Happy Holidays, ladylier!

[goe_mod]

Title: Halfway There
Rating: PG/T
My giftee is: ladylier!
The Prompt: History Omens, retelling of a history event where our angels mess up, or entirely completely miss the event because they pay attention to other things, but we can see the background. It can be full pairing or pining, or platonic friendship is also good. Preferably not US centric
GO Characters: Aziraphale, Crowley
Pairings: None
Major Warnings: Nothing shown on page, although there is a serial killer OC that the characters interact with (aka the other thing Aziraphale and Crowley pay attention to instead of the history)
Other Tags: book verse, historical inaccuracy, Bible, theology, I'm probably committing heresy, not that this is new, War of the Roses, Elizabeth Woodville, Lewis of Caerleon, Margaret Beaufort (mentioned), Henry Tudor (mentioned), Richard III (mentioned), Westminster Abbey, how Crowley ends up moving to Florence.

Special thanks to [redacted] for beta’ing

History Omens In… The War of the Roses. My schooling did not cover this period of time and it’s something I learned about as an adult thanks to History YouTube. If your history education was as lacking as mine was, let me provide a brief (and massively oversimplified) explanation to set the scene so you have an idea of what is going on in the events Aziraphale and Crowley are mostly oblivious to and who some of these people are. The War of the Roses was a civil war between two branches of the English ruling family: the Lancastrians and the Yorkists. It took place over a period of about thirty years in the mid-to-late 1400s. This story is set towards the end of conflict. The former king, Edward IV, has died. While his son, Edward V, was supposed to succeed him, this does not happen. Edward IV’s brother, Richard, has Edward V and his younger brother (also named Richard) declared bastards and becomes King Richard III. Thereafter, Edward V and his brother disappear mysteriously from the Tower of London and are presumed dead. This brings us to the beginning of this fic, which is set in the Fall of 1483. Margaret Stanley (nee Beaufort) is descended from the Lancastrian line and her son, Henry Tudor (you may have heard of him), has a weak claim to the throne through her. She begins a correspondence with Edward IV’s widow, Elizabeth Woodville (who is living at Westminster Abbey under a claim of Sanctuary). The two women conspire to have Henry marry Edward IV’s eldest daughter (also named Elizabeth) to unite the Lancastrian and Yorkist claims. The goal was basically to put forth this claim against Richard III. Margaret and Elizabeth are able to communicate by passing letters through their doctor, Lewis of Caerleon. Henry Tudor is supposed to return to England and join the Duke of Buckingham to take on Richard III. This uprising will fail in late October 1483.


Fall 1483

“Why me?” Crowley muttered as he rapped a hand against the door for deliveries. “Whymewhymewhy-”

The door opened. A guard regarded him with the sort of bored annoyance of one who has been sentenced to door duty and hasn't yet decided if a visitor has improved the situation or not. Behind him, a monk peered out looking only somewhat less annoyed. The monk took in Crowley's cloak – new – and his face – likely pained – and forced a smile. “Can I help you, good sir?”

“Uh, yeah.” Crowley wiped his free hand on his tunic, realized he looked suspicious, and hoisted the bag in his other hand. “I'm Anthony, the physician’s apprentice? He asked me to make a delivery to one of his patients.”

The guard cleared his throat. “An apprentice? The physician who has been coming here never brought along an apprentice before.”

“I don’t normally get to go to the nicest places, on account that I’m, you know, still learning.” Crowley reached into his tunic and produced a short letter of introduction, verifying his identity. He passed it over. “There was an emergency so the physician asked me to make these deliveries in order to maintain the existing appointments. Well, at least the ones that I can help with.” He tried not to look at the very sharp sword the guard was wearing. “You, uh, you know how it is?”

The guard opened the letter, frowned at it, and passed it to the monk, who turned it the other way around and began to read. The guard’s attention returned to Crowley. “You look too soft to be an apprentice.”

“My family said the same,” Crowley said. He leaned forward in what he hoped was a conspiratorially friendly way. “Between us, ‘apprentice’ sounds better than 'my father is paying some poor sod an inordinate amount of money to keep me out of trouble.'”

The monk glanced over the top of the paper and gave a disdainful sniff that reminded Crowley of another holier-than-thou being. “It used to be that second sons studied with the church.”

“Yeah, about that, see, uh,” Crowley shifted the medical bag to his other hand, “Well, the honest truth of it is that the church made it very clear that it doesn’t want me. I have no stomach for being a soldier. So...” he tried to give a casual shrug. “Options were limited.”

The guard opened his mouth but the monk stopped him with a gesture. “He’s fine.”

The guard gave Crowley a last measuring look, then stepped aside. “The patient will meet you in the crypts.”

“Terrific,” Crowley said. “Really, that's...” He paused. “Alive, right?”

The two men looked at him as if he was a dullard.

“Right. Of course. My mistake.” Crowley backtracked. “Totally normal for living patients to be in burial chambers. Don't know what I was thinking. I...” he pointed in the direction of where the crypts had to be, “I'll just be on my way, then. Yes. Thank you, … I'll ….yes.”

“Sir?” The monk held out the paper Crowley had given him.

