Happy Holidays, shoebox_addict!
Dec. 18th, 2020 05:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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Title: Demons (and Angels) in the White City
Recipient: shoebox_addict
Rating: General Audiences
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley (pre-relationship)
Word Count: 4000
Summary: It's 1893, and Heaven and Hell have separately dispatched agents to the World's Columbian Exposition. Their respective agents were rather hoping not to run into each other. But since it turns out they're just canceling each other out again, maybe they can make the best of it…
Chicago, 1893
It's been nice, really, working at the Exposition. It's the rare assignment that's very nearly fun. Aziraphale hasn't been to the States in some years—some decades, really—and he's fascinated to see how quickly things have come along, some new human innovation around every corner. And of course, the fair itself is a treat in many ways—the concerts, the glittering lights, the food and drink.
And he's spent the last fortnight pleasantly distracted and hardly thinking of Crowley. Or of holy water, or piles of unanswered letters, or what punishment, in general, might await a demon caught consorting with the enemy, or—
Well. Hardly thinking of Crowley, is the main thing. Taking a sort of holiday from worrying.
He does think of Crowley now, as he joins the crowd entering the Horticultural Hall—there's a fellow ahead of him who bears a certain resemblance, tall and red-haired and very fashionably dressed. Aziraphale feels a momentary thrill at spotting him, then a lurching dread at the thought of reopening their last argument, then a flush of embarrassment—the man is a total stranger, for Heaven's sake, what would he think if he turned around to catch Aziraphale staring?
As he's thinking it, the man does turn around, and at once the sinking feeling of dread returns.
"Oh, blast," Aziraphale says aloud.
"Is that any way to greet an old friend?" Crowley says, grinning. He snakes his way through the crowd to Aziraphale's side. "Hello, angel."
Please don't ask me again. Please, please don't. Aziraphale ventures a smile. "Hello, Crowley. It's, er… it's been a long time."
"Ah, yeah," Crowley says matter-of-factly. "Been napping."
"Ah."
"Anyway!" Crowley leans in to nudge Aziraphale with an elbow, his smile taking on a mocking twist. "Never thought I'd run into you this side of the Atlantic. Let me guess—book auction? No! Baked goods. Some uniquely American baked good that you just can't get anywhere else."
"Actually, I'm here on business," Aziraphale says, a bit stiffly. It's not that he minds—well, he minds a little the way Crowley pokes fun at him, but most of the time he knows it's meant in good fun. Affectionate, he even dares to think. But—well. An embarrassingly public shouting match, and then thirty years of sullen silence, and then this. It's not easy to see the affection beneath it at the moment, if there ever was any.
Crowley pulls a face. "Should've known. Me, too."
"Canceling each other out again, I suppose."
"Aren't we always," Crowley mutters. And then, reflectively, "Still, at least it's not damp for once."
That's something, isn't it? An old joke, almost. Aziraphale hazards a smile and offers, "And no horses."
"Hah, yes," Crowley says, and grins back at him. The coiling worry in Aziraphale's gut, the sense that he's balancing something terribly fragile with nowhere safe to set it down, eases a bit.
He smiles at Crowley again, broader this time, relieved. Perhaps this, the strange little something-approaching-friendship they've built up these last few centuries, isn't ruined after all. There's still a certain tension to the atmosphere, but it's not as bad as it could be, not as bad as he'd feared.
A brief silence stretches out between them. It's Crowley who breaks it, rather abruptly, turning to face Aziraphale and extending his hand.
"Truce," he offers.
Aziraphale looks at the outstretched hand.
"We have a truce," he says, heart sinking again—it's not back to normal between them, not if Crowley thinks he needs to ask for a truce. Are they really going to have to start all over? "We've had one for ages."
Crowley waves his free hand. "That's business."
"And this isn't?"
"Don't give me that. You know what this is about." Crowley grimaces. "Look, the last time I saw you, I know I handled it badly—come on, angel, are you really going to make me apologize?"
"Oh, please don't," Aziraphale says, more earnestly than he means to. He clasps Crowley's hand and, in hopes of passing it off as a joke, adds, "I know you're allergic. Truce, my dear. Of course."
There's another brief silence as the crowd jostles around them.
"Have you been here long?" Aziraphale says eventually, when the quiet begins to feel strange.
Crowley shrugs. "A few days. Around town, I mean—haven't actually spent much time at the fair yet."
"Oh—this isn't your assignment?"
"Nah, you know my lot, that's all boring stuff. Local politics. I just figured, the crowds and all, long queues, people getting tetchy… easy enough to find some trouble here, pad out my report a little."
"Then you've hardly had time to see the fair!" Aziraphale protests. "Oh, you really must take the afternoon off and enjoy yourself. There are some marvelous attractions—we could take in a concert, or the magic show—although really, I've seen better—"
Crowley puts out a hand to stop him.
"I'm sorry," he says. "Expert on magic acts, are you?"
"Aha," Aziraphale says, suddenly delighted. He hadn't thought about it, really, but of course Crowley hasn't seen his new suite of tricks yet. He dips one hand into his pocket, searching for a coin. "Hold on just a tick…"
"I'm going to regret asking, aren't I?"
"You've no sense of fun," Aziraphale informs him. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. I haven't got a coin on me."
He casts a hopeful look at Crowley.
