEEN GROUNDED.”

“I see,” Crowley repeated. And then, because he could not help himself, he did the thing that always got him into trouble and asked, “What does that mean exactly?”

There was a rustling in the background. “WHAT IS GROUNDED?” Dagon's voice was muffled, as if he had moved the receiver away from his mouth to speak to someone else, but forgot to place a hand over it.

“IT ISZZZ A TIME OUT.” Beelzebub's equally muffled voice replied in the background.

Dagon's voice returned, clearer, as if he was speaking into the receiver again. “IT IS A TIME OUT.”

“A time out,” Crowley repeated. “What does that entail?”

More rustling. “WHAT IS A TIME OUT?”

“TELL HIM THAT HASZZTUR ISZZ NOT – GIVE ME THE MACHINE.” Beelzebub's voice went from muffled to clear. “CROWLEY? ISZZT THOU THERE?”

His stomach decided it did not enjoy the new voice and lurched again. He tightened his grip on the edge of the desk once more and breathed through his nose. “Yeah.”

“CROWLEY. IN RESPONSZZE TO RECENT EVENTSZZZ, HASZZTUR ISZZ NOT PERMITTED TO VISZZIT EARTH FOR TWO MILLENNIA. FURTHER, HENCZEFORTH, UNTIL THE FINAL WAR, HAZZTUR SHALL NOT BE PERMITTED TO SZPEAK OR INTERACT WITH THEE, DIRECTLY OR INDIRECTLY, UNLESSZ THY DEMONIC EQUIVALENT OF A PARENT OR GUARDIAN ISZZ PRESZZENT.”

He was completely at a loss now. “Huh?”

Dagon's voice returned. “THAT LAST BIT MEANS THE ANTICHRIST.”

“Oh.” It sounded – if he was following correctly – as if Hastur had something to do with the sudden onslaught of summonings. It was sneakier and more subtle than Hastur's usual approach, but Crowley supposed that desperation could bring about all sorts of new behavior. It also sounded as if Hastur had been acting against orders, that the Antichrist had somehow found out, and that Hastur was now not allowed to do anything to Crowley unless the Antichrist gave the okay. That seemed too good to be true. Then again, if Hastur had been the cause of the cycle of summonings, that could have put the contract in danger. Hell did not violate contracts. There were Rules and you did not break the Rules. His mind spun. “Oh that's...that seems acceptable,” he managed to get out.

“CROWLEY, WILL YOU EXPRESS TO YOUR NEW EMPLOYER THAT THIS SITUATION HAS BEEN RESOLVED?” Dagon asked.

He was still trying to figure out what was going on, but...sure? If it meant no more summonings and being left alone and freedom...oh, it could mean freedom.

Dagon interpreted the silence as Crowley being displeased on behalf of the Antichrist. “PERHAPS, WE COULD SEND YOUR EMPLOYER A SECOND HELLHOUND TO ALLEVIATE SOME OF THE DISCOMFORT CAUSED BY THESE EVENTS?”

“Oh, uh, no, no that won't be necessary,” Crowley said, snapping back to reality. “He is quite happy with one hellhound, one demon, and his army of human minions so long as there are not additional interferences with his evil plans.”

Silence. Then, a hopeful Dagon asked, “EVIL PLANS?”

“Mmm, yeah, very evil. Something about destroying the whaling industry. All those poor whalers, out of jobs. Destruction of the economy. All that. Very evil, you know.” Crowley's legs shook. He leaned harder against the desk. “We've been working very hard on this.” From what he understood, Adam's science fair project was progressing nicely. The paper maché whale was impressive. “I probably shouldn't be talking about it. Boss says we're to be a neutral third party. It never goes well when you upset him.”

“YES. WE UNDERSTAND. MAY WE TREAT THIS ISSUE AS RESOLVED, CROWLEY?”

“Can I get it in writing?”

“GET WHAT IN WRITING?”