“Right.” Crowley returned it to his tunic. “Thanks.”

“Do you even know where you’re going?” The guard asked.

“All these places are laid out the same.” Crowley assured him. Humans might be creative, but they seemed to be very stuck on the same idea for how to lay out their great cathedrals. It certainly wasn't how Crowley would design it if he was going to create a place to worship God. Then again, Crowley hadn't exactly been good at that last bit. It had led to his current occupation. Perhaps he shouldn't judge.

“This ought to be good,” the monk muttered. He returned to his position with the guard by the door.

Crowley took that as his cue to leave. He made sure to walk very purposefully in what he believed to be the right direction until he was sure he was out of sight. Letting out a little sigh, he paused beside a well-placed stone pillar and loosened the collar of his tunic. Step one accomplished. He had infiltrated Westminster Abbey. Now for step two.

Crowley fished around in his tunic and found his stack of papers. The letter of introduction and the letter he had been tasked to give the patient were immediately returned to their place. Crowley unfolded the third paper and reviewed the rough sketch he'd made of the grounds. He was somewhere about....there. He placed a finger on what had to be the general vicinity of his pillar. And if he was there, then his goal would be....

Perfect. He folded the map and replaced it with his other papers. Lifting his bag again – he would have to do his human job to keep up appearances when this was done – he started off in a new direction.

No one stopped him.

In his reports to Hell, he would have written up the phenomenon as the effect of his cunning demonic powers of deception. It sounded much better than the truth – that most people didn't question you if you moved with a purpose.

Crowley's purpose led him to a far less intricate room two stories above the ground that was furnished with dull wooden tables. Two scribes worked quietly at the table closest to the window, their heads bent silently over their work. Crowley ignored them and walked deeper into the room. He poked his head between various shelves of books, letting his glasses fall far enough down his nose so that he could get a good look over the tops to make sure he didn't miss what he was looking for skulking around in some shadow. At the fifth set of shelves, he found it. Crowley stepped into the space between the shelves and hissed, “Angel.”

Aziraphale jumped. The book in his hands flew into the air. He caught it, snapping it closed and clutching it to his chest as he took several deep breaths. Then, with the air of judgment only an Angel of the Lord could offer when being interrupted, he glared up at Crowley from his seat on the floor. “What are you doing here?”

“Medical deliveries.” Crowley held up the bag.

Aziraphale’s glare intensified.

“I need to talk with you.” Crowley added.

“And you couldn't make an appointment like a normal person?” Aziraphale climbed to his feet with more grace than his corporation suggested he could have. He brushed at his robes as if the dirt on them was somehow Crowley's fault and not the side effect of huddling in dust to read a book in a half lit archive.

“Not really,” Crowley said casually. “No.”

Aziraphale frowned – a genuine frown and not a scowl of annoyance. Something had bothered him and Crowley wondered fleetingly if he'd received notification from Heaven about Crowley's current … job situation. “How did you get in here?”

That was a long and complicated story he did not have time for. If he started down that path, Aziraphale would need to travel it to the end. Instead, he went with, “Uh...door?” Crowley resisted the urge to rub at the back his head with his free hand.

Aziraphale's frown returned to one of exasperated annoyance. As if he was concerned that Crowley was incapable of reading body language, the angel let out a sigh to underscore the message that he was Annoyed With Demons.

He had about two seconds until Aziraphale was Done. Crowley cut to the chase. “Angel, I'm sorry I didn't write first, but I need to invoke the Arrangement.”

Aziraphale's eyes widened just slightly. “I see.” His voice did not make the same betrayal as his eyes. “I take it you're in some sort of trouble, and not looking for me to cover your duties.”

That was putting it mildly. “Is there someplace we could talk?” Crowley asked. “Privately?”

Aziraphale looked in the direction of the scribes. With a resigned noise, he nodded. He motioned for Crowley to follow him deeper into the archives. Turning suddenly, he cut down an aisle between two shelves to where a small door was nestled in the wall. Aziraphale opened the door and motioned him inside a small, dusty room lit by a single window high in the wall. The door thudded shut behind them. “What,” the angel asked, “did you do?”

“Why do you think I did anything?” Crowley protested.

“Crowley.”

“I need your help retrieving a dagger with a hell-blade,” Crowley blurted.

Aziraphale finally released his book, setting it on a bench that was missing a leg. He stared down at it. After a set of heartbeats, he looked up and asked, “What is a hell-blade?”

“It's a blade. Like, for a sword.” Crowley explained quickly. “Or, well, a dagger in this case. It's made of steel, but they forge it in hellfire.”

Aziraphale remained silent. Intelligent eyes watched Crowley carefully.

“A human has one.” Crowley continued. “Hell wants it back. I need to retrieve the dagger by the end of the year, or they'll reassign me to a desk job. Permanently. No Earth. No humans. No wine. No...fussy angels.”

Aziraphale still said nothing.

Crowley wondered if he’d gone too far with that last bit. Perhaps calling Aziraphale ‘fussy’ to his face while trying to convince him to help was a little much. “I mean - not that you’re fussy. You’re...intriguingly, ah-”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale held up a hand. His fingers twitched slightly before he hid his hands inside the sleeves of his robe. The silence had almost reached unbearable when the angel spoke again. “Why do you need my help? Surely you can pay some human to act as a look-out while you commit petty burglary.”