"Pity," Crowley says ruthlessly, and utterly fails to produce a coin for him. "Point taken, anyway. We can skip the magic show. What else?"
The Horticultural Hall is… nice, probably. There are some very striking flowers on display, and a few exotic plants that Aziraphale isn't sure he's ever seen before, or at least not since leaving the Garden. He doesn't pay any of them the least bit of attention.
Crowley's presence is the trouble. He's distracting even at the best of times, since Aziraphale feels obligated to keep half an eye on him and counteract any mischief he causes. And it's worse today—Aziraphale keeps catching himself watching Crowley and cataloging his reactions, taking careful note of what exhibits seem to please him, which threads of conversation he picks up with interest, which make him wince and change the subject.
He's on guard for another argument, he realizes as they leave the hall. Watching for the least sign that Crowley might bring up the holy water, or the argument about the holy water.
Truce, he reminds himself firmly, and says aloud, "Where to next? There are some excellent food stalls not far away."
"I knew it was baked goods," Crowley says, flashing him a sharp-edged grin. "All right. Take me to whichever one you like best."
They end up taking quite a thorough tour of the food stalls. By the time they reach the other end, Aziraphale feels a little more at ease—'lunch with Crowley' is a well-worn routine, and he finds himself settling into familiar old habits, the lingering rough edges of tension between them wearing away.
"Ah, hold on," Crowley says suddenly, just as Aziraphale is about to suggest that they might take in a concert. "Wait here, will you?"
He disappears into the crowd around a sign advertising penny souvenirs. Aziraphale shifts from foot to foot uncertainly, trying to decide whether to wait as instructed or go after him; by the time he's made up his mind, Crowley is back, holding something out to him with a broad grin.
"Here," he says. "You wanted a coin earlier, didn't you?"
Aziraphale takes the bit of metal. It's not a coin—it's thin and elongated, with some sort of monogram stamped into it. "What is it?"
"Penny souvenir," Crowley says lightly. "Or souvenir penny, I suppose. They've got a machine up there with a big wheel, squashes 'em right out. Go on, you were going to show me a magic trick or something."
"Is this another peace offering?" Aziraphale fumbles with the flattened coin—the shape is different enough that it's a struggle to palm the thing.
"Bribery," Crowley says, straight-faced, "in exchange for a walk through the casino without angelic meddling."
Aziraphale blinks at him, and then laughs. "Oh, you fiend—"
"Come on, angel," Crowley says, laughing with him, "it'll be fun."
"What about you?" Crowley says abruptly, as they're leaving the casino. "You said you were here on business—am I keeping you from your work?"
"If I say 'yes,' will you put it in your report?" Aziraphale says, arching an eyebrow. "No, really, the humans have done quite a lot of my work for me. The assignment is to encourage goodwill among man and friendship among the nations—"
"Oh, an easy one," Crowley puts in.
"—yes, well. It goes along nicely with the aims of the fair, at least. So I've just been poking around and seeing where I can contribute, and I think I've done rather a good job of it."
"You've actually been working here, then?"
"Mostly in the cultural pavilions." Aziraphale points vaguely into the distance, in what he thinks is the right direction. "Promoting some of the exhibitions—some of it's wonderful stuff. Clear on the other side of the grounds, I'm afraid."
"So?" Crowley shrugs. "I'm not in any hurry. Let's see what you've been up to."
Aziraphale hesitates. "You're really interested?"
"'Course I am. You know I like to—" Crowley breaks off and rubs at the back of his neck, looking vaguely embarrassed. "Ehhn. I mean. Keeping tabs on the workings of the enemy, sort of thing."
"My dear, you're 'the Enemy,'" Aziraphale says absently. He takes a moment to get his bearings, then sets off at a brisk pace, beckoning Crowley to follow. It's some distance to where they're going, but the moving walkway will shorten the walk a bit.
"No I'm not," Crowley says, stalking along behind him. "Not from where I'm standing."
"Of course you are. It's down to your basic nature—"
"Look, I'm not talking about the Enemy, I'm talking about, you know, just your regular—"
Whatever Crowley intended to say, it's cut off there with an indignant squawk and a thud. Aziraphale turns around and finds him sprawled on the ground, glaring at the moving walkway in front of him.
"Oh, dear," Aziraphale says, valiantly not laughing, and hops back off the walkway to offer him a hand. "Should I have warned you? I assumed you'd ridden it already."
Crowley heaves himself to his feet.
"What is it?" he demands.
"It's a new invention, dear, do try to keep up." Aziraphale can't help feeling a bit smug; it's been centuries since there's been a human innovation that he managed to adapt to before Crowley did.
"Magic acts and comedy routines," Crowley mutters. He glares at the walkway again, seems to gather himself, and strides forward onto it again, this time keeping his footing with only the slightest wobble. "Right. And this takes us to where you've been inspiring peace and goodwill, does it?"
"Hmm," Crowley says as the next dancer steps onstage, in a perfectly neutral tone of voice. The same carefully neutral tone he's been using since they fetched up at the Street in Cairo exhibit.
A suspiciously neutral tone.
Aziraphale shoots him a sideways glare. "All right, what?"
"The, er, inspiration you've been doling out around here. This is all—" Crowley nods vaguely Heavenward. "—head office approved, is it?"