“This agreement.” Crowley elaborated. “The amendment to the contract. Hastur stays off earth for two thousand years and he isn't allowed to do anything to me. Directly or indirectly. Until the End of Time.”

Rustling. In the background, Beelzebub's voice could be heard saying something. Dagon returned a moment later. “WE WILL SEND ERIC TO DELIVER AN OFFICIAL COPY. IS THAT ACCEPTABLE?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that...that will work.” His stomach threatened to rebel. He needed to wrap this up. “Are we done?”

“WE ARE DONE. WE APPRECIATE YOUR WILLINGNESS TO AMICABLY RESOLVE THIS ISSUE. INFORM YOUR EMPLOYER THAT THERE SHOULD BE NO FURTHER INTERRUPTIONS.” The line went dead.

Crowley set the receiver back in the cradle. He sagged against the desk. It was over. It was really over.

His stomach lurched again, and he gave up on his battle with summoning sickness. He leaned over and got sick in the wastebasket, then slumped to the ground. The room felt cold, but his head liked it. Everything spun a little less, too. Crowley shut his eyes and tugged his nightshirt tighter around himself. He'd stay here for a few minutes and regain his strength so he could get back to the bedroom. He curled up under the desk.

He dreamed.

He dreamed he was sitting in the Garden in his favorite shape, studying the leaves of an interesting fern and marveling at how green it was. He asked the angel whether he thought Crowley could get his own plants to be this beautiful, but Aziraphale just rolled his eyes and called him a 'foolish, stubborn serpent.'

He dreamed he was being carried. Strong arms were wrapped around him and he felt so incredibly safe. He buried his face into a soft jumper and wondered if he could stay there forever.

He dreamed he was in a stuffy room, tucked into bed. The angel was reading by candlelight in the far corner. He wanted to open the window, but knew there was no fresh air beyond it. Stuffy air was better than the full onslaught of the stench of death.

“You should have told me, Crowley.”

Why? So you could tell me this is what I get for being a demon?

He dreamed he was standing outside a churchyard in London asking how this kept happening, why they had to suffer this way, and silently wondering if this was his fault. If the humans three hundred years ago had been onto something and the Almighty really was punishing them for sinning. If this was because he encouraged a woman to eat an apple.

