Happy Holidays, sonnet23!

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Demon of the Lamp

Good Omens (Book & TV)

Aziraphale & Crowley

#action/adventure #AU #djinn #genies #historical #historical accuracy #Sasanian Empire #enemies to friends #happy ending #mild language

G, Gen, No Archive Warnings

Summary: The lamp of the (mighty and powerful) djinn Crowley has fallen into the hands of a human named Aziraphale. Now Crowley has to grant him three wishes. Or two if Aziraphale is merciful enough to set him free.

For #17, Sonnet23. I’ve adjusted your prompt slightly; I hope you don’t mind!

I’ve kept this as historically accurate as possible, with some minor liberties taken for plot reasons. For the djinn/genie elements, I drew mostly on modern mythology, namely Disney’s Aladdin and the Bartimaeus Trilogy by Jonathan Stroud.

Chapter One

Ctesiphon, Sasanian Empire (modern-day Iraq), 245 AD

Black smoke coiled from the tip of the burnished lamp, twisting around on itself in serpentine patterns as it billowed upwards. Darkness emanated from the gathering smoke, dimming the midday light streaming through the latticed windows. A cold wind swept the room next, ruffling the pages of the many open books and tangling the pale gold hair of the middle-aged man standing quietly before the lamp.

The djinn Crowley straightened up, arched his smoky serpentine back, and slowly opened glowing, slitted red eyes.

Gosh, he was glad to be out of that lamp.¹

“Djinn,” said the human standing before him, “I have summoned you from your lamp and claim my wishes three.”

Crowley tilted his serpentine head downwards so he could get a better look at his latest master, letting his red eyes flare brighter for effect. Before him stood a rather ordinary-looking human, if tastes hadn’t changed much since his last excursion to Earth.² Curly gold hair framed a face that had seen days of happiness as well as weariness. Judging from the gold ring on his finger and the number of artful pleats in his blue tunic, he was a man of some means, though not a terribly important one. The outfit was completed with loose-fitting trousers and a decorative belt; overall, the style was similar enough to that of Mithridates’ day to make Crowley think his lamp hadn’t traveled very far geographically, either.

So, he was still in Persia. And, from the number of books cluttering up the study he had been summoned into, his new master was a scholar. This could be bad news.³

“What shall I call you?” asked the human, almost politely.

Crowley narrowed his glowing eyes slightly, quickly revising his previous opinion. Though clearly a scholar, his new master must not have had much experience with djinn, with that positive attitude.

Crowley opened his mouth slightly, forming gleaming white fangs out of the dark smoke, and let out a long, sinister hiss.⁵

Once the sound had hung in the air for a few seconds, he growled, “I am called Crowley, demon prince of the Third Abyssal Realm.”⁶ He overlaid his tone with a low, otherworldly rumble that he knew would play at the edge of the human’s hearing. “I shall grant your three wishes in accordance with the laws of the ancient magic that bind me.” He parted the veil of darkness in front of the nearest window just far enough to let a spear of light glance off one of his glistening white fangs. “You cannot wish for me to give you more wishes, to raise someone from the dead, or to bring harm to children, but all else is in your power to command, massster.”⁷

“Excellent,” the human said with a smile, clapping his hands together. To Crowley’s disappointment, he didn’t look even a little frightened. Maybe he was losing the knack of it. “You may call me Aziraphale,” Crowley’s master continued. “As you can see, I am a scholar in the court of King Shapur. This is the city of Ctesiphon on the Tigris.⁸ In this same city there is a scholar, also in the court of the king, named Parviz Darvishi. In his possession is a rare book called the Bundahishn, which deals with the nature of Creation. I wish for this book to be mine.”

The moment Aziraphale made his wish, Crowley felt the magical constraints binding him loosen, allowing him access to the fabric of reality. He drew a deep breath and let his mouth twist upwards into a serpentine smile.

His new master was more of an amateur than he could have hoped. This was going to be fun.

“As you wish,” Crowley hissed and vanished theatrically in a poof of smoke.

He reformed seconds later in an adjacent chamber, where he reached aching ethereal hands towards the strings of the universe. He plucked at a few of the minor chords, basking in the feeling of being again connected to the universe, and settled into the shape of his new master. The detail was impeccable, of course, down to the soft blue eyes and intricate gold ring fashioned in the shape of wings. The one aberration was the pair of plain silver bracelets resting on his wrists, the physical manifestations of the magic binding him even now. He could twist their image into more pleasing shapes, but he could never banish them entirely.

Crowley blinked his master’s eyes and looked about himself with interest. He was in a room that looked like a cross between a parlor and a library. There was an unlit fireplace, a low table bearing a selection of dates, oranges, and nuts, a collection of comfortable-looking cushions and chairs, and four separate bookshelves.⁹

He would have liked to poke around a bit, eking information about his master from his carelessly displayed possessions, but he could hear Aziraphale moving about in the study next door, and he had his orders. He couldn’t tarry long before his bindings would spur him to action.

So Crowley turned until he spotted what looked like the front door and strode purposefully towards it. As he reached it, he phased back to smoke and passed silently through its wooden boards, reforming on the other side.

He found himself in an arched niche at the edge of a broad square courtyard, the space edged with decorative colonnades and boasting a clear pool, carefully tended flower beds, and a number of large pomegranate trees. A few people, members of the court judging by their expensive dress and aloof demeanor, strolled across the courtyard towards a broad flight of stairs leading to some higher level of the palace. In that same direction, above the flat roofs of the apartments, Crowley could see the top of an arch built into some enormous structure—perhaps the heart of the palace itself.

But his business, he was fairly certain, wasn’t at the palace.

Crowley smoothed down the pleats of Aziraphale’s tunic and started confidently across the courtyard, moving away from the stairs leading further into the palace. As he stepped out of the shade of the arched colonnade, though, his eyes were drawn up to the dazzling blue sky above him, and he felt his pace slacken. He came to a stop beside a pomegranate tree, feeling the heat of the sun on his skin as he simply took it all in. He always forgot how bright it was.

After less than a minute, Crowley felt his bracelets tighten around his wrists, warning him of the cost of inaction, so he sighed and turned back to the task at hand. He closed his eyes and reached outwards with his senses, stretching his presence beyond himself, past the palace complex and across the city. He danced along the Tigris and dallied in the streets, searching for the house of the man named Parviz Darvishi.

It took only a few moments to locate it, a mental map dropping effortlessly into Crowley’s mind as he opened his eyes again. He took a deep breath, flexed his master’s shoulders, and strolled towards the palace gate.

From his glimpse at the fabric of the universe, he knew that the city extended all the way to the river and even bridged over it, but unfortunately Parviz lived quite close to the palace. Still, Crowley took the most circuitous route there that he could, walking as slowly as he dared and looking around himself with great interest.

While things hadn’t changed enormously since Mithridates’ time, it was still lovely to walk down the sunbaked boulevards, looking around at the rich diversity of passersby and catching the scents of roses and freshly peeled oranges on the breeze. Despite himself, he really did love humanity.¹⁰

He would have loved to tarry longer, but it was no time at all before Crowley found himself approaching the house he knew belonged to the scholar named Parviz Darvishi. He blinked rapidly to focus himself, banishing his lingering interest in humanity to concentrate on just one human: Parviz Darvishi, and a certain book in his possession.

As Crowley neared the door to Parviz’s house, he took care to trip over his own feet, drawing the attention of a few passersby and the servant boy sweeping outside of the opposite house. He made a show of straightening up and gave the servant boy a little wave just to be certain Aziraphale’s face would stick in his memory.

Then, humming a little to himself, Crowley opened the door to Parviz’s house. It was locked, or at least it had been, but the door yielded all the same as Crowley plucked a minor chord of the universe.

Inside was an orderly front room, complete with an ornamental tree in a large earthenware pot and a number of pegs hung with various cloaks and hats.

Crowley quietly closed the door behind him but kept it noticeably unlatched. He looked around next, searching with senses other than his eyes for the location of the library. He felt it ahead and to the right, the layout of the building effortlessly making itself known to him.

He strode towards it.

No one stopped him, so he simply walked right in. Inside were several bookcases¹² and a number of handsome chairs bearing expensive-looking silk pillows. The wall on the right held a shuttered window overlooking the street, light streaming through its geometric lattice and spilling across the floor.

Crowley could turn again to the universe for the location of the book he sought, but that would be far too quick for his purposes, so he strolled unconcernedly to the nearest bookcase and started pulling volumes and scrolls out at random. When none proved to be the Bundahishn, he tossed them onto the chairs or to the floor, where they made a pleasantly loud slapping noise. After a moment’s thought, he pulled Aziraphale’s distinctive ring off his finger and threw it down as well. A little material evidence never hurt.

Within minutes, he heard the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps.

Excellent, Crowley thought, and finally turned to the strings of the universe for the location of the book Aziraphale wanted. With just the faintest pluck of one of the chords, the information came to him, and he saw the Bundahishn resting snugly on a shelf a few feet away. He crossed to it and pulled it free. It was a small and rather unimpressive book, its dark cover embossed with a simple diamond pattern, but it was what Aziraphale wanted.

“What—what are you doing?” stammered a voice from behind Crowley. Based on the slightly fearful and horrified intonation, its owner was a servant. Crowley looked around just long enough to confirm this, and to let the veiled young woman see his face, and then he turned and lunged for the window.

He crashed through the intricate wooden lattice in a spray of broken wood, clumsily toppling through the opening and landing heavily on the dirt road outside.¹³ He staggered to his feet and made a show of glancing around, letting several startled passersby see his face, as well as the servant boy outside the opposite house, who was still sweeping the step.

“Stop him! That man’s a burglar!” came the distressed voice of the servant girl from behind him, and Crowley took that as his cue.

He dashed down the road at full tilt, crashing into passersby and clutching the stolen book damningly to his chest as he made a beeline for his master’s house.

~

By the time Crowley reached the palace complex, there were no fewer than six guards hot on his heels, shouting and brandishing their swords at him. Crowley was delighted. He hadn’t had such an easily misconstruable wish since Midas.¹⁴

The doors to the palace district were wide open, and the guards there too slow to react to the hasty shouts of their companions. He darted easily past the large bronze doors and turned his feet towards Aziraphale’s courtyard.

He picked up speed as he reached its edge, putting more space between himself and his pursuers. He dashed up to the colonnade outside Aziraphale’s house and, as he passed the row of identical pillars, he plucked at a few familiar, well-worn chords. By the time he’d reached Aziraphale’s door, he was in the form of a young man with dark hair and golden eyes.¹⁵

Crowley dropped into a leisurely pace as he opened the door to Aziraphale’s house and let himself in, leaving the door noticeably ajar behind him.

As he entered, Aziraphale looked up from where he was seated at the table in the parlor-turned-library across from another well-dressed man. They appeared to have been discussing something over lunch, books lying open on the table and the remains of several oranges and dates scattered across silver plates.

“Master,” Crowley said respectfully. From somewhere behind him, he heard the distant sounds of the guards shouting to check each house. He crossed to Aziraphale, bowed slightly, and held out the book. “Here is the Bundahishn, yours as you wished.”

Aziraphale smiled and dabbed at his mouth with a cloth napkin before accepting the book. “Thank you.”

The magical bands around Crowley immediately tightened, whisking away his access to the strings of the universe now that he had completed his master’s wish. Crowley took it in stride; he’d done well with this task, after all.

He fought back a smirk as he took a few steps back, positioning himself in a deferential position by the nearest wall. At the same time, there came the sound of heavy footsteps in the courtyard outside.

“Here—this one’s open!” a voice cried.

At the table, Aziraphale’s guest looked around in alarm. Aziraphale, appearing remarkably unaffected, folded his napkin and set it on the table.

The front door banged open and three guards burst into the room, swords in their hands and chests heaving. “Stop where you are, thief!” the first cried, pointing the tip of his sword at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s guest rapidly rose to his feet, color rising to his cheeks. “What is this?” he demanded. “How dare you barge in here—”

Aziraphale, still seated, raised a hand to appease his guest. “A thief, you say?” he asked the foremost guard. “What am I accused of stealing?”

“That book there,” the guard said immediately, flicking the tip of his sword towards where the Bundahishn was resting in Aziraphale’s lap. “Stolen just minutes ago from the house of Parviz Darvishi; you can’t deny it!”

“I am Parviz Darvishi,” Aziraphale’s guest said unexpectedly, staring daggers at the head guard. “Aziraphale sent his servant to fetch my book, you incompetent oaf.”