"It's an eminently respectable form of cultural exchange," Aziraphale says primly—parroting the explanatory note he'd had to send up last week after several uncomfortable follow-up questions, not that Crowley needs to know that. "Besides, you know, the young lady really doesn't do anything improper. She just sort of… implies the possibility of impropriety."
Crowley snorts. "That's worse. You've picked up enough jobs for me, you ought to know by now—not half as enticing to see it all laid out as to think that maybe you could see it, if you could just get the angle right."
Yes, Aziraphale definitely doesn't say, for example, I've never so much as seen your collarbone, and yet—
"I do see your point," he says instead. "But I think it's worth it, in the interest of, as I said, cultural exchange and goodwill among nations and, er, that sort of thing."
"Hmm," Crowley says again, more dismissive than deadpan this time. He's hardly looking at the dancer onstage; the orchestra seems to have caught his attention and held it.
Held it very securely, in fact. Aziraphale nudges him. "Crowley?"
"Right," Crowley says vaguely. "Goodwill. Culture. The music's good, isn't it?"
"Oh," Aziraphale says, delighted, "do you like it? I had a hand in that, too, you know—the poor girls, they turned up ready to go on stage and there wasn't any accompaniment prepared for them, but I happened to be passing at the right moment and gave a little, you know, nudge—"
"Yeah?" Crowley still hasn't taken his eyes off the musicians, as far as Aziraphale can tell under his glasses. "S'nice. Sssort of… compelling."*
Aziraphale frowns at him. He's so focused on the music, it's actually a bit unnerving—standing stock still, mouth half-opened in the way he sometimes does when he's trying to get a better sense for what's going on.
"My dear fellow, are you all right?" Aziraphale ventures, and then adds in an undertone, "You're hissing."
The music changes as he says it, and Crowley shakes his head suddenly, blinks.
"Ssshut up," he says scornfully—covering for embarrassment, Aziraphale suspects; he doesn't like to be caught in a hiss. "'M not. Come on, there's more to see here, isn't there? You planning to hang around looking at dancing girls all day?"
"I rather thought you were enjoying it," Aziraphale says mildly—and pointlessly; when he looks around, Crowley's already stalked off, back into the crowd.
* If you're a modern human, you probably know "The Streets of Cairo" best as a playground ditty about a place in France where the ladies—well, you know. If you're a demon who is technically only human-shaped, you might find it interesting to know that it's also commonly known as "The Snake-Charmer's Song," and to wonder exactly what Aziraphale had on his mind as he gave its composer that ‘little nudge.’
After the Streets of Cairo, they wander up a gangway to take a tour of a historic Viking ship (arguing in whispers the whole time about the accuracy of the reconstruction), and then through a lovely pavilion where a young man, for some reason, attempts to hand them each a potted seedling of some kind, and then, at Crowley's suggestion, back to the food stalls in search of something worth drinking.
"Have you been on any of the rides yet?" Aziraphale asks, after they've been up and down a few rows without finding anything that appeals.
"Unless they serve wine on the rides—"
"Probably best to try them sober, and come back to the drinks question later. Some of them are a bit… swoopy."
It's not one of the swoopier rides that Aziraphale leads them to, though. As soon as they turn back toward the Midway Plaisance, there's really only one possible target: the landmark that dominates the view, the Ferris wheel.
The queue is miraculously short when they reach it. Aziraphale shoots a suspicious look over his shoulder, but Crowley shrugs and spreads his hands in a picture of innocent bafflement at their good fortune, and he decides not to argue the point. When the wheel comes to a stop and the attendant beckons them aboard, Aziraphale is first into the gondola, and immediately occupies himself trying to decide which corner to stand in to get the best view of the fairgrounds.
Behind him, he can hear Crowley say, "Come on, can't you count? This one's full."
There's an accompanying shiver of demonic power—not a big miracle, but a noticeable one—and when Aziraphale turns around, it's to see the attendant closing their door with just the two of them in the car, a faintly confused look on his face.
Aziraphale heaves a sigh of relief. Not that he doesn't love humankind, of course, but there is really a lot of humankind thronging around out there, and it's nice to be by themselves for a moment. He does feel a faint pang of worry, wondering why Crowley wants to be alone—for the same reason, maybe, or maybe for something else, some secret discussion he's been putting off…
He dismisses the thought as nonsense. He's just worrying over their last meeting, the favor Crowley had hesitated even to speak of where he might be overheard—but he hasn't so much as hinted at that, and Aziraphale has all but convinced himself that it's forgotten. Crowley just wants to be out of the crowds for a bit; there's no need to ask about why.
"Is that safe?" he asks instead.
Crowley gives a loose shrug, crossing the car toward him. "They don't audit that closely. Anyway, maybe I'm pushing that fellow toward a life of sloth, getting him to leave his job half-done. Or else I just wanted to get some poor sap alone, go in for a really proper temptation—"
"I meant the wheel," Aziraphale interrupts, not at all sure that he likes where Crowley's sentence is heading. "Won't it be off-balance?"
That gets him a puzzled look, and then a flash of something like fondness—though it's gone so quickly he can't be sure it was there at all. Crowley shrugs. "Can't imagine it makes any difference. Miracle in something heavy, if it'll make you feel better."
"It's probably all right," Aziraphale decides, and grabs at the back of a seat as the wheel grinds slowly into motion.
It's a spectacular view, really. "A bit like flying," he murmurs aloud, the first time their gondola reaches the top of the wheel—the whole of the fairground spread out below them, and the odd little swoop in the stomach at the very apex, the moment where the car seems to hang motionless before beginning its descent.