“I tried that already,” Crowley said. “The dagger is in a demon-proof chest.” He pulled off a glove and extended his right hand so Aziraphale could see the still healing burns. “I can't get in, and I don't know any humans I trust to not steal the thing once they get it out.” As Aziraphale frowned, moving closer to look at Crowley’s hand, an instinctive pull against letting an enemy see weakness caused Crowley to snatch his hand back. He shoved it into the glove. “The handle is gold,” he added. “Any thief is going to take off with it, and then I’ll have a bigger problem.”

“I see.” Aziraphale fell silent. After a pair of heartbeats, he began to pace towards the wall with the high window. His eyes trained on the floor, as if he was watching each step of his feet. At the wall, he slowly turned and took his time pacing back, before turning once more to make another lap towards the wall. Halfway there, he stopped and moved to face Crowley. “Hell is creating new weapons?”

Creating might be too strong a word. That implied originality. And competence. To be fair, there were things Hell was quite competent in. Causing pain came to mind. Inventing improved weaponry, however, did not. The hell-blade, for all its fanfare Down Below, did not seem to bring anything new to the table except branding. Crowley made a valiant attempt at honesty. “They’re trying to.”

“Presumably to fight Heaven,” Aziraphale added.

Crowley couldn’t see another reason for the things. They were talking about Hell, and while he wouldn’t completely put anything past them, demons were relatively simple. The most obvious answer was almost always the correct one. “Presumably.”

“And this new weapon is important enough to Hell that they will bar you from returning to Earth if you do not retrieve it for them,” Aziraphale continued.

“That’s the threat.” Crowley said. “I don’t know if they’ll go through with it, but they tend to be, you know, pretty big on the whole Punishment For Failure thing. It’s part of their brand.” Pride, he supposed, was also part of their brand, and Crowley suspected the optics was driving this whole thing more than anything else. Not that it made a difference for him; Hell wanted what it wanted, and he didn’t get a say.

“Right.” Aziraphale nodded. “So this weapon is very important in Hell’s fight against Heaven, it has been stolen by a human, and you would like me to steal this weapon from the human for you.”

Oh. So that was the hang-up. Thou shalt not steal and all that. That was ironic, considering how Crowley had witnessed Aziraphale steal quite a few things over the centuries. Then again, Crowley suspected it was steal when he was the one taking a thing, but something benign like acquire when Aziraphale did it. Pointing that out would get him nowhere. If he wanted Aziraphale’s help, he needed to assuage any guilt the angel might feel about breaking Commandments. “You don’t have to steal anything. I would never ask that of you.”

“Don’t you try to tempt me, Crowley.” Aziraphale got snitty. “It won’t work.”

“I’m not trying to tempt you,” he protested in his most trustworthy voice. “All I’m saying is that you don’t have to take it. I’m not asking you to do anything wrong. All I need you to do is to open a box.”

“The Greeks had a story about opening a box,” Aziraphale said pointedly. “It didn’t end well.”

“Good thing we’re pretending to be English these days, then,” Crowley opined. “Aziraphale, I know this isn't what we usually do for each other, but I wouldn't invoke the Arrangement and bring you into this if I had another choice.”

“I see.” Aziraphale's voice was measured. Careful. He looked down at his feet. Seconds ticked by into minutes. Finally, he looked up and met Crowley's gaze. “I'm going to need to think about this.”

Aziraphale could have grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved a fist into his diaphragm, and it probably would have taken less breath away from him. Crowley heard himself make several unintelligible noises before he managed to say, “But we have an Arrangement.”

“I did not say I would not help you,” Aziraphale was firm. “I said I needed time to think.”

But they had an Arrangement! Crowley's mind struggled to understand. If Aziraphale had come to him and said, Crowley, Heaven has ordered me to retrieve the flaming sword I gave away to the humans and I need you to help me, Crowley would have helped. “What'sss there to think about?”

“The part where this is a war and we're discussing a potential weapon, not doing each other's blessings and temptations,” Aziraphale said. “I'm an angel, Crowley.”

As if he could ever forget. As if Aziraphale would ever let him forget. “Ssso you're ssaying you won't help.”

“I'm saying I need to think about this,” Aziraphale said. “I need to make sure I do the right thing here. We could meet up again maybe in a week or two once I’ve had some time to really think this through. If you'd rather I come to you once I have, I'm willing to do that, but I don't know where you're living currently.”

Crowley wanted to scream at Aziraphale. He wanted to beg him to help. He didn't think the angel understood what would happen if Crowley did not turn that stupid dagger over to his bosses. None of that, though, would persuade Aziraphale. If he wanted the angel's help, he'd need to play the long game. And he could. He was good at the long game. He just hoped he'd have enough time to let it play out. The leaves were already changing.... “We’ll talk again?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale said. He picked up his book and ran a finger over the edge as if studying it. “Just...how do you say it - we’ll keep in touch?”