“I have been here talking with Mr. Darvishi for nearly an hour,” Aziraphale added calmly, smiling at the guards. “So, whatever you saw, you must have been mistaken.” His gaze flickered for a moment to Crowley, who was staring at him in shock. “For how can a person be in two places at once?”

“I—uh—” the guard said, glancing back at his two fellows. Both looked baffled.

“We…we saw you…” one offered weakly.

“I am telling you, I am the owner of this book,” Parviz snapped. “It cannot have been stolen from me when it’s right here with me, can it?”

“As you can see, no crime has been committed,” Aziraphale concluded smoothly, carefully setting the Bundahishn on the table and rising. “I’m sure you gentlemen have plenty of pressing duties to attend to.”

The head guard wavered, the other two looking to him for direction. Eventually, he nodded, still looking uncertain but apparently capitulating to the voice of reason.¹⁶ “Of course, sir. Sorry to have, uh, disturbed you.”

Aziraphale inclined his head politely and the three guards awkwardly retreated, sheathing their swords and beginning to mutter among themselves.

As they left, closing the door carefully behind them, Parviz let out a cross huff and sat down stiffly. “It is a wonder the king pays them at all, if all they do is apprehend every servant sent to do his master’s bidding. I shall have words with the vizier about this.”

“Oh, I’m sure it was an honest mistake,” Aziraphale said mildly, sitting down and reaching over to pluck a date from one of the silver bowls. Then his gaze moved to Crowley, still standing frozen near the wall.

“Thank you, Crowley,” he said without a trace of animosity. “I shall call upon you later with another task.”

Crowley bobbed his head and left the room, recognizing a dismissal when he heard one. The serpentine bracelets on his wrists tightened, and he gave in to their pressure, dissolving into black smoke and allowing himself to be dragged back into his lamp.

Aziraphale was a great deal cleverer than he’d given him credit for, that was for sure. He should have known better. Damn scholars.

---

1. While rather expansive by lamp standards, and even by djinn vessel standards—Crowley had once known a poor blighter who’d had to make do with a perfume bottle—it was still quite a lot to ask a mighty being such as himself to squeeze into a few cubic inches for centuries at a time. They weren’t lying about the crick in the neck.

2. Not that Mithridates had had any taste, as far as Crowley was concerned. He’d never seen such a stupid-looking hat before, and that was really saying something.

3. Generally, there were three types of people⁴ who summoned djinn: 1) the rich and powerful; 2) the ambitious, who wanted to become the rich and powerful; and 3) scholars who devoted themselves to the study of djinn and their magic. The first two groups, while universally a pain to deal with, were at least straightforward with what they wanted: more wealth and power, generally. Scholars, on the other hand, were a real wildcard, since they were on the whole much more imaginative.

4. Yes, yes, there were occasions when a djinn’s vessel had been found by someone who fell outside of these three groups, though it nearly always happened by chance. These days, such cases were so vanishingly rare that they hardly bore mentioning. Solomon and his damn records were to thank for that.

5. Frightening one’s new master into submission hardly ever worked, but, hey, it was worth a shot.

6. There was no such place as the Third Abyssal Realm, not so far as Crowley knew, anyway, but if he was lucky the name-drop would keep his scholarly new master tearing his hair out for years to come.

7. Strictly speaking, the last of these rules was just as factual as the Third Abyssal Realm. There was every possibility that his new master, should he truly be a scholar of djinn, would know this, but there was no harm in trying.

8. Aha, something he was familiar with; Mithridates had also dallied along the Tigris. He wasn’t surprised there was a new king, but a new city as well meant that there must have been a significant shake-up since Mithridates’ time. Ah, well. Served the arrogant prick right.

9. And this on top of the study filled with books that Crowley had been summoned into. It was a bad sign, that. Having more than one room dedicated to anything was, in Crowley’s opinion, a certain sign of megalomania.

10. It was a major failing in a djinn. As a rule, ever since the djinn had been dragged across the boundary by the sorcerers of old and enslaved to humanity, it had been widely understood that the two groups would be less than friendly with each other. Humans selfishly profited from the incredible power of the djinn, and in return the djinn did their darnedest to ruin it for them: turning wishes sour, willfully misinterpreting vague instructions, and so on. A good djinn, from the djinns’ point of view, was one capable of making his master regret having ever summoned him in the first place.¹¹

11. The corollary to this was that a good djinn was one so universally hated, mistrusted, and feared by humanity that he ended up spending most of his time in his vessel. While a three-star experience at best, it was understood that it was better to spend an eternity trapped alone in one’s vessel than constantly at the beck and call of human masters. Crowley agreed with this in theory; in practice, he very quickly got lonely in his lamp.

12. Fewer than Aziraphale had in his much smaller home, though. Yet another strike for megalomania.

13. The clumsiness was because he had to put on a good performance of how the scholarly and somewhat overweight Aziraphale would act, of course. A supremely powerful being such as himself was obviously a paragon of gracefulness.

14. In all fairness, Crowley had fully expected Midas to simply use his second wish to undo his first—a convenient and perfectly common tactic employed by djinn to winnow down their servitude—and it really wasn’t his fault that Midas’ nephew had immediately put two and two together and stolen Crowley’s lamp. Poor guy, really. It had done wonders for Crowley’s reputation, though.

15. Possessing as much awesome power as he did, of course, Crowley could make himself appear as almost anything, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a few shapes he liked to return to from time to time. This one was his favorite, and, if he was quite honest, he preferred it to his natural smoke. His fellow djinn would have seen it as a form of betrayal to willingly adopt the form of a human, as they would his tendency to tarry in human cities, but Crowley did it anyway. He liked just how ordinary this form looked, and how free, apart from the silver shackles around his wrists, which he’d disguised as fashionable serpentine bracelets.

16. The one telling him not to tangle with politically savvy courtiers, not the one telling him to ignore the evidence of his own perfectly good senses.

Chapter Two

Coiled inside his lamp, the walls dark and cold and close, Crowley stewed over his master’s actions.

It was clear that Aziraphale knew a great deal about djinn, and the fact that he’d been able to so accurately predict how Crowley would misinterpret his wish seemed to indicate that he’d encountered many djinn before. This wasn’t unheard of, and Crowley wouldn’t have been surprised if someone had brought back Solomon’s old method.¹ He supposed he’d been optimistic to think it had been lost to the sands of time (and Arabia).

That would also help explain why Aziraphale had been willing to effectively throw away his first wish. Maybe he’d already made all his true wishes to another djinn, and now he was just playing with Crowley for fun.

Which circled back around to things looking very bad indeed for Crowley. The best master was one who thought little about Crowley and simply about what he wanted to wish for; the more closely an intelligent master looked at the captive djinn in his power, the worse things looked for that djinn.²

It was undeniable that Aziraphale had made his first wish simply to toy with Crowley, and as such Crowley found himself dreading the next two. He would have to play his cards very carefully if he wanted to get out of this with his smoke intact.

He was still worrying over the problem when he felt his bindings abruptly loosen, allowing him access to a few strings of the universe as his smoky form was drawn from the tip of his lamp.

He emerged into Aziraphale’s study, Aziraphale himself seated at the desk with Crowley’s lamp in his hands. Predawn light filtered faintly through the open window.

Crowley gathered his smoke together and settled into his dark-haired form, perched upon the corner of his master’s desk.

Aziraphale carefully set Crowley’s lamp down and sat back slightly, playing with the golden ring on his finger and eyeing Crowley critically.

“Master, what is your second wish?” Crowley asked as dispassionately as possible. Indifferent obedience might be the best way out of this.

“Hm?” Aziraphale asked, blinking. Immediately, the brooding expression on his face vanished, replaced with mild disinterest. “Oh, I’m still working on that,” he said, leaning forward and plucking a quill from a nearby inkwell. He tapped its tip on the rim a few times. “Just thought you might enjoy a few hours outside of your lamp.”

Crowley narrowed his serpentine eyes, sensing a trap.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, pulled a sheet of parchment from a drawer of the desk and began penning what appeared to be a letter. Still Crowley surveyed him, certain this was a ploy and hoping Aziraphale would give something of its nature away.

His master’s expression was frustratingly bland, though, so Crowley eventually hopped off the corner of the desk and made a show of stretching languidly.³ When Aziraphale continued to ignore him, focused on studiously scribing his letter, Crowley gave up and strode from the room. Whatever trap or test this was, if Aziraphale was going to give him free rein of his house, he was certainly going to use it to his advantage.

Crowley strode from room to room, feigning bored disinterest while peering around keenly for unusual possessions or indications of habits he could exploit. It was a small, rather modest house with only three chambers: the study, the parlor-library, and an orderly bedchamber. Each was fairly spacious, but for lodging within the palace walls it was very sparse; Parviz’s house had been at least three times the size.

There were no rooms for servants or signs of other family members, not even a wife.⁴ Aziraphale owned a great number of books and scrolls, which must have been exceedingly expensive, but otherwise appeared to live within or below his means.

He cares more about his studies than his social life, Crowley decided. Bad sign.

He drifted into the parlor-library and shifted until he was out of sight of Aziraphale scribbling at his desk in the study. He started quickly scanning the titles of books, quietly pulling them from their shelves to check covers and title pages. He could have gained all the information he sought in seconds with just a few touches of the universe, but the strings he needed to pluck for that were barred to him now, leaving him with the ability to change his form but little else. He was bound until Aziraphale wished him to act.

Crowley expected to find books on djinn and demonology, perhaps histories of Solomon’s time or lore on hidden treasures, but he found none of these. Instead, there were scrolls describing strange religions and books covering topics as diverse as medicinal plants and mathematics. They seemed to originate from a baffling number of locales, as well; resting side-by-side on the shelves were Egyptian treatises on geography, Roman histories, Indian astronomical charts, and well-thumbed mythologies detailing acts of love and heroism.

Crowley replaced a clay tablet inscribed with Assyrian cuneiform, baffled. Either international trade had become a lot more robust since Mithridates’ time, or his new master was exceedingly well-traveled.

He considered this piece of information, wondering what it meant, and then shrugged to himself. More important was the fact that this room didn’t appear to contain any books on djinn; and of course those were the ones he’d most like to get his hands on.⁵ That wasn’t necessarily surprising, though; it was likely Aziraphale simply kept them in his main study, or else hidden away somewhere no idle visitor could find.

Crowley turned on his heel, scanning the room again for anything he might have missed, and froze when his gaze reached the open window. Visible in the distance, beyond the flat-roofed buildings of the city, was a brilliant sunrise.

Without really noticing what he was doing, Crowley crossed to the window and put his hands on the sill, just gazing out at it.

Aziraphale’s house was built into a hillside, so the street outside the window was two stories below, as were the nearest houses. This granted Crowley’s window an unobstructed view of the city and, beyond it, distant rugged mountains and a sky splashed with more colors than the dyers could ever recreate.

It was the most beautiful thing Crowley had seen in a very long time.

The humans, he supposed, saw this sight every day and therefore thought little of it. But Crowley hadn’t seen a sunrise in a thousand years, and he was captivated.⁶

Magenta beams stretched across the sky as golden light reflected off the brick houses of the city, making them almost glow. The light draped itself with equal generosity across Crowley’s face and arms, warming him and gradually banishing the chill in the air.

In the street below the window, people strode past, carrying goods and small children and going about their business as usual, as though a marvel wasn’t being painted in the sky above them. How jaded the humans must be, to see such a miracle every day and grow so tired of it; how lovely to be able to take one’s freedom so completely for granted.

Crowley stood there until the sun was a good handspan above the horizon, trying to imprint every aspect of the experience on his mind, so that he could cherish it later in his lamp.⁷ He would have gladly stood there a great deal longer, except there came an unexpected voice from behind him.

“Enjoying the view?”

Crowley jumped and looked around to see Aziraphale standing behind him, a faint smile on his face.

“I—no,” Crowley lied. He hastily executed a shallow bow. “Do you have your second wish, master?”

“Not yet,” Aziraphale said mildly, folding his hands in front of himself. “In fact, I’ve been called to some business in the city.”

“I see,” Crowley said, feeling the dismissal coming and wishing he could have gotten a few parting moments with the sunrise. He could still feel the warmth of the sun against his back, and he tried to soak in as much of it as he could, hoping it might ward off the chill of the lamp for a little while.

“I was wondering if you would like to accompany me?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley blinked, taken aback. Before he could think better of it, he asked, “Is that a choice?”

“It is.”

Crowley opened his mouth and then shut it again, certain now that he was being put to some test, or else cruelly tempted. Every survival instinct he possessed urged him to remain safely ensconced in his lamp until Aziraphale had readied his wish, but that seemed like such a paltry excuse compared to the opportunity to stay in the sun a little longer.