"Not very like," Crowley objects, from where he's leaning against the opposite corner.
"You're not even looking at the view properly! Crowley, for Heaven's sake."
"Didn't know there was a proper way to enjoy the view," Crowley mutters. But he does straighten up and cross over to Aziraphale's side of the car, looking down over the grounds.
Aziraphale smiles at him. "See? It's lovely, isn't it?"
"It's all right," Crowley allows.
The wheel keeps turning, lowering them slowly. Aziraphale stays in his corner, watching the crowd below with delight. Behind him, Crowley paces a circle around the gondola, looking out of each side in turn.
He stops at last in the corner nearest Aziraphale's, just as their car is reaching the bottom of the wheel again. For a moment Aziraphale thinks it's the end of the ride, but they don't stop—one more time around, then, he supposes.
"Listen," Crowley says as they begin to rise again. He's still looking out over the fairground, though there's hardly a view from this height. "I want you to know, I really didn't expect to meet you here. This wasn't some plan to get you alone again. But. Here you are, and here I am, and I can't—I have to ask you."
Aziraphale's heart sinks. He turns away from the window, studies Crowley for a moment—now that he's paying attention, the tense set of his shoulders, his jaw, is unmistakable.
"Ask me what?" Aziraphale says, though he already knows.
"Shouldn't say it aloud. You never know who could be listening." Crowley stares out the window for another long moment, and then at last turns to look at him. "I asked you for something, the last time we met. I still need it. I need your help."
He shouldn't have let his guard down. He should have known it would come back to this eventually.
"Crowley," Aziraphale says helplessly. "I told you—"
"I know what you told me," Crowley interrupts. He takes his glasses off; behind them there's something pleading and desperate in his eyes. "But I have to ask. Angel, please, I need some kind of insurance."
"I can't give it to you," Aziraphale says, equally desperate. "Crowley, you must understand, I'm not refusing you on a whim. I can't."
The gondola continues its slow rise; they must be nearing the top of the wheel now. Crowley steps closer.
"You've said it yourself," he says, low and urgent. "What they'd do to me if they found us out. I need a backup plan."
"If this is the backup plan—" Aziraphale's voice shakes, and he breaks off, takes a long shuddering breath. "If you really feel you're in as much danger as that, if just seeing me is that great a risk, then… then I think we must go on as we have been, these last few years. I think we must keep away from each other."
Crowley goes stock-still. For a long moment he only stares. Eventually he says, "No."
"Yes," Aziraphale answers, a strange numbness settling over him. It's awful, it's the worst thing he's ever said, but—"We haven't any choice. I can't keep putting you in danger, just because—because otherwise I would be lonely, or—"
Crowley surges forward across the short distance separating them. For one wild second Aziraphale thinks Crowley might hit him; then his hands close around Aziraphale's shoulders, pulling him in, and—
Crowley kisses him. Crowley is kissing him, hard and hungry and clumsy with haste—Aziraphale's teeth dig painfully into his lip, and he shifts, moving by instinct, opening his mouth against Crowley's—surely this can't be real, surely he's dreaming—
Crowley steps back. His eyes are wide, golden from corner to corner.
"That's why," he says, breathing hard. "You can understand that, can't you? That's why I need it. That's what they'd find out, if they found me out. You have to understand."
"Then you have to understand why I can't," Aziraphale says, and gathers every ounce of courage he's ever had, and pulls Crowley back into his arms.
The kiss is softer this time, gentler. This is, Aziraphale feels sure, the only chance he'll ever have at it, and he's desperate to get across all he feels—he pours it all into the kiss, the mingled love and fear and foolish, foolish hope.
When at last they break apart, he stands still for a moment, catching his breath. The wheel, he realizes, has stopped turning, their gondola caught at the top of its arc.
"Angel," Crowley says. His voice is rough.
"Please," Aziraphale says, just above a whisper. "Please understand. I can't give you something that would destroy you. I can't risk it. I would rather give this up, all of it, than know that I had played a part in doing you harm."
The wheel creaks into motion again, their gondola swinging forward and down. The best part, Aziraphale had thought as they went around the first time, with the most expansive view. This time he doesn't even spare a glance for the view—he only feels the slow sinking of it, the knowledge that the ride is coming to an end.
Crowley takes a step toward him again. "This isn't what I wanted."
"I know," Aziraphale says. He doesn't dare step closer—they're close enough to be dangerous already—but his hand finds Crowley's, clasps it tightly. "Nor I. But I think it's the only way."
"Not forever. I won't agree to that, whatever you say."
"I couldn't ask you to." Aziraphale manages a weak smile. "I couldn't ask it of myself. Just… long enough. Until you've shaken them off the scent."
"Until it's a little safer," Crowley agrees, and squeezes Aziraphale's hand. Shaking on it, sort of, though neither of them seems willing to step apart enough to make room for a proper handshake.
They stand together, hands clasped between them, until their car is nearly back to the bottom of the wheel. As they're rounding the final curve, Crowley leans in close—Aziraphale thinks at first he means to kiss him again, and nearly pulls away in a panic, but he just brings his lips to Aziraphale's ear and says again, "Not forever."
And then he's gone, with a snap of his fingers and a faint tang of brimstone. The gondola eases to a stop at the boarding platform, and Aziraphale steps out alone.