He dreamed he was in his room in his London flat. Someone placed something cool and heavy against his forehead. It smelled of peppermint, and his tongue flickered out to better catch the scent. Strong hands tucked his blankets around him, and a voice that sounded like the angel told him to sleep. It seemed like a very nice idea.

~~~

Five days after he found Crowley curled up under his desk, shivering and half delusional, Aziraphale heard signs of life from the bedroom. It was sooner than he hoped, although it couldn't have come soon enough. Despite having a bookshelf full of books, Crowley's reading selections left much to be desired. Aziraphale was quite sure he never needed to read another Ian Fleming novel again.

Hearing the shower turn on, he shut the one he had been suffering through and carefully placed it back in its perfectly alphabetized place. He made a mental note to discuss proper book arrangement with the demon. If you alphabetized your books, anyone could find what they were looking for on your shelves. It was not ideal.

Now that he knew Crowley was okay and was not going to do anything else that could lead to unintentional discorporation, he should probably leave. Aziraphale wasn't sure how to approach the subject of his visit to Adam, and he didn't need Crowley going off in a snit and refusing to speak with him for a decade or so for the crime of trying to help. Best to place everything back where it had been and let himself out. Sooner or later, Crowley would come around to the bookshop. It would be...well, it would be fine. Things would go back to normal. Aziraphale could find solace in the knowledge that Hell wouldn't be coming for Crowley. Crowley could get back to...whatever it was Crowley did. Gardening, perhaps. Reading terrible novels. Driving around in his motorcar. It would be as it always was. It would be fine.

The shower shut off. Aziraphale waved a hand at the dishes he'd borrowed from Crowley's kitchen. They found themselves clean and back in their cupboards. The electric tea kettle found its way to a spot under the sink. Aziraphale swept the crumbs from scones and biscuits off the side table and into one hand, then looked for a wastebasket. Why, he wondered as he checked the usual spots, did Crowley not seem to have one?

Time was running short. Aziraphale gave up and brushed the crumbs into the nearest plant. Leaves rustled and he checked to make sure he hadn't left any windows open. Crowley's flat was always warm; heaven forbid if, after Aziraphale's careful attention to detail, he missed something as obvious as an open window. But no, the windows were shut. Odd. He glanced at the plants.

“Angel?”

He shut his eyes, counted backwards from five, opened them, and turned around. “Hello, Crowley. How are you feeling?”

The demon was standing in the doorway to his lounge. While Aziraphale didn't know the first thing about what was considered Looking Cool, he did know that this was not it. Crowley's hair was wet and mussed, as if he had dried it by rubbing a towel over it and then not bothered to smooth it flat. He was dressed in a T-shirt and a pair of fleece drawstring trousers. A tartan blanket that looked mysteriously like one that had vanished from Aziraphale's back room three years prior was wrapped around his narrow shoulders. Crowley's more serpentine features were on full display, from the confused yellow eyes to the scales of his bare feet. “How long have you been here?”

Aziraphale stuck to non-committal. “Awhile.”

Crowley looked back in the direction he'd come. His thinking and piecing together hung in the air. When he turned back, his shoulders had slumped. “So you know.”

“Yes.” No point in denying it. No way out of the conversation now. The ten years of silent treatment were going to be awful, but he'd...find more things to read or something. “All of it.”

The silence dragged on. Crowley tightened his grip on the blanket with one hand, the knuckles going white.

Well, he hadn't done anything wrong. Even if Crowley thought he had, he hadn't. He wasn't going to act as if he was the party in the wrong here. Aziraphale stuck the demon with a look. “You should have told me.”

Crowley swallowed. “You should have stayed out of it.” His voice sounded dead.

“I'm not going to apologize,” Aziraphale told him, “for thinking your life was more important than your pride.”

Crowley blinked once. It was slow, deliberate, and not-quite-human. “Pride,” he repeated in that same, dead voice.

“I cannot think of any other reason for why you've deliberately kept me in the dark,” Aziraphale countered. “Do you know what it's been like, Crowley? To know they've been tormenting you? Wondering if the next time you were whisked away was going to be the time you were finally and completely destroyed? Finding you half-discorporated on your office floor?” Oh. Oh dear. He'd started this confrontation as a way to maintain control and now...now any control was gone. It was gone and the fears were spilling out and he couldn't stop himself. “This has been going on for at least three weeks, you lied to me about why you were 'busy,' you were so ill you couldn't stand up, and you hid it from me. I thought we were past this. I thought you trusted me, Crowley.”