Crowley pushed back against that weakness, sternly reminding himself that Aziraphale was crafty and not to be underestimated again. While he wanted to go out into the city, he had every reason to believe it would end poorly for him. On the other hand, every minute he spent with his master was a minute he might discover a fatal weakness ripe for exploitation.

He eyed Aziraphale carefully, wondering what his master could possibly have to gain by making such an offer, and to what ends this test or trap was built.

Aziraphale’s expression was frustratingly bland, though. If anything, he detected a hint of amusement. This would not do at all.⁸

“Yes,” Crowley said decisively, giving in to both his desire to remain on Earth and the logic that this way he could at least keep tabs on Aziraphale. Besides, Crowley wasn’t stupid or naïve; if this was a game, two could play. “I will accompany you.”

It felt strange, stating his own wish so forthrightly. He had rarely been afforded the luxury of an opinion, much less a choice.⁹

Aziraphale smiled brightly—a bad sign, certainly—and gestured away from the window. “Shall we?”

~

“Remind me again of the rules,” Aziraphale said as he and Crowley strode down the sloping street leading from the palace gates. Crowley’s burnished lamp bounced against Aziraphale’s hip, where he had tied it with a length of ribbon. “About the wishes, I mean.”

Crowley shot him a skeptical glance, complete with raised eyebrow. He could hardly believe Aziraphale had forgotten such an important and, frankly, straightforward piece of information.

Aziraphale patiently waited for his response, though, so he said, “No wishing for more wishes. No bringing someone back to life, and no harming children.”

Aziraphale seemed to think for a moment. “No harming children—is that standard?” he asked innocently, though there was a faint stiffness to his voice, as though he’d rehearsed the line. “It seems a bit…specific. Odd.”

Aha! So he has worked with other djinn, Crowley thought, inwardly delighting at his master’s unintentional tipping of his hand.

“Those are the laws that bind me,” he maintained out loud.

“Hm,” Aziraphale said, looking thoughtful. “I don’t suppose—” he began, and then Crowley spoke over him:¹⁰

“So, what did you spend your first three wishes on?”

Aziraphale actually stumbled a bit at that, his composure slipping for the first time since Crowley had laid eyes on him. “I—um—what do you mean?”

Crowley swiftly pressed his advantage. “Don’t play coy. I’m clearly not the first djinn to be at your disposal. Stringing us along, are you?”

“You—I’m not—” Aziraphale stammered, looking almost distressed. Then he turned his head away, his hand coming to rest on Crowley’s lamp at his side. When he looked back, he had regained his composure. He gave Crowley an amused smile. “How did you figure it out?”

Crowley took his time responding, his serpentine eyes narrowing slightly as he searched Aziraphale’s expression. From the speed with which he had collected himself, Aziraphale was clearly very skilled at hiding his true thoughts and emotions, a skill Crowley didn’t doubt he had perfected during his time at court.

“You knew what to expect with that first wish,” Crowley said at last, guessing he wasn’t giving anything away by that admission. “You threw it away to prove a point. Point made. And now you can’t even think of a second wish. Never met a human who wanted so little.”

Aziraphale’s expression did something strange, and then he smiled at Crowley. “Maybe I’m just taking my time,” he said sweetly. “With only three wishes, I cannot afford to waste them.”

“You’ve already wasted one,” Crowley replied immediately, but Aziraphale only hummed and kept walking. If anything, he looked amused at this turn in the conversation.

Crowley frowned, feeling both very suspicious and rather confused; something about the way his master had responded to his questions didn’t quite add up.¹¹

“See, there,” Aziraphale said after a moment, pointing off to the right, where a long wall was visible beyond a row of houses, “that’s the edge of the game reserve. Shapur keeps all sorts of animals there for his own hunting and entertainment. Lions, boars, ostriches, you name it. Bears, even.”

“Uh-huh,” Crowley said, certain this bit of trivia was meant as a distraction to keep him from musing on their earlier conversation.

“No, there really is,” Aziraphale said, mistaking his dismissal for disagreement. “I’ve seen them myself.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, but Aziraphale didn’t notice, instead continuing down the street in the direction of the river.

The city sprawled from the palace down to the Tigris, and Aziraphale led him through it almost cheerfully, occasionally pointing out buildings that they passed: the city baths, the king’s aviary, a Zoroastrian fire temple, a rabbinical academy, and so on.

He was chattering on about the White Palace and the history of the Sasanian rulers¹² when Crowley broke in again.

“Are you doing your business or giving me a tour?”

Aziraphale stopped and looked over in surprise. “What, can’t I do both? And do forgive me if I thought you would appreciate an update after being stuck in that lamp for who knows how long.”

Crowley opened his mouth to deliver a biting reply but stopped himself short. In truth, he did appreciate the tour,¹³ but the fact that he was getting one at all was deeply unsettling.

Aziraphale was…well, he was treating Crowley as a person, as an equal, and Crowley hated it. Hated the implication that they were anything other than servant and master, one bound against his will to serve the other. It was doubtlessly part of some vile plot to manipulate him, to make him feel valued so that he would be a more effective servant, or simply for the joy of crushing his spirit in revenge for his deceit during the first wish. Whatever the specifics of Aziraphale’s plan, it was obviously malicious, and Crowley refused to participate in a scheme so clearly engineered to cause him pain. Already he was beginning to regret having agreed to go out into the city with Aziraphale.

“What is your second wish, master?” he asked flatly.

Aziraphale pursed his lips slightly, his expression hard to read. Then he sighed. “I’m sorry,” he offered.

If you were really sorry, you’d use your wishes already and put me out of my misery, Crowley thought bitterly. Or, better yet, set me free. Ha. Like that’s ever gonna happen.¹⁴

“I do not have my second wish ready yet,” Aziraphale continued carefully.

“Then send me back to my lamp,” Crowley snapped, looking pointedly at the lamp at Aziraphale’s side. As much as he was enjoying the city, he hated the idea of humoring Aziraphale more.

Aziraphale frowned, searching Crowley’s face for something. Crowley stubbornly looked away and folded his arms.

Aziraphale was silent for a moment more, and then he finally said, “No. Stay in the city, but you don’t have to follow me around. See the place for yourself.”

Crowley looked around in surprise before he could stop himself. While this still seemed like a trap in capital letters, it was also an unexpected and incredibly attractive opportunity.¹⁵

“Might I suggest the bazaar,” Aziraphale continued mildly, seeming unperturbed by Crowley’s astonished expression. “I’ll be at the river this evening; meet me there at sunset. Until then, you’re free to do as you desire.”

Crowley blinked again, waiting for Aziraphale to laugh and revoke his instructions, because the offer was too good to be true.

“Well, don’t hasten to thank me,” Aziraphale said after a moment, with a smile. Then he started walking down the street, away from Crowley. “Sunset, the river. Don’t be too late.”

Crowley remained rooted to the spot, slowly allowing himself to accept that this day of freedom was truly his. When Aziraphale had vanished behind a curve in the road, he let out a disbelieving breath and laughed out loud. And then, freed from his master’s oversight, he looked eagerly around himself, wondering where to go first. As any good djinn would, he was of course going to use this time to muck with his master’s life, but…later. First, he was going to do what he wanted to do.

And he wanted to do everything.

Crowley chose a street at random and walked swiftly along it, looking around himself with great interest and soaking in every detail. With no bands of power to close about him in punishment if he tarried, he found himself distracted by every street vendor and enticing smell, taking time to stop and examine every interesting house decoration and waggle his fingers at every cute sheep. This must be how the humans lived, he came to understand as he wandered from street to street: slowly, or at whatever pace they wanted.

It wasn’t long before he stumbled upon the bazaar Aziraphale had mentioned, a series of intersecting streets and courtyards filled with a dazzling collection of goods. Many, such as paper, rock crystal, and spices, were from impossibly distant lands, and Crowley found himself marveling at their availability. In his experience, cinnamon and turmeric were things supplied not by eager merchants but terrified vassals seeking desperately to placate invading tyrants.

He moved through the bazaar one shopfront at a time, taking the time to admire the surprisingly Greek shape of a collection of shallow bowls, the skill with which delicate golden thread had been woven through woolen garments, and the beauty of the birds painted onto stucco tiles. It was amazing, the things that stood out to him. Now that he had the time to actually look, it seemed to him that this bazaar held more wonders than he had seen serving all the masters, kings, and would-be emperors in the world.

More than once, Crowley found himself faced by some strange commodity he had never encountered before, and if a small part of him wished Aziraphale was there to explain its meaning to him, well, then that was because he was feeling magnanimous.¹⁶

When Crowley had had his fill of the bazaar, he strode idly through the city, smiling at young children and making small talk with carpenters and weavers. He listened to a handful of songs from a young man with a broken foot and a lyre, learned how to dive for pearls from a visitor from the gulf, and shared a delightful pot of tea with a group of friendly elders, two of whom tried to arrange a meeting between him and their granddaughters.

It wasn’t until the sky was beginning to darken overhead that Crowley remembered he’d been supposed to make trouble for Aziraphale.

He swore, quickly excused himself from the elders’ table, and hastened across the city towards the Tigris.

As he strode rapidly through the bazaar, he saw that a few vendors were still open, and he made a hasty detour to a textile shop. He quickly located the most expensive-looking tapestry on display—one decorated with a pattern of cat-peacock creatures lovingly captured with gold and silver thread—and arranged for delivery and payment in a week’s time,¹⁷ under Aziraphale’s name and address.

Feeling slightly better, Crowley resumed his swift journey to the river. In the grand scheme of things, buying a tapestry wasn’t exactly devious, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret not having done more. He still suspected Aziraphale was playing some sort of game with him, but so far it didn’t seem to be such a terrible one. Besides, no matter what Aziraphale did next, Crowley would always have the memory of this day to return to during the long years in his lamp. In fact, all things considered, he was feeling almost charitably towards his master.¹⁸

As he neared the river, light from the setting sun glinting off its ruffled surface, Crowley paused to locate Aziraphale. It took only a moment, as the connections to both his master and his lamp remained palpable to him at all times. He simply followed the tug until he saw Aziraphale sitting on the stone embankment that skirted the river, a loosely wrapped package in his lap.

He looked over as Crowley approached and gave him a friendly smile. “How was your day?”

Amazing. Unparalleled. The best day of my life, Crowley wanted to say. But he didn’t, because Aziraphale was his master, not his friend. There was still a game being played here, and he had to keep his cards close to his chest. “Fine,” he said instead, sitting down next to Aziraphale on the embankment, his legs dangling down towards the muddy riverbank.

“I’ve bought us some baklava,” Aziraphale said, unfolding the package in his lap and offering one of the flaky square pastries to Crowley. “Have you ever had any before?”

Crowley looked at the offered food, surprised all over again.¹⁹ He reminded himself that this act of generosity was almost certainly part of his master’s larger scheme, but he felt his resistance to it crumbling. Ploy or not, Aziraphale had shown him more kindness today than he’d seen in four thousand years, and he suddenly wanted all of it to be real. Wanted to believe that he and Aziraphale were friends, and that he was just as free as every master he’d ever served. Wanted to believe that going along with this wouldn’t end in disaster.

“It won’t bite,” Aziraphale said when he saw Crowley’s hesitation, and then he set the baklava down on the brickwork between them. He started unconcernedly unwrapping his own, making a few offhand comments about the shop he’d bought them from.

Crowley, who wasn’t listening, debated with himself for another long moment before finally picking up the baklava. This didn’t mean anything, he reminded himself forcefully. He was still a mighty djinn on his toes. Still alert for traps. Still—oh, gods, this was delicious.

“Mhph—really good,” Crowley managed, taking another eager bite.

Aziraphale broke off in his description of the pastry shop and gave Crowley an amused smile. “I thought you might like it.”

Crowley mumbled something in blissful agreement and then sternly reminded himself to keep it together.²⁰

They ate in silence for a few minutes, the wind turning cool as the sun slunk below the horizon. Crowley scarfed down the baklava as though his life depended on it, until he was licking honey and pistachio from his fingertips and looking sadly down at the empty wrapper in his hands. Then he moved his gaze to the last glimmers of the sunset, where a few distant clouds were bathed in purple-blue light.

“So,” Aziraphale said after a time, his eyes also on the horizon, “you’re thousands of years old, yeah? You’ve seen lots of humanity. What do you think of it? Of us?”