Recipient: shoebox_addict
Rating: General Audiences
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley (pre-relationship)
Word Count: 4000
Summary: It's 1893, and Heaven and Hell have separately dispatched agents to the World's Columbian Exposition. Their respective agents were rather hoping not to run into each other. But since it turns out they're just canceling each other out again, maybe they can make the best of it…
Chicago, 1893
It's been nice, really, working at the Exposition. It's the rare assignment that's very nearly fun. Aziraphale hasn't been to the States in some years—some decades, really—and he's fascinated to see how quickly things have come along, some new human innovation around every corner. And of course, the fair itself is a treat in many ways—the concerts, the glittering lights, the food and drink.
And he's spent the last fortnight pleasantly distracted and hardly thinking of Crowley. Or of holy water, or piles of unanswered letters, or what punishment, in general, might await a demon caught consorting with the enemy, or—
Well. Hardly thinking of Crowley, is the main thing. Taking a sort of holiday from worrying.
He does think of Crowley now, as he joins the crowd entering the Horticultural Hall—there's a fellow ahead of him who bears a certain resemblance, tall and red-haired and very fashionably dressed. Aziraphale feels a momentary thrill at spotting him, then a lurching dread at the thought of reopening their last argument, then a flush of embarrassment—the man is a total stranger, for Heaven's sake, what would he think if he turned around to catch Aziraphale staring?
As he's thinking it, the man does turn around, and at once the sinking feeling of dread returns.
"Oh, blast," Aziraphale says aloud.
"Is that any way to greet an old friend?" Crowley says, grinning. He snakes his way through the crowd to Aziraphale's side. "Hello, angel."
Please don't ask me again. Please, please don't. Aziraphale ventures a smile. "Hello, Crowley. It's, er… it's been a long time."
"Ah, yeah," Crowley says matter-of-factly. "Been napping."
"Ah."
"Anyway!" Crowley leans in to nudge Aziraphale with an elbow, his smile taking on a mocking twist. "Never thought I'd run into you this side of the Atlantic. Let me guess—book auction? No! Baked goods. Some uniquely American baked good that you just can't get anywhere else."
"Actually, I'm here on business," Aziraphale says, a bit stiffly. It's not that he minds—well, he minds a little the way Crowley pokes fun at him, but most of the time he knows it's meant in good fun. Affectionate, he even dares to think. But—well. An embarrassingly public shouting match, and then thirty years of sullen silence, and then this. It's not easy to see the affection beneath it at the moment, if there ever was any.
Crowley pulls a face. "Should've known. Me, too."
"Canceling each other out again, I suppose."
"Aren't we always," Crowley mutters. And then, reflectively, "Still, at least it's not damp for once."
That's something, isn't it? An old joke, almost. Aziraphale hazards a smile and offers, "And no horses."
"Hah, yes," Crowley says, and grins back at him. The coiling worry in Aziraphale's gut, the sense that he's balancing something terribly fragile with nowhere safe to set it down, eases a bit.
He smiles at Crowley again, broader this time, relieved. Perhaps this, the strange little something-approaching-friendship they've built up these last few centuries, isn't ruined after all. There's still a certain tension to the atmosphere, but it's not as bad as it could be, not as bad as he'd feared.
A brief silence stretches out between them. It's Crowley who breaks it, rather abruptly, turning to face Aziraphale and extending his hand.
"Truce," he offers.
Aziraphale looks at the outstretched hand.
"We have a truce," he says, heart sinking again—it's not back to normal between them, not if Crowley thinks he needs to ask for a truce. Are they really going to have to start all over? "We've had one for ages."
Crowley waves his free hand. "That's business."
"And this isn't?"
"Don't give me that. You know what this is about." Crowley grimaces. "Look, the last time I saw you, I know I handled it badly—come on, angel, are you really going to make me apologize?"
"Oh, please don't," Aziraphale says, more earnestly than he means to. He clasps Crowley's hand and, in hopes of passing it off as a joke, adds, "I know you're allergic. Truce, my dear. Of course."
There's another brief silence as the crowd jostles around them.
"Have you been here long?" Aziraphale says eventually, when the quiet begins to feel strange.
Crowley shrugs. "A few days. Around town, I mean—haven't actually spent much time at the fair yet."
"Oh—this isn't your assignment?"
"Nah, you know my lot, that's all boring stuff. Local politics. I just figured, the crowds and all, long queues, people getting tetchy… easy enough to find some trouble here, pad out my report a little."
"Then you've hardly had time to see the fair!" Aziraphale protests. "Oh, you really must take the afternoon off and enjoy yourself. There are some marvelous attractions—we could take in a concert, or the magic show—although really, I've seen better—"
Crowley puts out a hand to stop him.
"I'm sorry," he says. "Expert on magic acts, are you?"
"Aha," Aziraphale says, suddenly delighted. He hadn't thought about it, really, but of course Crowley hasn't seen his new suite of tricks yet. He dips one hand into his pocket, searching for a coin. "Hold on just a tick…"
"I'm going to regret asking, aren't I?"
"You've no sense of fun," Aziraphale informs him. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. I haven't got a coin on me."
He casts a hopeful look at Crowley.
"Pity," Crowley says ruthlessly, and utterly fails to produce a coin for him. "Point taken, anyway. We can skip the magic show. What else?"