Crowley looked as if he'd been slapped. “Trusted...Angel, it was never about...” He slowly shook his head, then appeared to steel himself.

Aziraphale mentally braced himself for the barrage that was sure to come.

“I don't...” Crowley started. He stopped. His gaze found his plants and he looked, for a moment, completely lost. “He said everyone would forget.” His voice was so small and quiet, Aziraphale almost had to strain to hear. “But you didn't, and I didn't, and we always knew they,” Crowley pointed at his feet, “didn't. It's why I went back and made a deal with the Antichrist. It was only a matter of time until....” He shuffled his feet against the plush white carpet. “The summoning queue was reset so only my name was in it. Every time a human wanted to talk to a demon, I would go. It's the perfect punishment. Let the people for who you betrayed us be the ones who destroy you once and for all. We don't have to lift a finger. They'll do it for us, with their selfishness and their greed and all those things you've encouraged in them.” With what looked like tremendous effort, he forced himself to look at Aziraphale. “You were safe as long as you didn't get involved. Your side thinks you're back in the fold. They wouldn't have a reason to come after you unless you gave them one.”

Aziraphale turned this new information over in his mind. He knew how determined he had been to protect Crowley. He hadn't even considered what Heaven would do to him; mainly because as long as he filed his reports and didn't do anything as drastic as trying to stop the end of the world again, they really didn't care what he did. If he was being honest, though, Crowley had fair reasons to be concerned. After all, Aziraphale had invoked some of the more destructive incidents of Heavenly retribution to Crowley not very long ago while inquiring about Hell's asylum program, and Crowley himself had experienced Heavenly judgment. With that thought, the full magnitude of what Crowley was saying slotted into place. It wasn't just that Crowley was trying to protect him. It was that Crowley had been willing to die a painful, final death if it meant a similar fate would not befall Aziraphale. On some level, he had to have held some hope that the angel could help. Crowley was, for reasons Aziraphale had never quite figured out, a demon who clung to hope so strongly even in the darkest times. But whatever hope there had been, Crowley had judged Aziraphale's safety and continued existence as more important.

There had been a time when he would have put Crowley in a box of 'selfish creature that only looks out for himself,' but that time was long past. Crowley's greatest demonic fault was that he cared. He cared about the humans. He cared about Earth. He cared about Aziraphale. If Crowley hadn't been so good at getting humans to sin, Aziraphale might have been able to mistake him as....best not to go there.

It occurred to him that the silence was dragging on and, that with each passing second, Crowley was fearing the worst. He looked more shaky and withdrawn than he had before, and his fingers were nervously worrying the blanket where he clasped it around his neck. Aziraphale cleared his throat. “No one other than Adam and you know I'm involved.” He tried to sound reassuring. “Apparently, Hell wasn't even aware of what had happened until Adam alerted them to it.”

“They called,” Crowley said, “and filled me in. I don't remember a whole lot after that. I was pretty bad off at that point. I think you showed up and put me to bed. It's mostly been a blur until....” he waved his free hand in the direction of his bedroom. The motion made him sway.

Aziraphale stepped forward to catch him. His arms were already wrapped around Crowley before his brain caught up.

Crowley didn't protest. He leaned against Aziraphale, his head dropping to the angel's shoulder. “Thanksss.” Neither moved. “Azssiraphale.” The word was barely above a whisper. “I...pleassse. I trussst you. I know you care. I thought you might do ssssomething to try to help me and I just wanted keep you sssafe and...I jusst wanted you ssafe.”

Aziraphale favored the ceiling with an exasperated gaze. “I've been helping you since 1020.”

“It'sss not the sssame now,” Crowley said. With what appeared to be a great effort, he lifted his head and took a step back from Aziraphale. He swallowed and seemed to concentrate particularly hard. “Before last year, I figured you spent time with me because I was the only other one like you that you saw regularly. You wouldn't have chosen me if there was another option. At best, I was an enemy who was sort of a friend, maybe, on a good day.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale knew he sounded huffy and he didn't care. “That's ridic-”

“No,” Crowley cut him off. “It's not. We worked together and helped each other out because, in the end, it was in each of our own best interests.”