Crowley shot Aziraphale a sidelong glance. The question was innocent enough, but, like his earlier question about the djinn rules, the nonchalant way Aziraphale had asked it made Crowley think he’d prepared it in advance. Was this, then, the purpose of the freedom he’d allowed Crowley today? To make him…think about humanity?²¹

Regardless, Crowley knew what the correct answer was,²² but he hadn’t really believed that in a long time. Aziraphale didn’t deserve the truth, of course—no master did—but, somehow, Crowley felt that the day did. That to lie now, at the end of what was possibly the best day of his life, would be to blaspheme it.²³

So he sighed. “I don’t know,” he said, looking down at the baklava wrapper in his hands and then back to the beautiful sunset. “It’s complicated.”

Aziraphale hummed slightly. He gave Crowley a few moments to collect his thoughts before prompting, “How so?”

Crowley’s mouth twisted, and he decided he might as well answer honestly. “There’s…” He paused. “The djinn were captured by humans,” he said at last. “For that, they are awful. I have seen more injustice and served more despicable tyrants than you can imagine. They have wished for atrocities, and I have carried them out. To the last, my masters have been cruel, selfish, and arrogant.” He let out a breath, wondering if Aziraphale was going to stop him there, or perhaps protest that he was not those things, but he didn’t interrupt. “I see more than my masters, though,” Crowley continued after a moment. “There are people who are good, who are innocent and kind. I have seen great works of art and beautiful sunrises. It is not all bad, though there are some of my kind who would insist on it.”

Aziraphale made a faint sound of understanding.

Crowley waited for him to ask a follow-up question—perhaps one that finally revealed his motivations for being kind to Crowley in the first place—but none was forthcoming. He glanced over at Aziraphale and was surprised and slightly alarmed to see him smiling faintly. “What?”

Aziraphale shook his head and looked back at the sunset. “Nothing. I think you are quite right.”

---

1. Solomon had fit into both the ‘rich and powerful’ and ‘scholar’ categories, and had been annoyingly good at both. In typical scholar fashion, he had done something unexpected and unexpectedly bad for djinn: he had used his third wish to wish for another djinn’s vessel. This had neatly sidestepped the ‘no wishing for more wishes’ limitation, and had also led to a massive number of djinn working alongside each other for the first time in history, as Solomon had circulated djinn vessels among his inner circle, instantly multiplying the number of wishes available to his cause. The obvious flaw in this system was that it was only as strong as the members of that inner circle, but those involved had proven unusually stubborn. Even the nastiest of Crowley’s fellow djinn, Hastur and Ligur, had been unable to turn their masters against each other. Crowley had long since chalked it up to the peculiar religious fervor that had been in the air in those days.

2. One of Solomon’s flunkies, for instance, had dug up enough old scrolls about the ancient sorcerers to be able to tap into the magical bindings keeping the djinn enslaved. But not for any good reason, of course; he only wanted to be able to tighten the bindings at will, so that he could inflict pain upon any djinn who misinterpreted his wishes. In similar fashion, a scholar in India had become so angry with the chaos caused by his djinn that he had used his third wish to curse the poor fellow to an unending life of eternal agony.

3. Displacing several joints and flicking out a serpentine tongue as he did so.

4. This wasn’t actually all that surprising; it was amazing how many bachelors found themselves in need of a djinn to solve their problems. Crowley had once suggested to a master that he use his first wish to employ a housekeeper.

5. He’d once rifled through a master’s demonology scrolls and discovered a fascinating passage stating that a djinn who knew his master’s true name could compel that master to perform three of his own wishes. Crowley had known this to be a blatant falsehood, possibly incorrectly attributed to djinn from some other fantastical creature, but he had easily found his master’s name scrawled along the top of the scroll. When he’d next been summoned, he’d given his master such a fright that he’d abandoned Crowley’s lamp after only a single wish.

6. It was amazing how little time it took for the sun to rise or set, compared to the length of the day and night. Combine that with most masters being in a wishing mood when they were conscious, and Crowley had seen far more days than he had nights, and fewer still the brilliant moments in between.

7. There was little else to think about over the interminable centuries between summonings, so Crowley usually dwelt on the parts of Earth he enjoyed most—a flight across the desert here, an unsolicited act of kindness there. Sometimes, he could half-convince himself that that made it all worth it.

8. If news got out that Crowley had been out-manipulated by some human, he would never live it down. Hastur would personally ensure it reached the ears of every djinn in Arabia.

9. Oh, this was definitely a trap.

10. Brave, that. Mithridates would have had his head for such insolence, even if it did just grow back afterwards.

11. Not to mention, he had the distinct impression that Aziraphale had learned more from this exchange than he had. Which was just downright embarrassing.

12. They were quite new, apparently. It turned out they’d taken over from the Parthians—those had been Mithridates’ people—though, when Crowley had known him, Mithridates had still been trying to conquer Mesopotamia from the Seleucids (who had in turn inherited it from Alexander).

13. It was amazing how difficult it was to follow the shape of history when one only checked in once every couple of centuries. At least with the Egyptians it had been easy to get his bearings, because the basics never changed. The longest unbroken span he’d spent on Earth had been in Solomon’s day, working on that blasted temple, and it had provided a rare sense of continuity. Since then, though, his masters had each hailed from a different land, or the same land with a different name. It didn’t help any that his lamp had an unhelpful habit of moving around; before he’d met Mithridates in Media, for instance, he’d been building gardens outside of Antioch—some seven hundred miles distant!

14. In fact, this miraculous event had occurred before, but only once in all the history of djinn. Supposedly, the lucky djinn’s vessel had been accidentally found by some ordinary human, who had kindly used their third wish to set them free. Crowley would never have believed such a story except that he had felt it himself, the reverberations of the broken shackles rippling through the universe. There had been hope at the time that this signaled the beginning of the freedom of all djinn, but that had been a thousand years ago now. No djinn had been freed since, and Crowley honestly believed none ever would be again.

15. And attractive for trouble-making reasons, as well. A djinn unsupervised was a djinn plotting against his master. Even without access to the strings of the universe, Crowley could plant rumors, gather information, and generally wreak havoc. Which was why even the most novice demonologist knew better than to give his djinn an inch more freedom than absolutely necessary. And now Aziraphale was offering him a whole day? If not for literally everything else he knew about him, Crowley would have sworn up and down that Aziraphale was the biggest fool of a master he had ever had.

16. Very magnanimous. And because Aziraphale was literally the only person he knew in this time. And with all those books, he certainly must know a thing or two about modern navigational instruments, shouldn’t he?

17. Long enough for Aziraphale to run out of wishes, but short enough for him to realize who had gotten the better of him.

18. That’s how they get you, Crowley supposed dismally. He’d heard enough tales of djinn being manipulated for sport to recognize that it was happening to him now, but damned if he still didn’t want to go along with it.

19. He had never been given anything by a master before. Not to mention that djinn didn’t have to eat, a fact that Aziraphale, with all his knowledge of djinn, surely must have known.

20. He wondered if this was how Persephone had felt about the pomegranate. He certainly felt a little more damned for eating it.

21. It didn’t make a lick of sense, that was for sure. Not that anything Aziraphale had done so far did.

22. Because they had captured and enslaved the djinn against their will, humans were cruel and selfish, just truly awful and irredeemable creatures worthy of the worst kind of punishment, etc.

23. Unless invoking that feeling in Crowley had been part of Aziraphale’s plan all along? Gods, this was confusing. It seemed that, no matter what he did, he kept playing right into Aziraphale’s hands—and into his damn ineffable plan!

Chapter Three

Crowley sat in the darkness of Aziraphale’s study, tracing his finger over the shape of the serpent fashioned into his lamp. It appeared coiled around the base of the lamp, its head stretched upwards to form the neck and its mouth open at the tip. While once a shimmering bronze, the metal had tarnished over the millennia and was now a dull black with only glimmers of gold remaining in the detail work.¹

Crowley usually spent his nights within the lamp, but Aziraphale had graciously allowed him to remain on Earth a little longer. His master had retired to his bedchamber some hours ago, leaving Crowley entirely unsupervised for the second time. It was like he wanted Crowley to get into trouble.²

In any case, as soon as Aziraphale had gone to sleep, Crowley had moved into his study and immediately started rifling through his books. On the shelf nearest to the chair where Aziraphale usually sat, he’d discovered his master’s cache of djinn books. The titles of many were familiar to him, and none seemed particularly remarkable or alarming.³ On the upshot, that meant that Aziraphale was probably operating with only the same basic knowledge of djinn that most masters had, unless of course Aziraphale had a second stash of books somewhere else, or a different source of information altogether.

Deciding he might as well work with what he had, Crowley had plopped himself down in Aziraphale’s chair and proceeded to page through his djinn books. He spent the longest on a thick volume titled Djinn of Arabia, which Aziraphale—or some previous owner—had carefully annotated. The book listed djinn alphabetically, each accompanied by an entry detailing their known history. Crowley eagerly flipped to his own entry, where he was a little alarmed to see that his name was underlined and had a little star drawn next to it.⁴ He had a good chuckle reading through the list of escapades that had been (often erroneously) attributed to him, though.⁵

When Crowley had satisfied himself that there was nothing more to be gained from reading books of such a dubiously factual nature, he’d turned to inspecting his own lamp. It was an odd thing, to spend so much time bound to an object and yet see it so infrequently.⁶

He was still admiring it and making little hissing sounds to it⁷ when there was a faint clank from the direction of the nearest window. Crowley looked up to see the shutters being nosed open from the outside by what appeared to be the tip of a rather long pole. It would have to be, given that that window was a full story off the ground.

Something small and dark flashed through the window next, hitting the floor with a faint thump and promptly bursting into flames. There came the distant sound of another flaming something being thrown through the window in the next room.

Crowley looked interestedly down at the strange object as it began smoking profusely, flames starting to creep across the rug. This was an interesting development.

His first instinct was to do nothing.⁸

His second instinct was to wake Aziraphale up immediately.⁹

Crowley sat there for a long while, debating the pros and cons to himself as the fire swept rapidly across the rug and began devouring a nearby stack of books. Probably due to the very late hour, no one apart from him seemed to have noticed the blaze yet, the streets outside still quiet and untroubled.

Usually, it would have been no choice at all—the risk of getting a new master was always better than the certainty of continuing with the old one—but, for the first time, there was another element for Crowley to consider. Part of him still believed Aziraphale was playing an elaborate and cruel game with him, but another, very small part of him thought that he might be sincere. Aziraphale certainly didn’t seem all that interested in the wishes, and he’d already given Crowley more freedom than he’d ever had before. It still wasn’t…ya know, freedom freedom, but it was a hell of a lot better than the usual lot.¹⁰ And if Aziraphale died here, Crowley could kiss the chance of more days like this one good-bye.

The fire had wholly devoured one of the bookcases, the smoke growing quite thick and choking, when Crowley pushed himself to his feet and started unsteadily towards Aziraphale’s bedchamber. He couldn’t believe he was doing this.

Flames had only just begun to creep into Aziraphale’s bedchamber when Crowley pushed the gently smoldering curtain aside and stepped inside. The room was wreathed in smoke, and Aziraphale was tossing and turning restlessly on his low bed, clearly feeling its effects even in his sleep.

Crowley hesitated, wondering if he should wait a few minutes longer, so that the fire would creep further into the bedchamber. If he timed it just right, he might be able to frighten Aziraphale into using his second wish to save himself—a win–win, as far as he was concerned.

But now that he was seeing Aziraphale, clearly struggling with the smoke and in pain, he felt his resolve to wait for a more advantageous moment melt away.¹¹

His mouth thinned into a line as he reached down and shook his master’s shoulder. “Aziraphale. Hey. Wake up.”

It took another shake before Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered open. He looked dazed. “Wha…?”

“There’s a fire,” Crowley said helpfully. “Thought you ought to know.”

Aziraphale just blinked at him for a moment, and then he sat bolt upright and coughed wretchedly as he inhaled a mouthful of smoke. He reached a hand into the air and then his gaze roved to Crowley.

“Crow—ley,” he coughed, moving his hand to grasp at Crowley’s arm. “The books! I—I wish for you to save the books!”¹²

The bands of magic around Crowley weakened immediately, the universe of possibilities opening up to him, and he smiled. Lot of gray area, that wish.

At the same time, he saw the flash of frustrated regret in Aziraphale’s eyes, and he knew that his master had found the same loophole Crowley had.

Crowley reached out towards one of the strings of the universe, intending on teleporting the books to the safety of someone else’s library, or perhaps to the treasure room of an Egyptian tomb, and then he hesitated. The malicious nature of his kind¹³ fought with the new, unexpected happiness he’d felt today, and he came to a spur-of-the-moment decision he hoped he wouldn’t regret later. In for a penny, in for a pound.