The Horticultural Hall is… nice, probably. There are some very striking flowers on display, and a few exotic plants that Aziraphale isn't sure he's ever seen before, or at least not since leaving the Garden. He doesn't pay any of them the least bit of attention.
Crowley's presence is the trouble. He's distracting even at the best of times, since Aziraphale feels obligated to keep half an eye on him and counteract any mischief he causes. And it's worse today—Aziraphale keeps catching himself watching Crowley and cataloging his reactions, taking careful note of what exhibits seem to please him, which threads of conversation he picks up with interest, which make him wince and change the subject.
He's on guard for another argument, he realizes as they leave the hall. Watching for the least sign that Crowley might bring up the holy water, or the argument about the holy water.
Truce, he reminds himself firmly, and says aloud, "Where to next? There are some excellent food stalls not far away."
"I knew it was baked goods," Crowley says, flashing him a sharp-edged grin. "All right. Take me to whichever one you like best."
They end up taking quite a thorough tour of the food stalls. By the time they reach the other end, Aziraphale feels a little more at ease—'lunch with Crowley' is a well-worn routine, and he finds himself settling into familiar old habits, the lingering rough edges of tension between them wearing away.
"Ah, hold on," Crowley says suddenly, just as Aziraphale is about to suggest that they might take in a concert. "Wait here, will you?"
He disappears into the crowd around a sign advertising penny souvenirs. Aziraphale shifts from foot to foot uncertainly, trying to decide whether to wait as instructed or go after him; by the time he's made up his mind, Crowley is back, holding something out to him with a broad grin.
"Here," he says. "You wanted a coin earlier, didn't you?"
Aziraphale takes the bit of metal. It's not a coin—it's thin and elongated, with some sort of monogram stamped into it. "What is it?"
"Penny souvenir," Crowley says lightly. "Or souvenir penny, I suppose. They've got a machine up there with a big wheel, squashes 'em right out. Go on, you were going to show me a magic trick or something."
"Is this another peace offering?" Aziraphale fumbles with the flattened coin—the shape is different enough that it's a struggle to palm the thing.
"Bribery," Crowley says, straight-faced, "in exchange for a walk through the casino without angelic meddling."
Aziraphale blinks at him, and then laughs. "Oh, you fiend—"
"Come on, angel," Crowley says, laughing with him, "it'll be fun."
"What about you?" Crowley says abruptly, as they're leaving the casino. "You said you were here on business—am I keeping you from your work?"
"If I say 'yes,' will you put it in your report?" Aziraphale says, arching an eyebrow. "No, really, the humans have done quite a lot of my work for me. The assignment is to encourage goodwill among man and friendship among the nations—"
"Oh, an easy one," Crowley puts in.
"—yes, well. It goes along nicely with the aims of the fair, at least. So I've just been poking around and seeing where I can contribute, and I think I've done rather a good job of it."
"You've actually been working here, then?"
"Mostly in the cultural pavilions." Aziraphale points vaguely into the distance, in what he thinks is the right direction. "Promoting some of the exhibitions—some of it's wonderful stuff. Clear on the other side of the grounds, I'm afraid."
"So?" Crowley shrugs. "I'm not in any hurry. Let's see what you've been up to."
Aziraphale hesitates. "You're really interested?"
"'Course I am. You know I like to—" Crowley breaks off and rubs at the back of his neck, looking vaguely embarrassed. "Ehhn. I mean. Keeping tabs on the workings of the enemy, sort of thing."
"My dear, you're 'the Enemy,'" Aziraphale says absently. He takes a moment to get his bearings, then sets off at a brisk pace, beckoning Crowley to follow. It's some distance to where they're going, but the moving walkway will shorten the walk a bit.
"No I'm not," Crowley says, stalking along behind him. "Not from where I'm standing."
"Of course you are. It's down to your basic nature—"
"Look, I'm not talking about the Enemy, I'm talking about, you know, just your regular—"
Whatever Crowley intended to say, it's cut off there with an indignant squawk and a thud. Aziraphale turns around and finds him sprawled on the ground, glaring at the moving walkway in front of him.
"Oh, dear," Aziraphale says, valiantly not laughing, and hops back off the walkway to offer him a hand. "Should I have warned you? I assumed you'd ridden it already."
Crowley heaves himself to his feet.
"What is it?" he demands.
"It's a new invention, dear, do try to keep up." Aziraphale can't help feeling a bit smug; it's been centuries since there's been a human innovation that he managed to adapt to before Crowley did.
"Magic acts and comedy routines," Crowley mutters. He glares at the walkway again, seems to gather himself, and strides forward onto it again, this time keeping his footing with only the slightest wobble. "Right. And this takes us to where you've been inspiring peace and goodwill, does it?"
"Hmm," Crowley says as the next dancer steps onstage, in a perfectly neutral tone of voice. The same carefully neutral tone he's been using since they fetched up at the Street in Cairo exhibit.
A suspiciously neutral tone.
Aziraphale shoots him a sideways glare. "All right, what?"
"The, er, inspiration you've been doling out around here. This is all—" Crowley nods vaguely Heavenward. "—head office approved, is it?"
"It's an eminently respectable form of cultural exchange," Aziraphale says primly—parroting the explanatory note he'd had to send up last week after several uncomfortable follow-up questions, not that Crowley needs to know that. "Besides, you know, the young lady really doesn't do anything improper. She just sort of… implies the possibility of impropriety."