It was a fair point. That was the Arrangement, when you got right down to it. It was a cooperation agreement, and the cooperation benefited Aziraphale and allowed him to pursue selfish desires.

“It worked both ways,” Crowley said as if reading his thoughts. “I always got something selfish out of helping you, too, if that makes it easier to swallow.”

“Not really.”

“It changed,” Crowley noted, his voice taking on a very careful tone, “sometime in the last twelve years. We spent more time together, and it started to feel like we were actual friends and not just two beings who only chose each other because there wasn't another choice. I'd tell myself it was in my head, and that we were working together because there was something in it for the both of us, like always. But that wasn't true anymore. And in the end, you chose me and I chose you and we both chose, well, this,” he tried to motion around them. “If you're willing to die for something, really die.... I thought about telling you, but I realized...things are different now and you would choose me again and I couldn't...”

“Why,” Aziraphale asked, “is it okay for you to choose my life over yours, but not okay if I choose yours over mine?”

Crowley's eyes widened, and Aziraphale had the distinct impression he hadn't considered that question before.

“Why do you think you're the only one who feels this way?” Aziraphale continued. “We choose things now, Crowley. How is it okay for you to take away my choice?”

“Becaussse I–” Crowley's face took on a bit of color even as he clenched his jaw tightly shut. He didn't need to finish the sentence. Because I love you. After all, it wasn't as if Aziraphale didn't already know – had known for a bit now. It was just one more thing that they didn't say – like how they didn't say that Crowley cared about, well, everything or that Aziraphale was a right bastard most of the time.

Sometimes, though, it helped to say things. He assumed Crowley knew, but when you got right down to it, he didn't know Crowley knew. And Crowley should know. “I love you, too,” Aziraphale said quietly, “And I'm not going to apologize for choosing you.”

Crowley studied his face. “I'm not,” he said after the silence started to feel uncomfortable, “going to apologize for choosing you, either.” His eyes drifted to the carpet and the silence returned.

Aziraphale wasn't sure what he was supposed to say. He didn't have a map for how to....

“Thank you,” Crowley said softly. “For...you know...with the Antichrist.”

“Yes, er,” Aziraphale could feel the blood starting to color his face and knew he probably looked as red as Crowley. “You're welcome.”

Crowley swayed on his feet. “I don't...”

“Would you...” Aziraphale started at the same time. They both stopped speaking. When Crowley gave him a little nod, Aziraphale continued, “Would you, that is, the humans, they have this saying about in sickness and in health and....would it be okay with you if I helped you settle on the couch and perhaps ordered you some soup or something?”

“Oh.” Crowley looked over at the couch. “Um. Yeah. That...I would...that sounds nice, angel.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale said.

“Alright,” Crowley repeated. “Um...I have movies based on books. If you'd like. We could, uh, watch them and you could tell me all the parts that are wrong.”

“Would you mind if, perhaps, they were not movies based on Mr. Fleming's work?” Aziraphale asked, moving to loop an arm around Crowley.

“Nah.” The demon immediately sagged against him and allowed himself to be led across the lounge. “Feel free to, you know, pick anything off the shelf that looks like it will offer good critique opportunities.”

Aziraphale reached for a throw pillow with his free hand. “Here. Curl up, and hand me the blanket.”

Crowley looked guilty at the mention of the tartan travel rug he'd wrapped himself in. He handed over the blanket before coiling himself against the arm of the sofa, and let Aziraphale wedge the throw pillow under his head.

“I always found this one warm.” Aziraphale shook out the blanket, then set about tucking the demon in. “I remember telling you that when I lent it to you.”

He half expected Crowley to correct the record, but he simply pulled the blanket close and assumed the role of the perfect patient. Aziraphale resisted the urge to keep up a stream of conversation. There would be time, later, for talking through, well, all of it. Maybe once Crowley was feeling better, they could go to the symphony and enjoy a nice meal and figure out the next bits. There was time. And maybe there wasn't really all that much to talk about. They'd been entwining their lives more and more these last twelve years, and even the humans assumed they were romantically connected.

Romantically connected.

Aziraphale glanced back at the sofa, then randomly selected a movie from the shelf. He'd never heard of Ferris Bueller's Day Off, but it sounded mindless. “Soup?”

“Later.” Crowley murmured.

“I put the movie in...?” Aziraphale gestured at what he thought was the machine that made the movies work.