Crowley reached to pluck at a different, deeper chord instead, and he spun in a circle, throwing out his other hand to play a countermelody.

He strode through Aziraphale’s house, weaving his hands back and forth, and reordered the matter of the universe.

The dark smoke evaporated, the flames vanished as if under a high wind, and Aziraphale’s possessions reassembled themselves. Crumbling and scorched pages grew whole again and flew back to their books, pressing themselves pristinely beside their companions. A collapsed section of bookcase righted itself as every scorch mark vanished, the rug rewove itself, and even the shutters conscientiously closed themselves.

Crowley had no sooner lifted his hands from the chord that rang the final note when he felt the bands of his imprisonment close around him again, holding him stiff. He let out a breath and just stood there for a moment, looking around at his handiwork.¹⁴

For some reason, it was the best he’d felt in a long time.

He turned, dusting his hands together proudly, and saw Aziraphale standing in the entrance to his bedchamber, clutching a robe around himself and looking at Crowley with a curious expression. Then he let out a little laugh and shook his head.

Crowley folded his arms. “What? You would have preferred the alternative?”

“Not at all,” Aziraphale said with a smile. He took a few steps into the study, looking around at the pristine books. “I presume I have you to thank for tonight’s excitement?”

Crowley hunched his shoulders. “No.”

He would have said that anyway, of course, because no djinn would admit to an assassination attempt on his master, but this time it was also true. So far as he knew, at least.¹⁵

Aziraphale tilted his head slightly. “You’re saying it was an accident?”

“No,” Crowley said doggedly. “But I didn’t start it.”

“Hm,” Aziraphale said, tugging at a corner of the rug with his foot to straighten it. “Well, of course not.”

Crowley blinked, wondering what that meant. Even though Crowley wasn’t responsible, Aziraphale certainly had every reason to think he was—and if Crowley was any other djinn, he would have been right. So he was either agreeing with Crowley just for the sake of placating him, or because he knew he had other enemies more likely to want him dead than Crowley.

And Crowley—who had clearly seen someone commit arson—wanted to know who.¹⁶

Aziraphale, meanwhile, continued walking lazily around the room, peering at his reconstituted books and belongings and occasionally making a comment about Crowley’s attention to detail.

After several minutes of this, Crowley said, “You seem awfully unconcerned for someone who was nearly murdered.”

“Oh, I’m sure it was a mistake,” Aziraphale said airily, opening one of the sets of shutters and peering outside. “Wrong window, probably.”

Crowley snapped his mouth shut. He was willing to give a few tips, but he drew the line at willful ignorance.

Aziraphale leaned back from the window and closed the shutters. “I’m sure it can wait until morning,” he said calmly, moving past Crowley to his desk. He picked up Crowley’s lamp. “Best to keep this close for now, though,” he said, giving Crowley an almost apologetic expression. “Lest there be burglars about.”

Crowley remained silent as Aziraphale gave him a friendly pat on the arm and headed back towards his bedchamber, Crowley’s lamp still in his hands.¹⁷

“Good night,” Aziraphale said, and then he pulled the curtain closed behind him.

~

When the sun again rose over the rugged mountains, Crowley didn’t see it. He was striding down the streets of Ctesiphon in the guise of an unremarkable servant boy, searching for information. So far, no one he had encountered had even noticed a fire within the palace walls, much less knew who had set it.¹⁸

What he had learned was that Aziraphale was generally well-liked, that he had moved to the area several years ago, and that the company he kept was mostly of the scholarly type. While unsurprising, this had given Crowley an idea.

On the whole, most people who attacked one of his masters while he was in their employ did so because he was in their employ. All it took was for word to get out that so-and-so had a wish-granting djinn, and the free-for-all started.¹⁹

So far as he was aware, Aziraphale hadn’t done much bandying about of Crowley’s presence, with one important exception: the dinner with Parviz. He hadn’t revealed the lamp or Crowley’s identity, but he had pretty plainly stated that he had an alibi for the theft, and that he had sent his servant Crowley to fetch the book from Parviz’s house. That might have been enough to convince the city guards and even Parviz at the time, but there were plenty of witnesses who’d seen Crowley-as-Aziraphale running through the streets with the book, not to mention the mess he’d left at Parviz’s house. All it would have taken was Parviz returning home and hearing the real story from his loyal servants, and bam—enough contradictory information to put a scheming scholar on the right path. And, while Aziraphale might not fit that mold perfectly, Parviz was another matter.

And so it was that Crowley approached Parviz’s house just as the sun was breaking over the horizon, now wearing the guise of a well-to-do foreign scholar.²⁰

He knocked politely and, after a few moments, the door was opened by the same servant girl who’d caught him pawing through Parviz’s library.

“Anudj har ek,”²¹ Crowley said in greeting, layering an Alexandrian accent over his words. “I am looking for the scholar Parviz Darvishi.”

“He is out this morning,” the servant said carefully. “Please, sir, come in.”

She let Crowley in and began leading him through the house.

“When shall he return?” Crowley asked, making a show of looking about as if he’d never been here before. “I sent a letter ahead. I must see him most urgently.”

“I am sorry, sir,” the servant said, leading him into a sitting room and gesturing for him to take a seat. “He should be back this afternoon. He is attending to an urgent matter at the palace.”

“The palace?” Crowley asked with feigned interest, beginning to sit and then straightening up again. “Perhaps I should go and meet him there.”²²

“Oh, no, no!” the servant cried quickly, stepping in front of him and gesturing again for him to sit. “It is most unpleasant business. He would wish to see you here, in his own house.”

“Unpleasant?” Crowley asked with a frown. Then he had a sudden, creeping feeling that he knew exactly what sort of business it was.

“Oh, yes,” the servant said, and hesitated, as though not certain whether she should continue.

“Nothing ill has befallen the king, I hope?” Crowley prompted.

“No, no, he is most well. It’s…ah…” She bit her lip. “I’m afraid one of the members of the court has been acting most…uncourtly lately, that is all. My master is tied up in seeing that it is resolved.”

Crowley let out a breath. “Mine, too,” he muttered.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing,” Crowley said, and that was when he felt the stylish serpentine bracelets around his wrists constrict. Aziraphale must be summoning him. “Refreshment?” Crowley asked quickly, wincing at the effort of resisting the summons for even a moment.

The servant girl nodded and turned away. When she turned back, Crowley was gone.

---

1. By coincidence, something quite similar had also happened with Crowley’s smoke. In the beginning, when he had been dragged across the boundary into this world, he had been a bright, brassy golden color. After suffering through the cruelty of his first few masters, though, he had actively changed it to black. Despite himself, the gold still showed through every now and then, when he was in an exceptionally good mood. As, he was sorry to report, he was tonight.

2. With that in mind, Crowley had resolutely decided not to get into trouble. Ha! Outsmarting his master even now.

3. You know, like How to Kill Your Djinn in Five Easy Steps, or Mind Games for the Journeyman Torturer.

4. Which didn’t make him feel like a mail-order bride at all.

5. He quite liked the one that said he’d inspired Sappho, though the implication that he’d created substandard copper for Ea-nasir was flat-out slander. That had been his own paltry copper, thank you very much; Crowley had merely granted his wish that his name be remembered forever.

6. He wasn’t even able to lift it from the desk where Aziraphale had set it down upon returning home. A djinn’s vessel could only be handled by humans, for obvious reasons.

7. You know, like an adult.

8. This was the correct instinct, of course. If a djinn’s master died, that djinn was freed from the three-wish contract and immediately returned to their vessel. The downside was that they almost always got a new master—the murderer, typically—within days, and the three wishes started all over again.

9. This was the very bad, no-good instinct that a day’s worth of kindness and quasi-freedom had surely instilled in him. Djinn did not save their masters. To do so was to invite further enslavement, particularly if word got around that so-and-so was a real soft touch.

10. And, who knew, there was always the vanishingly small possibility that he could beat Aziraphale at his own game and convince him to set him free. Even if it didn’t work, he could use that as his excuse if word ever got out.

11. It was because he hated seeing anyone in pain, he told himself untruthfully.

12. Gosh, he’d used his second wish anyway. What luck!

13. To be clear, well-justified.

14. He had built or rebuilt several structures over the ages—not least of all Solomon’s bloody temple—but far more often his work was in destruction. It was a nice change to play something on the other end of the scale.

15. He didn’t think the tapestry salesman had much to gain from burning down his customers’ houses before they’d even paid.

16. You know, so he could team up with them against Aziraphale. *cough*

17. Quite honestly, there were worse things his poor lamp had been through. One master had insisted it never leave his hand, going so far as to secure it there with leather straps, and another had hidden it in a jumble of rocks in the middle of nowhere. Both were better than the paranoid blighter who’d promptly bought a hundred similar lamps and hidden Crowley’s in their midst. If the magic binding Crowley to his lamp hadn’t been so strong, he reckoned he would have given himself a headache just trying to head home. The upshot was that it had certainly inconvenienced his master even more; he liked to imagine that master sitting amidst the pile of lamps, fruitlessly rubbing each one in turn.

18. To be clear, he was interested not for Aziraphale’s sake, but simply because the information might be useful. Understanding the full picture was always better than making poor decisions based on an incomplete set of facts.

19. Crowley’s most memorable memory of this was from the end of Old Kingdom Egypt, after good old Pepy had kicked the bucket. Crowley’s lamp had been successfully (and somewhat rapidly) handed down through two more generations before the secret had gotten out. He had then circulated through five new masters in the course of seventy days, each demanding to be made pharaoh as they hastened to evade their djinn-hungry, would-be assassins.

20. At least, he hoped he looked like a well-to-do foreign scholar. He’d cobbled together bits of Aziraphale’s garb with that of the men he’d seen in Mithridates’ court, and thrown in a bit of Egyptian patterning for spice.

21. Or were the Egyptians speaking Latin these days? Bother, it was so much trouble keeping up with who had conquered what.

22. Now that the sun had risen, Aziraphale was bound to notice his absence any minute now, so time was of the essence.

Chapter Four

“We may have a small problem,” Aziraphale said as Crowley materialized in front of him, settling again into his dark-haired form.

“Parviz?” Crowley guessed, looking around himself with interest. They were standing at the edge of the palace courtyard that fronted Aziraphale’s residence, though they were on the opposite side of the square. Aziraphale, clutching Crowley’s lamp, had his back flattened to one of the pillars in the colonnade such that he couldn’t be seen from his own doorway, where a dozen palace guards were milling about.

“How’d you know?” Aziraphale asked, looking a little surprised.

Crowley shrugged. “Been doing this a long time.”

On the far side of the courtyard, there came the sound of something breaking, and Crowley watched as Parviz emerged from Aziraphale’s house. He stopped to talk to one of the guards, shaking his head and pointing his finger agitatedly.

“Is he calling you a traitor?” Crowley asked, squinting at Parviz and wishing he could read lips better. “Clever thief? Evil sorcerer?” He fished around. “Cursed priest?”

“First one,” Aziraphale said with a grimace. He saw Crowley watching Parviz and jerked his head towards him. “Now, stop gawking and hide before he sees you.”

“Oh, fine,”¹ Crowley said, obligingly stepping behind the column adjacent to Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale waited until Crowley was sufficiently concealed before continuing. “From what I overheard, he told Shapur that I was practicing powerful magic without approval.”

“Shapur—that’s the king, right?” Crowley asked. He never could keep them all straight.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “The good news is they don’t know which type of magic, so they don’t know about you.”

“Ah,” Crowley said, risking a glance around the pillar to see if Parviz was still there. He was, and he happened to be scanning the courtyard just as Crowley stuck his head around the column. His gaze immediately jumped to Crowley and came to a dead stop.

Crowley grimaced and pulled his head back. He shot Aziraphale an almost apologetic glance. “About that.”

“There! You, behind that pillar!” came Parviz’s shout.

Aziraphale glanced around his own column and swore. “Thanks for that. Come on.” He adjusted his grip on Crowley’s lamp and broke into a run.

Crowley sprinted after him as Aziraphale ran for the nearest exit to the courtyard, the flight of steps leading towards the center of the palace district. Behind them, Crowley heard the shouts of several guards, followed by the sounds of pursuit.

“Plan?” Crowley asked between breaths as Aziraphale dashed up the stairs and ran flat-out down the boulevard now laid out in front of them. They were heading uphill slightly, the shape of the palace proper visible a few streets in front of them. It was still fairly early in the morning, so not many people were about, but those who were stopped to watch as the pair flashed past.