Crowley snorts. "That's worse. You've picked up enough jobs for me, you ought to know by now—not half as enticing to see it all laid out as to think that maybe you could see it, if you could just get the angle right."
Yes, Aziraphale definitely doesn't say, for example, I've never so much as seen your collarbone, and yet—
"I do see your point," he says instead. "But I think it's worth it, in the interest of, as I said, cultural exchange and goodwill among nations and, er, that sort of thing."
"Hmm," Crowley says again, more dismissive than deadpan this time. He's hardly looking at the dancer onstage; the orchestra seems to have caught his attention and held it.
Held it very securely, in fact. Aziraphale nudges him. "Crowley?"
"Right," Crowley says vaguely. "Goodwill. Culture. The music's good, isn't it?"
"Oh," Aziraphale says, delighted, "do you like it? I had a hand in that, too, you know—the poor girls, they turned up ready to go on stage and there wasn't any accompaniment prepared for them, but I happened to be passing at the right moment and gave a little, you know, nudge—"
"Yeah?" Crowley still hasn't taken his eyes off the musicians, as far as Aziraphale can tell under his glasses. "S'nice. Sssort of… compelling."*
Aziraphale frowns at him. He's so focused on the music, it's actually a bit unnerving—standing stock still, mouth half-opened in the way he sometimes does when he's trying to get a better sense for what's going on.
"My dear fellow, are you all right?" Aziraphale ventures, and then adds in an undertone, "You're hissing."
The music changes as he says it, and Crowley shakes his head suddenly, blinks.
"Ssshut up," he says scornfully—covering for embarrassment, Aziraphale suspects; he doesn't like to be caught in a hiss. "'M not. Come on, there's more to see here, isn't there? You planning to hang around looking at dancing girls all day?"
"I rather thought you were enjoying it," Aziraphale says mildly—and pointlessly; when he looks around, Crowley's already stalked off, back into the crowd.
* If you're a modern human, you probably know "The Streets of Cairo" best as a playground ditty about a place in France where the ladies—well, you know. If you're a demon who is technically only human-shaped, you might find it interesting to know that it's also commonly known as "The Snake-Charmer's Song," and to wonder exactly what Aziraphale had on his mind as he gave its composer that ‘little nudge.’
After the Streets of Cairo, they wander up a gangway to take a tour of a historic Viking ship (arguing in whispers the whole time about the accuracy of the reconstruction), and then through a lovely pavilion where a young man, for some reason, attempts to hand them each a potted seedling of some kind, and then, at Crowley's suggestion, back to the food stalls in search of something worth drinking.
"Have you been on any of the rides yet?" Aziraphale asks, after they've been up and down a few rows without finding anything that appeals.
"Unless they serve wine on the rides—"
"Probably best to try them sober, and come back to the drinks question later. Some of them are a bit… swoopy."
It's not one of the swoopier rides that Aziraphale leads them to, though. As soon as they turn back toward the Midway Plaisance, there's really only one possible target: the landmark that dominates the view, the Ferris wheel.
The queue is miraculously short when they reach it. Aziraphale shoots a suspicious look over his shoulder, but Crowley shrugs and spreads his hands in a picture of innocent bafflement at their good fortune, and he decides not to argue the point. When the wheel comes to a stop and the attendant beckons them aboard, Aziraphale is first into the gondola, and immediately occupies himself trying to decide which corner to stand in to get the best view of the fairgrounds.
Behind him, he can hear Crowley say, "Come on, can't you count? This one's full."
There's an accompanying shiver of demonic power—not a big miracle, but a noticeable one—and when Aziraphale turns around, it's to see the attendant closing their door with just the two of them in the car, a faintly confused look on his face.
Aziraphale heaves a sigh of relief. Not that he doesn't love humankind, of course, but there is really a lot of humankind thronging around out there, and it's nice to be by themselves for a moment. He does feel a faint pang of worry, wondering why Crowley wants to be alone—for the same reason, maybe, or maybe for something else, some secret discussion he's been putting off…
He dismisses the thought as nonsense. He's just worrying over their last meeting, the favor Crowley had hesitated even to speak of where he might be overheard—but he hasn't so much as hinted at that, and Aziraphale has all but convinced himself that it's forgotten. Crowley just wants to be out of the crowds for a bit; there's no need to ask about why.
"Is that safe?" he asks instead.
Crowley gives a loose shrug, crossing the car toward him. "They don't audit that closely. Anyway, maybe I'm pushing that fellow toward a life of sloth, getting him to leave his job half-done. Or else I just wanted to get some poor sap alone, go in for a really proper temptation—"
"I meant the wheel," Aziraphale interrupts, not at all sure that he likes where Crowley's sentence is heading. "Won't it be off-balance?"
That gets him a puzzled look, and then a flash of something like fondness—though it's gone so quickly he can't be sure it was there at all. Crowley shrugs. "Can't imagine it makes any difference. Miracle in something heavy, if it'll make you feel better."
"It's probably all right," Aziraphale decides, and grabs at the back of a seat as the wheel grinds slowly into motion.
It's a spectacular view, really. "A bit like flying," he murmurs aloud, the first time their gondola reaches the top of the wheel—the whole of the fairground spread out below them, and the odd little swoop in the stomach at the very apex, the moment where the car seems to hang motionless before beginning its descent.