“Right.” Crowley sighed. He knew when he was being dismissed. “We’ll keep in touch.”

He let himself out.

~*~

“If we’re being technical,” Aziraphale said, “Crowley is the enemy. He is Evil. I should be doing all I can to keep him off the playing field, and this opportunity presents the ability to do that once and for all.” That sounded like something his angelic superiors would agree with. Demons equal bad and all that. He opened one eye and squinted in the direction of the altar in front of him. “Can’t help but think You wouldn’t want that, though.”

His Father had to know. He was All Seeing and All Knowing. It could not have escaped His attention that Aziraphale spent time around Crowley. He had to know about the conversations. And the dinners. And the wine. And that, while Aziraphale and Crowley weren’t friends - not really - Aziraphale did not mind letting the demon come around and had even helped Crowley from time to time. His Father knew - and yet, Aziraphale had not Fallen. That had to mean something. Didn’t it?

Part of Aziraphale - the part that was quite aware of what he was doing and how it would be viewed by the Angelic Powers That Be - recognized that most if not all his interactions with Crowley would be deemed Not Appropriate for an angelic warrior. Demons were to be discorporated, not taken to dinner. But, surely, a Higher Power could be appealed to, considering the circumstance. Angels didn’t get the final say.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and bowed his head again. “What I am trying to say is - even Crowley is one of Your creatures. You don’t want him to suffer endless torture.” He wasn’t completely sure about that last bit. Crowley had Fallen, after all, and endless torture seemed to be the very definition of that process. Maybe he was talking to the wrong member of the family; the Son seemed more open to the whole reconciliation business. Ah, well, he was already well into the conversation - and he was almost certain it was a one-sided conversation at that.

If this was a normal request from Crowley, it would not be that much of a problem. The issue was that Crowley’s request for aid wasn’t like their usual interactions. Crowley wasn’t doing a blessing for Aziraphale because he was in the area. Aziraphale wasn’t asked to look the other way and not interfere in a job Crowley was working on that wouldn’t affect much in the big scheme of things. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what the ramifications of recovering a demonic weapon would be. “I don’t want to do anything that would bring harm to Heaven. Our people have been working tirelessly to bring about Your Plan. A new weapon in Hell’s hands could be a disaster, but I don’t know if this is dangerous or if it is nothing to worry about. If it is dangerous, I will of course tell Crowley I cannot help him, but if it’s not going to harm Heaven, then I can’t help but think….well….Crowley’s really not that Bad. I mean - he’s a demon, he’s obviously Bad and should not be trusted, but sometimes, when he thinks no one is watching, he can do Good things. Any demon they send to replace him won’t be like that. They’ll have something to prove, You see, and they’ll do all sorts of horrible things. If Crowley isn’t sent to eternal damnation - I mean for a second time - then he may even be so relieved that he lays off the wiles for a bit as, er, compensation for my help.” He frowned at the richly decorated altar and raised his eyes heavenward. “I suspect it’s too much to hope that You want to weigh in.”

There was no response. He wasn’t expecting one.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and tried to think. Thinking got him nowhere. He remained squarely at his dilemma. He didn’t want to do something that would give Hell an advantage and he also didn’t want to lose Crowley. (It wasn’t that they were friends - they couldn’t be - but he understood Crowley on some level and Crowley understood him. It was a very useful trait in an Adversary. He didn’t want a new one; he wanted to keep Crowley.)

The sound of a set of steady footsteps approached. Robes whispered, and a voice murmured, “Brother Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale suppressed his initial desire - to hit the monk to whom the voice belonged over the head for having neither a clue nor an understanding of timing. That was not, however, angelic, so a more compassionate approach was called for. “I am praying to the Almighty, Brother Jonathan,” Aziraphale said in a tone that conveyed this had better be good.

“If the Almighty is fine with an interruption,” Jonathan said, “I have a business proposition for you.”

Aziraphale opened his eyes for the sole purpose of making a show of rolling them heavenward. He thought demons were persistent. They had nothing on a human looking for help with a smuggling operation. “We’ve had this discussion three times now, Brother Jonathan.” Aziraphale said. “I’m not interested.” He turned his head and narrowed his eyes. “Now go away.” The matter now closed, Aziraphale returned to his prayers and tried to ignore the presence at his side.

“The thing is,” Jonathan whispered, “We haven’t discussed your paramour before.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flew open. “I beg your pardon?” His voice made clear he most assuredly did not.

“Thin, dark hair,” Jonathan said, “Expensive clothes, hidden eyes.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale made a noise of annoyance. “Crowley.” He turned his head back towards the front of the chapel, made a scene of crossing himself, and stood. Once Jonathan joined him, he added, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but he’s my immortal enemy.”

Jonathan blinked. He hadn’t, Aziraphale realized, expected Aziraphale to call his bluff. He vaguely wondered what Jonathan thought his relationship with Crowley actually was. Did he think Aziraphale and Crowley were the competition? Crowley was the sort to participate in illegal business activities.