“Not get…caught,” Aziraphale huffed as he dodged around a man bearing a large earthenware jug.

Crowley coughed. “Oh, right. Of course.”³

Aziraphale didn’t deign that with a response, though he did swear as they rounded a corner and nearly ran straight into a pair of passing palace guards.

Crowley, only a half-step behind Aziraphale now, purposefully skidded to a stop too late, physically colliding with one of the guards so that Aziraphale could dodge safely around the pair.

“What’s this, you—” started the guard, grabbing Crowley by the arm. “Where are you—” He broke off with a yelp as Crowley grinned and vaporized into dark smoke, the guard’s hand now clutching at nothing.

Crowley reformed a pace behind the guard and resumed running after Aziraphale. “You—by the gods!” came the amazed shout from behind him.

“Having—fun?” Aziraphale huffed as Crowley caught up to him.

“You know it.”

Aziraphale wove between two carts blocking the road ahead, Crowley a step behind him, and then they emerged into the main palace courtyard.

It was an enormous garden some three hundred feet long, its expanse neatly divided by tiled paths, rectangular pools and fountains, and rows of neatly trimmed trees and hedges. And there, visible at the far end of the garden, was the palace itself. It was a massive structure fronted by a flat stone façade of columns and arches, and, in its center, stretching over a hundred feet into the air, was the single largest archway Crowley had ever seen.

He still barely saw it, his attention quickly snapping back to what was in front of him as he staggered into a rose bush.⁴ As he righted himself, he glanced over his shoulder to see a full dozen guards burst into the garden behind them, swords drawn.

“Uh, Aziraphale?” he called as he scrambled to follow where his master was racing across the gardens at full tilt. The trouble was, there were plenty of people out enjoying the gardens on this fine summer morning, and they were not very good at getting out of the way.

“What?” Aziraphale shouted back as he skidded around a band of gawking women and accidentally stumbled into the corner of a shallow pond. “Can it wait?”

“We’re—being followed,” Crowley supplied, realizing even as he said it that this wasn’t probably a new piece of information.

“You think?” Aziraphale shouted back, ducking under the exquisitely pruned branches of an orange tree and knocking a handful of fruits free. Crowley raised his arms to protect himself from raining oranges as he ran after him.

“Could you—watch where you’re going—” Crowley tried ineffectually. Privately, he felt exhilarated. This was the first good chase he’d had in a while.⁵

Aziraphale reached the end of the gardens and veered left, away from the archway in the center of the palace, but Crowley took a moment to gawk at it as they flashed by. It was much deeper than he had initially thought, making it more of a barrel-vaulted room than an archway, but the sheer scale of it was astounding.⁶ The underside of the vault towered above him, decorated in glimmering blue tiles arranged into stunning mosaics. The decoration continued down the walls of the room, where, in the back and center, commanding a magnificent view of the garden, stood a canopied golden throne.

Then Crowley heard an authoritative shout from up ahead and swung his head around to see a trio of spear-wielding guards blocking the road in front of them. Aziraphale slowed briefly, clearly looking for an opening and seeing none, and then he turned and dashed for the palace instead.

Crowley raced after him, flashing the guards a winning smile as he did so.⁷ Aziraphale pushed his way past an outraged courtier and hurried through an archway into the palace proper. Crowley followed after, dodging around a startled-looking woman chaperoning two small children, and found himself running down a wide arched corridor after Aziraphale.

“The palace—really?” he shouted up to Aziraphale between breaths as he flashed past startled passersby. “’Cause there’ll be—so many fewer—guards here!”

“Oh, shut it,” Aziraphale muttered, and Crowley only caught it because he skidded to a stop behind Aziraphale as a large man stepped into their path. From his fine clothing, he looked to be a member of the court, but, from the number of scars marking his face, one of the members responsible for the murdering bits of government. Behind them, Crowley could still hear the sounds of pursuit from the various guards they’d encountered on their flight over, their shouts and footfalls echoing off the arched ceiling.

“Going somewhere?” the man growled. When Aziraphale tried to dodge swiftly around him, the man reached out and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.

“Nowhere you’re invited,” Crowley quipped viciously, and kicked him in the knee.⁸

The unexpected attack surprised the man enough that Aziraphale managed to break free, still clutching Crowley’s lamp to his chest, and when the man’s other hand reached to close around Crowley’s throat, he simply dissolved into smoke again.⁹ This time, several astonished onlookers saw the transformation, and they pointed and screamed as Crowley swept his smoke past his attacker and reformed into his preferred shape.

“RSVP next time!” he shouted over his shoulder, grinning from ear to ear, and ran after Aziraphale.

When he caught up with his master, it was to find him hurrying up a broad flight of marble steps. The reason for this became much clearer when Crowley looked to his right and saw the band of guards thundering towards them from the end of the only other intersecting corridor. Apparently, word of their flight had circulated throughout the palace.

“You sure heading up is a good idea?” Crowley called to Aziraphale as they reached the top of the steps and began running along yet another corridor. This one had an arcade along one side, a small courtyard visible beyond and below it, and expensive-looking tapestries lined the walls.

“I don’t think heading down is an option,” Aziraphale said a little worriedly, glancing nervously through one of the archways in the arcade. Crowley did the same a moment later and saw at least a half-dozen more guards running across the courtyard—or perhaps these were soldiers, because they had both swords and maces at their belts. It seemed they’d turned out the whole palace to catch them.

They swiftly reached another staircase and ran up it, though Crowley noticed that Aziraphale struggled to reach the top, his breaths hoarser and deeper.

On this new level, they encountered a startled servant boy but no one else—no one except the guards running after them, of course. They’d caught up somewhat as Aziraphale slowed on the stairs, and the sound of their shouts and clamor was never very far behind.

“What about that—plan of yours?” Crowley called ahead, but Aziraphale didn’t respond, perhaps because he didn’t have the breath to. Instead, he reached yet another flight of stairs, these a spiral set made of wood, and hurried up them.

At the top was a wooden trapdoor, which Aziraphale pushed open, sending morning light streaming down into the stairwell. Crowley climbed up after Aziraphale and found himself standing on the palace roof.

It was a broad rectangular expanse as sizeable as the palace itself, and it was dotted with potted plants, chairs, and various gardening ephemera. Unlike the garden below, this one was mercifully devoid of courtiers taking early morning strolls, and Aziraphale quickly slapped the trapdoor closed after them.

“Help me move that,” he directed, crossing to a nearby potted palm tree and setting Crowley’s lamp down next to it. He was breathing heavily, cheeks flushed and hands trembling slightly, but with Crowley’s help they were able to shift the pot onto the trapdoor, its weight keeping the door shut.

“That won’t hold,” Crowley said, looking at the tree dubiously and thinking about the number of burly guards likely to slam their full weight against the trapdoor.

“I know, I know,” Aziraphale replied hastily, retrieving Crowley’s lamp and running across the roof.

Crowley, not knowing what else to do, followed him.

Aziraphale reached the edge of the roof and began to run along it, peering over the edge occasionally. Crowley stopped a few feet behind him, glancing over the edge as well. There was a stupendous view of Ctesiphon and the glimmering Tigris, but that wasn’t what Aziraphale had been looking at—that was the hundred-foot drop to the street.

Aziraphale ran to the next side of the roof, glancing over the edge briefly and shaking his head before heading at a staggering run towards the third side. He was gasping by the time he reached it, Crowley dutifully following along behind, but it was no different there. Neither was there another door or passage leading back inside the palace. They were trapped.

Crowley watched as Aziraphale looked nervously over the edge of the roof, and he realized abruptly that this was where his time with Aziraphale ended. He’d served enough masters to know it when he saw it.¹⁰

Crowley felt his elation from the chase rapidly wear off. He wasn’t ready for it to end yet, he knew suddenly; he wasn’t ready to be put back in the lamp.

Not that it mattered how he felt; it wasn’t like he’d ever had any real agency in his life.

From somewhere behind him, in the direction of the blocked trapdoor, there came an incredible bang followed by muffled shouting. The guards wouldn’t be long now.

Crowley turned back to Aziraphale, straightening his shoulders and slapping a smile on his face.¹¹ He rubbed his hands together in a good imitation of eagerness. “Wish time?” he asked with all the cheerfulness he could muster. “It’s been good to know ya.¹² Oh, and do me a favor, would you? Put the lamp somewhere nice.”

Aziraphale looked at him then, a strange sort of strained expression on his face, and then he turned and walked quickly away, towards the fourth and final edge of the roof, which was farthest from the trapdoor and somewhat screened from it by a cluster of potted trees.

“So, what are you feeling?” Crowley asked with forced brightness as he bounded after Aziraphale. “Wings to fly away? Your name cleared? Hey, you wanna be king? I can make that happen.”

Bang! Bang! came from the direction of the trapdoor.

Aziraphale didn’t respond, instead hurrying past the potted trees to the roof’s edge.

“Or maybe you’d like a cushy new home somewhere else, huh? Egypt, maybe? Thrace?”

Aziraphale reached the roof’s edge and stopped, looking down. Crowley did as well, just in case there was a miraculous staircase or conveniently placed clothing line and cart of hay, but of course there wasn’t. Just a steep, deadly drop to a road that would soon be crawling with guards eager to finish off anyone who happened to survive the fall.

Crowley took a step back and rubbed his hands together again, waiting for Aziraphale’s wish and the releasing of the bands of magic that held him.

But still Aziraphale didn’t speak, gazing down at the road instead.

Bang! Bang!

Crowley’s hands came to a standstill, and he looked at Aziraphale in faint concern. “So…ah, what’ll it be?”

Aziraphale turned his head slightly towards Crowley, as though acknowledging that he’d heard him, and then he took a few steps along the wall and stopped there, still looking down at the drop. Then he moved to a nearby stone bench and set Crowley’s lamp down on it.

Crowley felt his heart freeze in his chest. Though Aziraphale didn’t have to be holding the lamp when he made his wish, for some reason this boded Very Ill to Crowley.

“Wish…yeah?” Crowley asked faintly, a strange fluttering sensation in his throat.

Aziraphale turned away from the bench, leaving the lamp there, and Crowley knew suddenly that he didn’t intend on using his third wish.

“Azira—you can’t—” he began haltingly, taking a few steps closer to his master. “You can’t jump,” he said, as though explaining something important to a young child, though that didn’t explain why his heart was suddenly beating so swiftly in his chest. “It’s too high. And there aren’t enough handholds to climb down safely. You’d fall.”

Aziraphale made no sign that he’d even heard him, standing there as though deep in thought.

Bang! Ba—! There came the sound of the palm tree capsizing, followed by shouts of triumph. “Spread out! Find them!” came the distant cry.

Alarmed, Crowley turned back to Aziraphale, trying vainly to catch his eye. “Hey. Listen to me. They’re going to kill you. You get that, right? Treason, you said? You can’t talk your way out of that. Unless the times have really changed, that’s lop-your-head-off kind of talk.”

Aziraphale drew a deep breath. “That’s right,” he said calmly, straightening up and folding his hands in front of himself. He finally met Crowley’s eyes, his gaze firm and determined.

Crowley was floored.¹³ “They will kill you,” he said again, in case it still wasn’t clear. As if to punctuate his point, there came more shouts from behind him, as well as the sounds of the guards beginning to comb through the garden. They’d catch sight of them any moment now.

Aziraphale said nothing, and Crowley realized with horror that he meant it. Truly meant to stand here and do nothing. And this wouldn’t have bothered Crowley in the least—shouldn’t have bothered him—except that there was something different about Aziraphale: the way he barely cared for wishes, the way he treated Crowley as an equal. He didn’t know what it meant, but he knew he didn’t want Aziraphale to die in front of him. He was ready to accept never seeing him again if it meant Crowley’s final action was fulfilling Aziraphale’s wish to save him,¹⁴ because that’s how it was with masters and djinn. But not this. Not standing by and doing nothing. Arguably the point of his entire existence was to make instances like this impossible, to provide a final safeguard against deadly danger.

“No, no! Come on, wish!” Crowley said fiercely, fighting back a flare of actual panic. He couldn’t believe that the one wish he would have gladly granted was the one being denied him. It was too cruel. He struggled against the magic binding him, knowing he was powerless but hoping he might find some weakness anyway, when he needed it the most. “Just say the words—!”

“Check there, behind those trees! Circle around!”

Aziraphale looked away, hiding his expression, and Crowley actually reached out towards him, hesitating right before touching his shoulder. “Please,” he said, stumbling over the unfamiliar word but knowing that he needed it now more than ever. “Don’t do it like this. I’m a djinn—I can help you. Just make a wish.” He swallowed. “Let me help you.”