“Take it out of the case first, Angel,” Crowley instructed. “Wait. Is that Ferris Bueller? You aren't going to like this one.”

“Is it demonic propaganda?” Aziraphale looked at the images on the case. It didn't look particularly demonic. It had pictures of things Crowley liked – a young human who looked cool lounged on a fancy automobile – but those things were not, themselves, demonic.

“It's about a human who lies to authority figures in order to have an adventure in a city in America with his friends,” Crowley said.

“I will make sure to properly chastise you for enjoying the lying bits,” Aziraphale put the movie into the machine. He put it in backwards, but it played because Aziraphale expected it to play properly. It took all of two minutes to realize that Crowley was right – he wasn't going to like it. In the same amount of time, he recognized that it was the sort of film Crowley would enjoy. Since a Circle hadn't been recently trying to tear him from his corporation, Aziraphale decided he could...what was the saying...suffer through one for the team? He settled down on the sofa beside Crowley.

It felt a bit surreal. He had gone from preparing for an argument that would result in losing Crowley, to Feelings, to...watching a film. This wasn't how things usually went after Feelings, although he supposed it was different with humans. They just – said things. How they were feeling. What they thought about you. They had such short lives, they didn't really have much choice. Immortal beings were different; all that time. His only source of reference for how these things went when both people involved were immortal was books, and this certainly wasn't how any of his books ever described these types of moments. Of course, the books were written by humans, so that might be where the problem lay. It would be a lot easier if he knew how to do this properly, and while he wasn't sure what properly entailed, he doubted it involved learning a fictional human had missed school nine times.

“Why would he want to miss school?” Aziraphale asked for something to distract himself.

“You still think of school as sitting around a monastery reading books,” Crowley remarked. He sat up, twisting about in his blanket as if to get comfortable. “Human school today is like a staff meeting.”

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale said. “It cannot have gotten that bad.”

“It's worse.” Crowley replied. He yawned, shifted position, and leaned against Aziraphale, who became a replacement for the throw pillow. Was this...cuddling? It seemed like cuddling. Well then. That was new.

He wasn't going to question it. Crowley was alive and here and he would be okay. Aziraphale let himself bury his nose in Crowley's hair and pull the demon closer.

“Hey, Angel?” Crowley's voice sounded sleepy.

“Hmm?”

“How do you see us?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Crowley yawned again, “You said you love me, and I'm pretty sure you mean, you know, not like how you love sushi. And I love you. And we spend a lot of time together. What does that make us?”

So he wasn't the only one with questions. Aziraphale considered how to answer the question. Words like 'dating' or 'married' felt like they were terms reserved for humans and, while they were closer to human than other angels or demons, they weren't fully human and never would be. But they were... “Together.” Yes. Together. And when Crowley felt better, they could investigate what that meant. Maybe long moonlit strolls discussing the great questions of the world or maybe kicking all the customers out and kissing in the back corner of the bookshop. Maybe a shared home, two coats hanging up next to each other, fire crackling, a bottle of wine waiting on a table between two warm chairs. A shared life. “That is, if you want that. I think Together sounds quite nice.”

“Mmm.” Crowley agreed. His fingers tightened around Aziraphale's. “Together sounds good.”





Notes:

On Canon. Most of this story is set in the universe of the book. As the book leaves things more up in the air as to the fates of Aziraphale and Crowley, that ambiguity allowed me to craft this story. If there was a thing that the book and the show handled differently, I went with the book interpretation (for example, the book implies Crowley changes his name shortly after the meeting on the wall at the Garden of Eden whereas in the show, that doesn't occur until 4,000 years later). Despite this being set in the bookverse, I lifted Eric the Demon from the show and name-dropped him because he is adorable and he seems like he would be kind towards Crowley.

On History. The history in this is all over the place. There are some minor historical details that were carefully and intentionally included, and there are other things that I took considerable liberties with because I simply did not know enough. Everything I know about Roman baths, for example, I took from Wikipedia. My beta had to teach me about Roman clothing. I don't pretend to know anything about Babylon beyond what I learned in Sunday School as a kid.