Aziraphale tucked his hands into his sleeves. “I assume you’re interested in a business proposition with him?” It wasn’t exactly surprising. Crowley had a job to do, and Jonathan was the sort who wanted both money and power. Aziraphale wondered what the going price for a human soul was these days. A position as a cardinal, perhaps. He really was not sure. That sort of information was not relevant to his job description. He could have asked Crowley had he really wanted to know, but...well...he didn’t. Some things were better left unknown.

Jonathan was sputtering. “I...absolutely not. I am a man of God. How could you even suggest that I…”

“Ah, yes, I forgot about the part in the Holy Book about how running a smuggling ring is next to godliness,” Aziraphale said, matter of fact.

“Smug….?” Jonathan stopped, shook his head, and then tried again. “Don’t change the subject. This isn’t about me. This is about you. I saw you. You and him. You were in the back storage room. Alone. Together.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale confirmed. “We were.”

“I can take this to the abbot,” Jonathan said. “I’m sure he’ll be very interested in meeting your...friend.”

“I doubt it.” Aziraphale said. “Crowley is more of an acquired taste.” After a moment of thought, he added, “And he is on the other side. I cannot imagine that the abbot will like him much.”

“But he would be interested in knowing what you and Crowley were getting up to.” Jonathan continued, almost desperate now.

“Ah, yes. That. He wanted me to help him commit a crime.” He raked his eyes over the other monk. “Seems to be a very popular request these days. I will tell you what I told him - I have very important, Godly duties, and I do not have time for this foolishness.” Aziraphale motioned towards the door of the chapel. “Are you done trying to blackmail me? I have things I need to attend to.”

Jonathan sputtered again.

“Of course, if you feel the need to bring this to the abbot, please, by all means, do.” Aziraphale shrugged. “I have nothing to hide.” He smiled. It was not a reassuring sort of smile. It was the sort of smile one cultivated when one’s first job involved inflammatory weaponry. “Well,” Aziraphale said. “I should leave you to your prayers. Good night, Brother Jonathan.”

Honestly. The nerve of some people. Aziraphale retreated from the chapel. Jonathan’s ongoing recruitment efforts were getting beyond tiring. It would be nice, Aziraphale thought, if the monk could just go away and not come back.* He wondered if there was an angelic way he could work on that.

~*~ Chapter Two ~*~

As far as covers went, Crowley's current one was one of the better ones – although Crowley wouldn't tell anyone like Aziraphale that. He had a reputation to maintain, and his human job certainly wasn’t the sort of thing an angel would believe a demon would do. For starters, the one thing Crowley was - or at least tried very hard to pretend to be - was glamorous. Herbalist turned physician’s apprentice was pretty much the opposite. It was hard work. He was stuck with the dirtiest and most unpleasant tasks - or the ones that were dead boring. He didn't lounge about in wealth. Despite what he intentionally wore to see the angel, his typical clothes were hardly fashionable. The food wasn't what he'd call 'good.' The type of human Crowley typically tried to be would not have selected this role. He’d be off in a castle somewhere. A nice one. With impressive fortifications.

It was one of the more interesting covers he’d had, though. The humans were so clever. When they tried, they could do amazing things with that cleverness. His current position gave him a front row seat to some of the humans' most important knowledge. That was why Crowley had chosen it.

That, and the thought that, maybe, the next time…. He shivered. Memories of the prior century were best kept buried, but even at the best of times, they hovered right under the surface. Some of his fellow demons might say that trying to keep humans from dying was anti-demonic. It was helping and showed compassion and those were things demons should never, ever do. Crowley felt, however, that there was a solid argument that the healing arts were demonic. Humans believed God caused illness. Following that logic, fighting illness was therefore, at its essence, demonic. He was really just doing his job. And if it helped the anxiety that swirled in his stomach when the memories became too much at night….

He forced his mind to focus on the herb garden he was tending. Blistered fingers worked their way around what was left of the plants that the frost had not yet taken, removing things that were not supposed to be growing here and checking over the ones that were. There was something about this - about the repetitive act of weeding that … it helped. When his head was spinning and his chest felt tight, coming out here and working with his hands, feeling the leaves and the dirt under his fingers, made everything lighten just a bit.

He raked his hands through the soil and wondered how much longer he'd be able to do that.

He wanted to believe that Aziraphale would come around. It was, after all, in Aziraphale’s best interest to keep Crowley on earth. No other demon was going to swoop in and form an arrangement with Aziraphale if Crowley was gone. It’d taken Crowley the better part of 5,000 years to do so, and Crowley suspected he was more amenable to contracts of convenience than the average demon. Not to mention that Aziraphale, himself, wasn’t exactly a picnic to deal with. Crowley, at least, had found Aziraphale odd yet intriguing since the beginning. Other demons would most assuredly only see Aziraphale as insufferable. When you got right down to it, unless Aziraphale wanted to spend the next 7,000 years doing his job, he should help keep Crowley around.

But no. Aziraphale had to think about it. Because Aziraphale was an angel and Crowley was a demon and Aziraphale would never, ever let either of them forget that. Because, despite having an Arrangement, Aziraphale wasn’t sure he should keep his end of the bargain.