"Not very like," Crowley objects, from where he's leaning against the opposite corner.
"You're not even looking at the view properly! Crowley, for Heaven's sake."
"Didn't know there was a proper way to enjoy the view," Crowley mutters. But he does straighten up and cross over to Aziraphale's side of the car, looking down over the grounds.
Aziraphale smiles at him. "See? It's lovely, isn't it?"
"It's all right," Crowley allows.
The wheel keeps turning, lowering them slowly. Aziraphale stays in his corner, watching the crowd below with delight. Behind him, Crowley paces a circle around the gondola, looking out of each side in turn.
He stops at last in the corner nearest Aziraphale's, just as their car is reaching the bottom of the wheel again. For a moment Aziraphale thinks it's the end of the ride, but they don't stop—one more time around, then, he supposes.
"Listen," Crowley says as they begin to rise again. He's still looking out over the fairground, though there's hardly a view from this height. "I want you to know, I really didn't expect to meet you here. This wasn't some plan to get you alone again. But. Here you are, and here I am, and I can't—I have to ask you."
Aziraphale's heart sinks. He turns away from the window, studies Crowley for a moment—now that he's paying attention, the tense set of his shoulders, his jaw, is unmistakable.
"Ask me what?" Aziraphale says, though he already knows.
"Shouldn't say it aloud. You never know who could be listening." Crowley stares out the window for another long moment, and then at last turns to look at him. "I asked you for something, the last time we met. I still need it. I need your help."
He shouldn't have let his guard down. He should have known it would come back to this eventually.
"Crowley," Aziraphale says helplessly. "I told you—"
"I know what you told me," Crowley interrupts. He takes his glasses off; behind them there's something pleading and desperate in his eyes. "But I have to ask. Angel, please, I need some kind of insurance."
"I can't give it to you," Aziraphale says, equally desperate. "Crowley, you must understand, I'm not refusing you on a whim. I can't."
The gondola continues its slow rise; they must be nearing the top of the wheel now. Crowley steps closer.
"You've said it yourself," he says, low and urgent. "What they'd do to me if they found us out. I need a backup plan."
"If this is the backup plan—" Aziraphale's voice shakes, and he breaks off, takes a long shuddering breath. "If you really feel you're in as much danger as that, if just seeing me is that great a risk, then… then I think we must go on as we have been, these last few years. I think we must keep away from each other."
Crowley goes stock-still. For a long moment he only stares. Eventually he says, "No."
"Yes," Aziraphale answers, a strange numbness settling over him. It's awful, it's the worst thing he's ever said, but—"We haven't any choice. I can't keep putting you in danger, just because—because otherwise I would be lonely, or—"
Crowley surges forward across the short distance separating them. For one wild second Aziraphale thinks Crowley might hit him; then his hands close around Aziraphale's shoulders, pulling him in, and—
Crowley kisses him. Crowley is kissing him, hard and hungry and clumsy with haste—Aziraphale's teeth dig painfully into his lip, and he shifts, moving by instinct, opening his mouth against Crowley's—surely this can't be real, surely he's dreaming—
Crowley steps back. His eyes are wide, golden from corner to corner.
"That's why," he says, breathing hard. "You can understand that, can't you? That's why I need it. That's what they'd find out, if they found me out. You have to understand."
"Then you have to understand why I can't," Aziraphale says, and gathers every ounce of courage he's ever had, and pulls Crowley back into his arms.
The kiss is softer this time, gentler. This is, Aziraphale feels sure, the only chance he'll ever have at it, and he's desperate to get across all he feels—he pours it all into the kiss, the mingled love and fear and foolish, foolish hope.
When at last they break apart, he stands still for a moment, catching his breath. The wheel, he realizes, has stopped turning, their gondola caught at the top of its arc.
"Angel," Crowley says. His voice is rough.
"Please," Aziraphale says, just above a whisper. "Please understand. I can't give you something that would destroy you. I can't risk it. I would rather give this up, all of it, than know that I had played a part in doing you harm."
The wheel creaks into motion again, their gondola swinging forward and down. The best part, Aziraphale had thought as they went around the first time, with the most expansive view. This time he doesn't even spare a glance for the view—he only feels the slow sinking of it, the knowledge that the ride is coming to an end.
Crowley takes a step toward him again. "This isn't what I wanted."
"I know," Aziraphale says. He doesn't dare step closer—they're close enough to be dangerous already—but his hand finds Crowley's, clasps it tightly. "Nor I. But I think it's the only way."
"Not forever. I won't agree to that, whatever you say."
"I couldn't ask you to." Aziraphale manages a weak smile. "I couldn't ask it of myself. Just… long enough. Until you've shaken them off the scent."
"Until it's a little safer," Crowley agrees, and squeezes Aziraphale's hand. Shaking on it, sort of, though neither of them seems willing to step apart enough to make room for a proper handshake.
They stand together, hands clasped between them, until their car is nearly back to the bottom of the wheel. As they're rounding the final curve, Crowley leans in close—Aziraphale thinks at first he means to kiss him again, and nearly pulls away in a panic, but he just brings his lips to Aziraphale's ear and says again, "Not forever."
And then he's gone, with a snap of his fingers and a faint tang of brimstone. The gondola eases to a stop at the boarding platform, and Aziraphale steps out alone.