This story was originally built around the sequences set during 14th Century, a.k.a. Crowley's least favorite century. I chose to set the story during this time period because most demon-summoning stories either involve kids or people intent on doing bad things. I wanted the summoners to be neither of those things, but rather be desperate people who Crowley could sympathize with. I also was the kid who, when we studied the Middle Ages, was interested in the Black Death instead of knights and chivalry, so it fit well.

On Tropes. I love the Faustian Bargain trope, and played around quite a bit with it here. We know from the book that demonic contracts do exist (Crowley sends shrink-wrap licenses to that department and tells the demons to learn from them), but I took a lot of liberties with everything else contract-related.

Comments

[improbabledreams900]

You're my favorite author in the fandom, and your stuff is incredible.

Ay, thanks! And now I'm intrigued. I wonder who you are, mystery author. 🤔

I liked the little story with Kevin! His buddies are going to never let him live this down. XD

How much of Aziraphale not harming him before was because Aziraphale was concerned about mutual self destruction?

Now THIS is an interesting angle. For some reason, I hadn't thought about the MAD interpretation. I suppose it makes sense with the Cold War themes of the book, but, if Crowley and Aziraphale had never come to any sort of stalemate or Arrangement, I wouldn't have necessarily thought that meant they would be at each other's throats 24/7. More likely, they'd have spats every now and then but mostly try to avoid each other. Acting not so much in self-preservation as simple self-interest (avoiding Crowley = less time spent thwarting and more time spent reading, etc.). That being said, I can totally see how Crowley might think this, given how hostile demons are to each other. I'm sure they /do/ need the threat of destruction to keep them in line.

I've written Book!Crowley twice now and his love of humanity is one of my favorite things about him. That he spends at least three weeks thinking this is what is going on before learning the truth broke my heart.

I've always liked this about Crowley, too. That, when he finds something he's going to love, he doesn't do it halfway. At every turn, he remains willing to give so much of himself in service of that love (a tendency no doubt encouraged by his sadly low opinion of himself). But this strong streak of compassion and selflessness could not juxtapose itself better with Crowley's supposed identity as "one of the bad guys."

[secret_kraken]

Ay, thanks! And now I'm intrigued. I wonder who you are, mystery author.

To my knowledge, I don't believe we've met. I'm a bit intimidated when I'm new in a fandom, so I tend to be quiet. I found your stuff two summers back. I decided I needed to read through the book-fic on AO3 and stumbled upon your Egypt fic, which was everything I could possibly have wanted.


Now THIS is an interesting angle. For some reason, I hadn't thought about the MAD interpretation. I suppose it makes sense with the Cold War themes of the book, but, if Crowley and Aziraphale had never come to any sort of stalemate or Arrangement, I wouldn't have necessarily thought that meant they would be at each other's throats 24/7. More likely, they'd have spats every now and then but mostly try to avoid each other. Acting not so much in self-preservation as simple self-interest (avoiding Crowley = less time spent thwarting and more time spent reading, etc.). That being said, I can totally see how Crowley might think this, given how hostile demons are to each other. I'm sure they /do/ need the threat of destruction to keep them in line.

Yeah, I agree completely and I was super unclear in my previous answer. That Aziraphale had not attacked Crowley before because of MAD was Crowley's anxiety/fear, but not something Aziraphale considered. My impression has been that Hell (at least book!Hell) is violent and trust is not really a thing they do, and Crowley doesn't have a lot of other points of reference. I also agree that I don't think Aziraphale and Crowley would be at each other's throats. Neither seems to like physical violence, and the one scene we have with them pre-Arrangement, they seem more intrigued by each other than anything. Aziraphale might not have always trusted Crowley not to try to tempt him, but he figures, if Crowley is particularly troublesome, he'll solve that problem by distraction.


I've always liked this about Crowley, too. That, when he finds something he's going to love, he doesn't do it halfway. At every turn, he remains willing to give so much of himself in service of that love (a tendency no doubt encouraged by his sadly low opinion of himself). But this strong streak of compassion and selflessness could not juxtapose itself better with Crowley's supposed identity as "one of the bad guys."

That's a beautiful description of him. And it says so much about him that he still loves like that after everything he's seen and experienced.