You really, Crowley thought, should have seen this coming. You couldn’t trust angels. He should know - he used to be one. With demons, at least, you knew not to turn your back. Angels, with all their talk of love and loyalty, were no different. The marketing department just did a better job of sweeping that fact under the rug and, sometimes, you could be lulled into a false sense of security around them. Yet, in the end, an angel would act the same as a demon and look out for only themselves. Worse than a demon, really. Demons, for all their faults, honored their bloody contracts.

But no. That was beyond Aziraphale. Because Aziraphale was an angel and Crowley didn’t understand.

“Anthony? Are you out there?”

Crowley twisted enough to look over one shoulder. The physician who had taken him on as an apprentice was silhouetted in the doorway. At some point, Crowley observed, it had gotten dark. He hadn’t even noticed. “In the back of the garden,” he called back.

“Wash up. Let’s eat and you can fill me in on the rounds.”

Crowley wiped his hands on his clothes as best he could and stood. His fingers fumbled for his glasses and he pulled them free from where he’d slid them over the collar of his tunic. He pushed them over his eyes and turned towards the workshop. Time to be a human - or at least to pretend.

He joined Lewis in the dimly lit workshop. The physician was sitting beside the sole lit candle, going over a ledger of notes. “I’m not sure how you can see out there this late at night.”

“There’s enough light with the moon,” Crowley replied, pouring water into the basin. He reached for the soap and began scrubbing the dirt from his hands.

“How did everything go at Westminster?” Lewis didn’t look up from whatever he was writing. “Any problems?”

“It was fine.” The guards popped into his head, and Crowley amended, “Well, mostly. There was a bit of an incident where the men at the delivery door tried to send me on a detour. I suppose they were bored and thought they’d get a bit of a laugh. They told me to find the patients in the crypts.”

“That isn’t funny,” Lewis said. He set down his quill. “Did you let anyone know about it when you reached College Hall?”

“No.” Crowley said. He dried his hands and turned around. “It wasn’t a big deal. It was two bored men having a laugh at the new guy by sending him to the wrong place.”

“Some might interpret it differently.”

Had he missed something? Lewis was acting like the men on door duty were threatening someone, not causing minor annoyances. Crowley waited.

“How was everything else?” Lewis finally asked.

“The rest went well. No problems.” Crowley reported. “I delivered the medication. I talked with them for a bit. They seem like nice people. The family, I mean. The little girl who had the cough is improving. The mother said she’d appreciate it if you could bring her some tonics for headaches next week.” He moved to fetch a piece of sealed parchment from his bag and held it out. “She sent this back for you.”

“Thank you.” Lewis glanced at the seal as if to confirm it hadn’t been broken, then slid it into his tunic. “Anything else I should know about?”

Crowley shrugged. “Not really? One of the girls asked for prayers for her brothers. I think they’re in the army?” Prayers were most definitely not his thing, but they might be Lewis’. He tried to remember the exact conversation. He thought she’d mentioned the brothers were missing in action, but he couldn’t be sure. He’d been distracted by replaying his discussion with Aziraphale and hadn’t really caught all of it. “It seemed pretty routine.”

“And your meeting with your friend?” Lewis stood and moved to pull a bottle of cheap wine from a shelf. “Were you able to talk with him?”

He couldn’t exactly say 'My angel friend doesn’t want to help me acquire a weapon for the forces of Hell on account of me being a demon.' Crowley took the cup that was held out to him and admitted, “It wasn’t the reunion I hoped for.” He sniffed at the wine and then muttered a threat at it. It decided to become a high end Chianti.

“I’m sorry,” Lewis said, filling his own cup. He even sounded like he meant it.

Crowley offered a little shrug. “I shouldn’t be too surprised. Az-, my friend. He got hung up on how our, uh, our families are technically on opposite sides and didn’t want to talk further.”

“Ah.” Lewis’ face took on an expression of understanding. “How old are you, again? Twenty one? Twenty two?”

Crowley inclined his head.

“It’s different now. You would have been young when there was active war and your father would have hid the worst of it from you.” Lewis said. “For a lot of people of your station, the survival of your family came down to whether you were with York or with Lancaster and when you held those allegiances. You told me you hadn’t spoken with your friend for a long time. It may have been a shock to him to have you suddenly appear in his life, especially if his family has stressed the importance of not getting too close to former enemies.”

“Thanks,” Crowley said dryly. “This pep talk is really inspiring.”

He was rewarded with an annoyed look. “I’m saying give him some time. You dropped a lot on him. He may come around after he’s had time to think about it.”

“Maybe.” Crowley wasn’t going to hold his breath on that one. Aziraphale was not exactly known for coming around quickly. Getting him to change his mind required all of Crowley’s powers of temptation, and even then, he did not have the greatest success rate. But he knew that about Aziraphale. He also knew when something was a lost cause, and he had the sinking suspicion that acquiring Aziraphale’s assistance with his current Hell-related problem fell into that boat. He would need to find another way. Crowley finished his wine and returned his cup to its place. “Is it okay if I study some of your books?”

Lewis nodded and turned back to the work he had spread out on his table. “You know where they’re kept.”