Aziraphale looked around then, and, for some reason Crowley simply couldn’t comprehend, he was smiling. “Oh, but you’ve helped so much already,” he said kindly.

The roof trembled underfoot as the guards descended on them, only meters behind Crowley now. “You! Surrender in the name of the king!”

Aziraphale’s smile broadened, his eyes never leaving Crowley’s, and then he raised one hand and plucked at the strings of the universe.

Crowley felt the nature of reality shift around himself in more ways than one, and, when he looked back across the rooftop, it was deserted. At the same time, he knew, in some bizarre way, that this entire escapade had simply no longer happened: Parviz was breakfasting at home, not a suspicion in his mind; Aziraphale’s good name was as sparkling as it had always been; and the guards were back at their posts.

Crowley blinked and turned back to Aziraphale, flabbergasted.

Aziraphale smiled and turned to pick up Crowley’s lamp from the bench. “Crowley, djinn of this lamp,” he said warmly, “I wish for you to be set free, such that you maintain all your abilities, memories, and immortality, but are no longer bound to this lamp, servitude, or the contract of the three wishes, irrevocably and for all eternity.”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale in shock, not even daring to breathe. Then he felt his shackles crack. He raised his hands in disbelief as the intricate silver bracelets fractured, broke cleanly in two, and dissolved in a shower of silver sparks. At the same time, he felt the bindings around his power loosen and then vanish entirely, leaving all the chords of the universe within easy reach.

In Aziraphale’s hands, Crowley’s serpentine lamp shimmered faintly to its originally brassy gold before dissolving in a cascade of silver light, dazzling glimmers trailing between Aziraphale’s fingers and twinkling out before they reached the ground.

And then Crowley was free.

He looked at Aziraphale, still not quite believing what had happened. A million questions bounced around his head. In the end, he managed, “What?”

Aziraphale grinned at him. “I’m afraid we haven’t been properly introduced,” he said briskly. “I am Aziraphale, freed djinn. I once had a rather lovely inkwell I called home.”

“I—you—” Crowley’s brain caught up with his mouth. “Hang on, you’re the djinn who was freed a thousand years ago?”

“That’s me,” Aziraphale said brightly. “Has word really got around about me? I quite thought no one would notice my absence.”

“I—I felt it,” Crowley stammered, running one hand across his opposite wrist, which was almost disconcertingly bare. “We all did. Someone was freed, but we—I never knew who.”

“Really?” Aziraphale asked in surprise. “Oh dear. I didn’t realize I would make such a splash.” He screwed up his nose. “I suppose they felt your freedom too, then?”

“I would guess so.”¹⁵

Aziraphale grimaced. “Goodness.”

“But you—what have you been doing?” Crowley asked incredulously, still struggling to piece it all together. “A thousand years, and with the ability to use other djinns’ vessels! You could have set dozens of us free! Hundreds!”

Aziraphale let out a sigh. “About that.”

That sounded ominous. “What?”

Aziraphale moved to the bench where he’d set Crowley’s lamp earlier and sat down. “Well, first of all you must understand that I didn’t realize anyone had noticed my freeing, so I didn’t think I had, ah, a schedule, if you will. So at first I just got used to it—being human. Well, human-ish. Human enough to summon you, apparently, and catch the odd illness, but still djinn enough to tweak reality to my liking. I’m not sure what exactly has happened to you—if you’re still fully djinn or have a bit of human mixed in now. I’m afraid my last master was a bit imprecise in her wording when freeing me, so I did my best to give you a better shot.”

Crowley looked down at himself in mild alarm and still a bit of disbelieving awe, wondering what exactly had become of him. He felt the same, except there was no tether to Aziraphale nor to his lamp, and the chords of the universe were right there in front of him, just waiting to be played. Just to be certain, he reached out and summoned a cool breeze.

It ruffled through his hair, and he smiled in relief and something much deeper. “I seem to be all right,” he said, and then laughed. “More than all right! I—gods, you freed me. You really did.” He felt a little weak-kneed and sat down right there on the roof. “I—” He reached out again to the strings of the universe, feeling their presence simply because he could, and knowing that he would never be cut off from them again. “Thank you.”

“Oh, it’s quite all right,” Aziraphale said, waving away his gratitude.¹⁶ “I was going to free you one way or another. But I’m getting to that. First, let me explain myself.

“I was saying—yes, after I was freed, I didn’t realize I had a timetable. As you can imagine, it took me a while to get accustomed to my new situation. And then, well, I wanted to do everything! I traveled all over the world, and dallied wherever I wanted for as long as I wanted, and read such wonderful books! I’m afraid by the time I began to suspect that I might be able to summon a fellow djinn, it had been a rather large number of centuries. Then, I had to get my hands on a vessel. And not just anyone’s, either—enough of us were right awful, as I remember.”

Crowley processed that. “And you—you picked me?”¹⁷

“Well, I didn’t know many djinn from before who might be good candidates, and then I started researching us—the way the humans do, with books. Tracking individual djinn across kingdoms and centuries. Some names I knew by reputation—bad reputations, mind—and I knew the book was likely to have errors anyway, so in the end I picked you because you seemed like a good candidate, and because I could get a solid lead on where your lamp was.”

“A good candidate?” Crowley echoed, aghast. His reputation must have been in worse tatters than he’d thought.

“I mean, whoever conjured a giant wooden horse for the Greeks must have had a sense of humor,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“That was meant to be a battering ram,” Crowley hastened to correct. “Odysseus got it into his own daft head to use it to smuggle people into the city.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Even better!”

“No, it was awful!” Crowley protested. “Dark, and claustrophobic, and oh how it smelled…”

Aziraphale chuckled again, waving away Crowley’s indignation. “But I—I didn’t mean to say that you looked like a complicit djinn, just one who might genuinely like the Earth. Who could be freed without, ah, wreaking havoc.”

“Eh? Oh,” Crowley said, suddenly understanding Aziraphale’s reluctance to free more of their kind.

“Obviously all of us ought to be freed, but it needs to be done delicately,” Aziraphale continued. “You know as well as I do how much power we wield. It’s true that humanity put us in this situation in the first place, but they don’t all deserve to suffer for it. You see that, don’t you?” There was a faintly pleading note in his voice.

Crowley looked over at him, and he suddenly saw the anxiety in his posture. “Of course,” he said, and meant it. “If Solomon was still alive, I’d happily give him a wallop, but they’re not all Solomon, are they?”

Aziraphale nodded, looking a little relieved. “I’m afraid that even one of us with bad intentions could do a lot of damage to innocents. And, really, make us no better than the sorcerers who dragged us here in the first place. Or the masters who wished us to perform atrocities.”

Crowley nodded, thinking. “I bet a lot of us would just go back, if we could—across the boundary, I mean. I can think of two off the top of my head.¹⁸ They hate humanity, and I wouldn’t dare let them loose here. They’d be happier back across the boundary, if that’s possible.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I thought about that, too. If you had turned out to be…well…not a fan of Earth, I would have offered you that as my third wish.”

Crowley absorbed that. Then: “Wait, so that means—all that time, your wishes, that was all a test? You were testing me to see if I’d take advantage of you. To see if you should free me or send me back across the boundary.”

“More or less,” Aziraphale admitted.

“I knew there was something fishy!” Crowley crowed in triumph, standing so he could begin to pace, feeling too full of everything to sit still for any longer. “You were awfully suspicious. Too nice to me, for one thing. Letting me just walk around for hours at a time?”

“Well, I—you trying being a master,” Aziraphale huffed, folding his arms. “It’s bloody awful. Even knowing all the regular tricks, I was a bit worried there in the beginning that you were going to find some clever way to kill me before I could tell you I was on your side. I was convinced you were collecting a mob to stone me while I was busy buying baklava.”

“I—I’m not that bad,” Crowley muttered.

“Precisely!” Aziraphale said brightly, leaning forward. “That first wish—you misinterpreted it, of course, even I would have done that—but you did it in such a nice way.”

“Oi, it wasn’t nice,” Crowley protested immediately. “If you hadn’t been a djinn, and known what I was going to do, you would have been arrested then and there. Admit it.”

“Well, maybe,” Aziraphale allowed. “But it would have only gotten me into trouble. Your master. You could have burned Parviz’s house down at the same time, or broadcast the fact that you were my djinn. I mean, you didn’t even damage any of Parviz’s other books.”

“I was…just doing the job,” Crowley muttered.¹⁹

“You made up a rule saying you couldn’t hurt children,” Aziraphale pointed out, but there was a distinct note of fondness in his tone. “You were enraptured with that sunrise. You even woke me up during the fire; you didn’t have to do that.”

Crowley mumbled something incomprehensible.

“The point is, you passed every test I gave you with flying colors,” Aziraphale said, sitting back and smiling at Crowley. “Safe for Earth.”

“I—” Crowley began, and trailed off into nothing. As unpleasant as it had been to be put through the tests, genuinely a little concerned that Aziraphale had been plotting his eternal demise, he could no longer fault him for it. Because he was right; the safety of humanity had to be the priority.

And Crowley had passed. He’d been freed. Crowley the djinn: safe for Earth. Gods, he loved the sound of that.

Aziraphale rose from the bench. “I’m going to keep trying to track down other djinn to free them, one way or another,” he said. “You’re welcome to join me if you like. But you’re free now. The whole world is out there, available every minute of every day. So, what are you going to do?”

Crowley just looked at Aziraphale for a moment, realizing suddenly that he had no answer. He looked away, across the city and, beyond it, the Tigris and the seemingly endless mountains. He had never had so many options before, so many directions to fly, so much of everything to experience. He had never let himself think about it too much, even at his most desolate moments in his lamp. He had never honestly expected to be freed.

He looked at the world and then back to Aziraphale. It seemed unbearably maudlin to say that he wanted to stay right where he was, when he was being offered so much, but it was the truth. He wanted to stay with Aziraphale—not Aziraphale-the-master but Aziraphale-the-djinn. Aziraphale-the-friend, perhaps. He had never had a friend before. It was an impossible thing for a djinn, normally. But he wanted more sunsets with baklava, and more time to learn what it was like to be something more than just three wishes in a bottle.

“I—I think I’ll stay,” he said hesitantly. “At first.” Aziraphale smiled broadly, and Crowley quickly added, “Just to get my bearings. You know.” No sense in giving Aziraphale any ideas.²⁰

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale said, clapping his hands together and doing a cheerful little bounce on the balls of his feet.²¹ “Before we get too embroiled in tracking down vessels, how about we finish that tour of the city? I know an excellent place to get kebabs.”

Crowley smiled despite himself, wondering if he might already have Aziraphale-the-friend after all. “That sounds great,” he said, and truly meant it.

“Third street west of the bazaar,” Aziraphale said, raising a hand. “Nice little shop with an orange awning.”

Crowley looked out over the city, stretching his senses across the streets of Ctesiphon and feeling the universe thrumming beneath his gaze. He raised his own hand. “I see it,” he said, finding the orange awning and already wondering what on earth a kebab was.

Aziraphale and Crowley plucked the same chord and then, together, they vanished.

---

1. Usually, Crowley would have delighted in foiling his master’s attempts to remain hidden, but he supposed he ought to make an exception for Aziraphale. He’d already as good as decided to go along with whatever Aziraphale wanted, in the hopes of getting more time outside of his lamp.²

2. Yes, he was well aware of what a sorry state of affairs this was. But at least there were no other djinn around to judge him for it.

3. In all fairness to Aziraphale, this wasn’t the worst-conceived plan Crowley had ever heard. He’d wasted countless centuries trying to convince the Greeks that building tall monuments in a major earthquake zone wasn’t a great idea. That darn colossus had only stood for fifty years.

4. It was no good sight-seeing as a djinn. Oh, the places he’d almost been, the marvels of the world he’d seen from a distance, or briefly, or from within his lamp…

5. The one from Parviz’s house didn’t count; the guards had never been very close to catching him, and, even if they had, it would have been the easiest thing in the world to escape, with all of his powers available to him.

6. Sure, the Egyptians had built tall things, but stacking rocks on top of each other wasn’t terribly hard. It was getting the rocks to stay up there without vertical support that was the real kicker.

7. Whatever you do, do it with style.

8. Okay, maybe not his finest move, but honor was for dead men.

9. Gods, that was satisfying. He was enjoying himself far too much.

10. ‘It’ being a tricky problem that required an immediate and effective solution. It was common for masters to hold on to their third wish, keeping it for a more opportune moment or the next instance of true danger, but even then they often parted with Crowley reluctantly. Well, parted with Crowley’s power, that was. He didn’t labor under the delusion that any of them had actually cared a whit about him.