“Thanks.” Crowley made a show of selecting a book and lighting a candle of his own. His mind whirled. Three months. He had about three months to figure out how to recover the hell-blade. He couldn’t count on Aziraphale coming around before then. It was time to start developing a Plan B. Pretending to be thoroughly engrossed in the astronomy book he’d selected, he set to work developing a mental short list of potential accomplices.

~*~

Crowley didn’t come back.

Aziraphale had spent the afternoon sitting in the store room, waiting. At first, it wasn’t that much of an imposition. He had brought some reading material with him. He needed to catch up, anyway, and he would have found a way to spend the day reviewing this book whether Crowley was supposed to visit or not. That, however, was only useful so long as it was light. It was now dark except for the sliver of moon he could see through the sole window. He could no longer see the text.

If he was being honest, Aziraphale was quite put out about the whole thing. Crowley had been more than a little unreasonable. He had dropped quite the revelation on Aziraphale and then demanded answers immediately. And then, when Aziraphale had tried to accommodate him, Crowley hadn’t had the courtesy to show up. What part of ‘come back, same time, same place, next week’ had been so difficult?

It wasn’t difficult. It was downright rude, was what it was.

Why had he expected anything different? He should have known Crowley wouldn’t care about anyone but himself. He was a demon and demons were selfish creatures by definition. After all, that’s why they were demons. He should have anticipated that Crowley would lack the courtesy to respect Aziraphale’s time and meet with him the way they had planned….

They had planned it, hadn’t they? Aziraphale paused his mental rant. He remembered saying something to Crowley about meeting up in a week, but now that he was thinking about it, it hadn’t included any meeting details, had it? He had meant that they should meet up at the same time and place the following week to further discuss the implications of Crowley’s request. Had Crowley heard something different? It would explain the lack of Crowley today.

His mind went back over the conversation again. Crowley had acted like Aziraphale was being completely unreasonable when Aziraphale expressed concern about Hell developing new weapons and how helping Hell make weapons against Heaven went beyond the scope of the Arrangement. It had almost been as if they were having two different conversations….

Hmmm.

For the first time, Aziraphale questioned whether what he had meant and what Crowley had heard had been the same at all. There might even be a flip side to it - Crowley might have meant something different than what Aziraphale had heard. Had he gotten so familiar with Crowley, so used to the demon typically understanding exactly what he meant, that he had missed that they were having two entirely different conversations?

It would explain quite a lot.

Aziraphale had meant: (1) this information about Hell’s secret weapon program is very disturbing; (2) I am understanding you when you say that these weapons are very powerful and are meant to be used against me and mine; and (3) given the first two points, I need to think about what the best step forward would be. Now that he was thinking back through it, though, Crowley hadn’t said what the weapon did, just how it was made. While humans had a lot of theories about hellfire, fire in general was a common tool among Heavenly and Infernal forces alike. Despite millennia of work opposing the Forces of Evil, Aziraphale had not seen any evidence that hellfire was particularly more harmful to angels than divine fire. You didn’t want to have it touch you, but that was because it was fire. It wasn’t the same as something like Holy Water, which gained its power through human belief. It was simply what it said on the tin - fire. The rest was just branding.

At the end of the day, he didn’t know if Hell had done anything other than make swords - a long existing technology - with the materials they had available. It was what he wanted to ask Crowley today, since, if that was the case, helping Crowley retrieve it would be a minor job like the sort they did for the Arrangement. Crowley’s reactions last week suggested he thought Aziraphale had been unreasonable. Perhaps Crowley assumed Aziraphale knew that this weapon was not a new, massively destructive piece of military technology.

He needed to talk to Crowley and just walk through the whole thing, bit by bit. The problem with his plan of Talk To Crowley snuck up a moment later. He had no idea how to find Crowley. The demon was, presumably, somewhere in London or the surrounding area. Beyond that, he did not have a way to pinpoint where Crowley was. Aziraphale let himself out of the storeroom and retraced his steps through the archives. He supposed he could reach out to humans who frequented some of Crowley’s haunts. There had been a few pubs where he’d met the demon in the years since they both relocated to England. He could try to get a short list of where some of the nicer art was; Crowley seemed to like art. There were probably squares where there were lots of humans interacting, which was something the demon always enjoyed watching. All of that was barely beyond useless; those places still captured too many people with no guarantee of finding Crowley. If only he knew which humans Crowley interacted with, he could narrow it down to a reasonable search radius. He reached the door to the archives and opened it, only to find Jonathan standing on the other side, hand outstretched as if moving to open the door himself. Aziraphale could think of no valid ecclesiastical reason the other monk had to be in the archives this late and whipped out one of his best Judgmental Looks.

“Brother Aziraphale.” Jonathan tried and failed to hide his surprise. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“It’s hardly a surprise. I was finishing up my work for the day, Brother Jonathan.” Aziraphale replied. “You weren’t assigned to the archives this week, though. What are you doing here?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Jonathan said.

“It’s barely seven,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“But it was a long day.” Jonathan replied. “Are you alone? I don’t see your friend with the physician’s bag and dark glasses anywhere.”