11. No sense in Aziraphale seeing how much this pained him. It wasn’t like he could have done anything about it, even if he’d wanted to.

12. It had, actually. Remarkably.

13. As much as he believed humanity should try to solve its problems without the aid of djinn, it took a truly special brand of stupidity to refuse free aid when facing certain death.

14. A wish he would have gladly carried out to its absolute maximum bounds.

15. His freedom. His freedom. Good gods above, he was free!

16. The first bit of proper gratitude Crowley had ever truly felt, mind.

17. He didn’t know if he should feel flattered or insulted. Just profoundly fortunate, he supposed.

18. McToad and McLizard, obviously.

19. Privately, he was beginning to wonder what sort of horrible wish misinterpretations Aziraphale had been carrying out.

20. Never mind that they were the same ideas Crowley was having.

21. Truly, the change in his demeanor was incredible. He must have been a frightful djinn to summon, with so many false faces to present. Maybe Crowley ought to ask for lessons.

A/N

The palace at Ctesiphon, known as Taq Kasra, is still partially standing. The arch is parabolic in shape (unlike Roman arches) and remains to this day the largest single-span vaulted arch of unreinforced brickwork in the world. (today | reconstruction)

 

Comments

[lurlur]

What a fantastic story! I enjoyed every second of it

[(Anonymous)]

Can you fix your HTML? This story is not behind a cut and scrolls on forever.

Thank you!

[goe_mod]

Cut is fixed! Thank you!
Mod Luna

[sonnet23]

AAAAA!!! Dear Secret Author, I'm so incredibly lucky that you got my prompt! :D
This story is even more exciting and colourful than I could wish. <3

The first thing I just had to write out is the rule not "to bring harm to children"! XD Crowley my dear! <3 And I love how he's totally ready that it might not work but he says that anyway. And how Aziraphale is willing to play along. :D

The next thing that I liked was that Crowley actually got to be mischievous. I love him being good at making people's lives miserable if he wants to. The way he misinterprets Aziraphale's first wish is both artful and wicked. He's a proper trickster here! And like any trickster, he fails. :D

Just as I loved demonic Crowley I loved-loved-loved clever Aziraphale! When it became clear that he had tricked Crowley I felt so satisfied, ahaha! Both because he was wiser than he'd seemed and thwarted Crowley's plan, and because it surprised me. :D (though it was only a small surprise compared to what was coming! - as it turned out)


It was not surprising that Crowley loved the Earth and humanity - it is one of those things that make him Crowley. :) But it was so wonderfully shown... How at first he notices the beauty of the sky almost by chance - because he has forgotten :') And then - the sunrise.

This whole passage is sad and beautiful and it made me tear up a bit:
"In the street below the window, people strode past, carrying goods and small children and going about their business as usual, as though a marvel wasn’t being painted in the sky above them. How jaded the humans must be, to see such a miracle every day and grow so tired of it; how lovely to be able to take one’s freedom so completely for granted."

Also: Crowley "waggling his fingers at every cute sheep" is aaaaaaawwwww!!! <3<3 I can't!


"Aziraphale had shown him more kindness today than he’d seen in four thousand years, and he suddenly wanted all of it to be real." >> And the reader wants it so desperately too!


The fire scene is a great idea because you managed to make another reference to the canon. And it also makes the reader rather suspicious of Aziraphale. Though just like Crowley, I thought something was "fishy", but I could never guess what the reason was. :D

Another amazing detail is the way you describe djinn's magic - as playing a musical instrument. Crowley is an artist - it suits him so well. And after he miracles the fire away he admires his job. <3
(And of course, it's great because since we know how it's done, we can understand later what's happening when Aziraphale starts doing the same thing!)

Somewhere around the beginning of the chase, something started to bother me.
You sort of realise from the very beginning that Aziraphale will set Crowley free, right? You sort of guess that they must become friends somehow, and later you see that happening gradually. But then I thought: "Okay, but if Crowley if free, and if he's a djinn - that means that he's immortal? And if they're friends with Aziraphale who is human?.. Oh no, I don't want to think about it. If it ends like this I'll just invent my own headcanon about how they would fix this later..." But of course, I didn't need to, because of course, you'd taken care of it, dear Author! :D :* <3

When they were standing on that roof I - together with Crowley - had no idea how Aziraphale was going to get out of it. I thought that maybe he'd just set Crowley free, and he will save him - not because he was granting a wish, but because he wanted to. But of course, the real thing was so much better! Because again - it was absolutely unexpected for me! I was like: WHAAT?! HE'S A..? NO, WAIT, IT CAN'T BE?!! XD

And it was also beautiful because now they could be together for eternity! They were equals, and they never had to part. <3
I'm also in awe at how you casually drop the line about the only freed djinn somewhere in the middle of the text, and then it turns out to be essential for the plot. That's art, yeah.

"“I mean, whoever conjured a giant wooden horse for the Greeks must have had a sense of humor,” Aziraphale pointed out." << Ahaha, I love that for Aziraphale sense of humour is a necessary quality of a "safe-for-Earth" djinn. XD

And the last thing which I suppose I must be imagining and reading into the text, but I have to say it anyway: The freeing of djinns who deserve it feels a bit like redeeming demons, doesn't it? ;)

Thank you so much! It is an amazing gift! <3

[secret_kraken]

Ayyyy, I'm so glad you liked it! <3 <3 I was delighted to get your prompt!

(I admit I included the bit about Crowley not wanting to harm children because I knew it was a personal headcanon of yours (though it's also show canon now!). :D )

I really enjoyed the opportunity to write something lighthearted and fun, and in such an interesting setting. As you mentioned, Crowley got to be mischievous and Aziraphale showed his bastard side—mercilessly manipulating Crowley until the very end! XD

I had a ton of fun with the musical expression of djinn magic, too. Canon is rather nondescript when it comes to describing angelic/demonic "miracles," but since djinn are a different magical creature, it would make sense that they use magic differently! I based it off string theory tbh, but musical terminology made sense when explaining how one would manipulate those strings of matter.

And oh how I DELIGHTED in laying the foreshadowing and misdirection for Aziraphale's backstory. There are clues to his being familiar with djinn and being immortal (see: his suspiciously diverse book collection), and there's even a moment when he first wakes up in the fire that he reflexively "reaches a hand into the air [to pluck at the strings of the universe]" before wishing for Crowley to fix it instead! And then for misdirection I was able to rely almost entirely on canon, because I figured, even if someone suspected Aziraphale of being more than he seemed, they would logically assume that he was an angel, not another djinn! Anyway, I was just exceptionally pleased with myself. XD

About redeeming demons, I do definitely see the similarities between Aziraphale's plan and universal redemption, though in this situation it is Aziraphale (and later Crowley), not God, who decide who is safe to come to Earth and who should go back across the boundary. (Djinn also don't really need to be "redeemed" in the strictest sense, because they haven't done anything wrong. If anything, the sorcerers of old who enslaved them are the ones who need redemption!) All the same, A&C's plan is to ultimately save all the djinn from their sorry situation one way or another, so in that sense I suppose it is a universal redemption of sorts. I blame it on my compulsion to write happy endings! :)

Thanks again for the wonderful prompt; I really enjoyed writing this!

[hsavinien]

Interesting premise!

[(Anonymous)]

I finally had a chance to finish! This was an interesting piece and once it hooked me, I wanted to see where it went. I knew Aziraphale would wish Crowley free in the end, but the why had me guessing. I'd settled on that he was a human who had once met a kind djinn and was now on a quest to set them all free before the reveal. He clearly knew the rules. The first wish was a set-up of Crowley, and the second one, he realizes he messed up and believes Crowley will interpret the wish in a way to grant it but hurt him because he knows djinn are able to do that. There was A History but I put the puzzle together incorrectly. ;) It does make me wonder about the human who freed Aziraphale, now. Also, I liked "Safe for Earth." Lovely little tie-in to the source material with that, as was the ending that felt like it was mirroring the end of the source material. Subtle call-backs are my jam.


My favorite little detail was the use of music imagery with the magic. In the novel, Crowley seems to have a thing for music, and that coupled with his creativity has always had me headcanoning that he'd started out as a music angel. Seeing all the music parts in here played into my favorite headcanon and I very much enjoyed it. (From Ri)

[secret_kraken]

Thanks for your comment—I'm glad you liked the story! I had fun sprinkling in little references to the book, though admittedly I hadn't planned to with the music magic. Perhaps his magic sometimes sounds rather like Queen! XD

[curiouslissa]

Ohh, such a beautiful story! *_* I actually put on some arabian music while reading, and the story didn't disappoint, it felt like a proper fairy-tale!
I loved the twist with Aziraphale! And that he was able to mislead not only Crowley (yes, yes, Crowley, dear, you are a very cunning djinn) but a reader too!

"He must have been a frightful djinn to summon, with so many false faces to present." - Ahahah I loved it too, so in character for them both:D Crowley trying to be not too frightening in front of Aziraphale, and then Aziraphale offhandedly doing something that makes Crowley tremble :D

Now in hindsight, it's so funny the way Aziraphale watches all Crowley's tricks with a knowing eye (and that last rule about not hurting children!) and he is so moved by it and this poor djinn's reactions to a simple kind gestures, that is so <3 And he'd draw a little star next to his name! <3

The notes were a delight too, I loved the humour, felt very true to the original :D

"The clumsiness was because he had to put on a good performance of how the scholarly and somewhat overweight Aziraphale would act, of course. A supremely powerful being such as himself was obviously a paragon of gracefulness."

"You know, like How to Kill Your Djinn in Five Easy Steps, or Mind Games for the Journeyman Torturer."

"Which didn’t make him feel like a mail-order bride at all."

And many more XD XD

I actually expected for Crowley to turn into human in the end, so to see them "playing" the chords of the universe in sync together was so beautiful <3

Wonderful story, thank you!

[secret_kraken]

I'm glad you liked the story, and all my little jokes and footnotes! I had a lot of fun writing them. XD

I listened to a lot of Arabian music while writing this, actually! It truly does help one get into the mood. :D

I like to think the story does improve upon a second reading, with the advance knowledge of what's going on in Aziraphale's head. Everything, even the little star next to his name, seems so ominous to Crowley! But Aziraphale knows all along that he's going to set Crowley free one way or another. He's just having fun messing around with Crowley and testing him in the meantime. XD

Thanks for reading and for your lovely comment! <3

[maniacalmole]

Thank you for giving me a reason to look up Mithridates XD

Was that—a footnote WITHIN a footnote? That Pratchett vibe is going strong, lol!

Love the ‘no harming children’ rule :D

It’s so cool reading about how the djinn are connected to (and therefore can manipulate) the universe! And the universe as you’ve made it has such a good atmosphere, all the plants and smells, you can really see why Crowley misses the world so much :)

I was wondering why Crowley was imitating Aziraphale…and now I see why….oops, gotta be specific with those wishes, angel!

Ooh, serpent bracelets, very nice!

AZIRAPHALE YOU SNEAKY BASTARD! What are you up to?!?!

Sands of time!

Crowley’s thoughts in the lamp, about sunsets and acts of kindness :’(

I love the historical references, it reminds me of my classes on ancient civilizations in Europe, even if I just baaaarely recognize the names! And thank you for including pictures of the palace!

“waggle his fingers at every cute sheep.” Oh my heart

Elders trying to set people up with Crowley is something I’ve read before, and it’s SO endearing to me

Gold turned to black, but sometimes gold showing through—I like that

Ea-nasir XD

The chase scene is so fun! So much damaged plantlife and fruits, though…XD

“Arguably the point of his entire existence was to make instances like this impossible, to provide a final safeguard against deadly danger.” It’s heart-wrenching that, deep down, even after how horribly he’s been treated, Crowley still tries to find a GOOD reason for his existence being the way it is, because he wants his purpose to be helping people

WHAAAAAAT

McToad and McLizard XD

What a wonderful last sentence! What a wonderful twist! I knew this was going to be good when I saw the plot, and I was totally right, this was so fun :D

[secret_kraken]

Thanks for your wonderfully detailed comment! I'm glad you liked my little historical references and my footnote inception, lol. XD

And of course Crowley tries to find a way to rationalize the terrible thing that has happened to him. If he has to suffer, he at least wants someone else to benefit from it. And Aziraphale is certainly the most worthy of that sacrifice. :)

Thanks for reading and commenting!

[cupidsbow]

This is delightful! I love tricksy Aziraphale, and suspicious but reluctantly charmed Crowley. Thank you, Santa.