“Afraid so…” Aziraphale paused. Crowley worked for a physician. He’d been here making medical deliveries, but he wouldn’t have been working for the abbey. The monks had their own medical facilities. They would not call for Crowley’s employer. The universe of humans Crowley would interact with had suddenly gotten much smaller. “You know, Jonathan, the Almighty works in mysterious ways. You might have just answered my prayers.”

Jonathan looked utterly confused. Aziraphale smiled and stepped past him, patting him on the shoulder as he went.

When you got down to the question of who at Westminster would have a private physician, you got a very short list of humans. Aziraphale remembered a big to-do a little while back where some very wealthy humans had moved into College Hall. They’d even removed part of the wall to bring in furniture. Humans who were wealthy enough to get those types of accommodations were wealthy enough to afford their own doctor.

A quick stop over at his cell was all Aziraphale needed to prepare a letter for Crowley. Less than a quarter of an hour later, he found himself opening the door to College Hall. It did not occur to Aziraphale that the humans should question why he was visiting or try to stop him, and the humans who would usually do both of those things found themselves suddenly distracted by all sorts of wandering thoughts, completely oblivious to the middle aged monk walking through their halls.

He did stop and knock on the door to the chamber where the wealthy people lived. Manners, after all, were for everyone. There was the sound of a chair moving inside, and then the door cracked open. “Yes?”

Aziraphale tried to give his most caring smile to the woman at the door. As he did, a memory wriggled out of his brain. He had seen this woman before. He had seen her living at the abbey before. She had been younger then, and very scared. He tried to pull at the memory. Someone had been trying to kill her husband. She was with child and had come here to hide while praying he would return. The pieces came together. “You’re the queen.”

“I was.” The woman confirmed. “I believe that title is claimed by someone else now.”

Aziraphale vaguely wondered when the last king had died. It was hard to keep track of them. They were all more or less the same and seemed to sort of run together when he thought of them. He knew the loss of the last king weighed much more heavily on the former queen, though, and politely offered, “I’m sorry.”

She nodded once. Forcing a smile, she said, “And who might you be, good monk? Did the abbot send you?”

“Oh. I’m not sure we’ve ever been introduced. My name is Aziraphale.” He replied. What, he wondered, was a former queen doing here? Shouldn’t she be retiring gracefully to a country estate or something like that? Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel as if he was missing something. “And the abbot didn’t send me, but I have a bit of a quandary and I’m hoping you may be able to help.”

She glanced behind her into the room. The door closed a little more. “Help?”

“Yes, you see, I was supposed to meet with a-” what was Crowley, anyway? “An acquaintance...” That seemed wrong. Crowley certainly wasn’t his friend, but ‘acquaintance’ suggested that they barely knew each other. Aziraphale knew Crowley quite well. It was natural, of course. They didn’t die the way humans did, and more often than not, Crowley was the only supernatural being he crossed paths with. Aziraphale was bound to get to know him better than a mere acquaintance. But Crowley wasn’t a friend because he was with the enemy, even if they were, well, friendly - as one was in their line of work. There really needed to be a word for it in the English language. That there wasn’t highlighted one of the many failings of this particular tongue….

“An acquaintance,” the queen prompted.

“Oh, uh,” he forced himself back to the conversation. “Well, it’s a bit complicated, you see.” Aziraphale tried to think of the best way to explain it. “I know him - I know him quite well - but we’re on opposite sides of this, er, thing. I need to speak with him on a, a deeply personal matter, but I have no way to find him on my own. I understand he delivers medicine to you.” He held up his letter. “And I was wondering if you could help me get word to him.”

The queen looked at him a long moment. Very carefully, she asked, “You know the physician Lewis?”

“No?” Aziraphale wondered what he’d said to put her on edge. “I’m afraid I don’t. I’m speaking of a man named Crowley. Anthony Crowley.”

“Oh.” She relaxed. The door opened slightly. “Young, dark hair, a bit jumpy? He has an eye condition?”

“So he does come here.” Aziraphale confirmed.

“I only met him for the first time last week,” she said. “He’s my physician’s apprentice. He was quite kind to my children. They were curious about his eye coverings, and he told them some stories. I’m quite sure he made them up, but they’re now convinced he’s some sort of chivalrous adventurer.”

“I can promise you they were made up,” Aziraphale said. “Crowley is many things, but ‘chivalrous’ and ‘adventurer’ are not among them. He’s a bit of a coward, really.” That sounded a bit mean. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me. I shouldn’t have said that. But he is kind. Not that he wants anyone to know that bit.”

“You’ve known each other a long time,” the queen observed.

“I suppose we have.” Some days, the Beginning felt like it was only a century back. When Aziraphale got right down to it, he found he could remember almost all of that first conversation with Crowley word-for-word, despite not remembering what he’d said at breakfast this morning. “We quarreled recently. I believe it stemmed from a misunderstanding. I’d like to try to speak with him again, but I do not know where he lives.”

“And, with a family of children, it is not uncommon for us to need a doctor. It is only a matter of time until he visits again.” She finished. “I cannot promise you that your friend will return. My physician usually comes alone, but if you should like to leave word with me, I can ask him to give it to your young man.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale said.

“It is no bother at all.” Taking the letter she raised an eyebrow at him. At his nod, she opened the letter, scanned it, and folded it once more. “I’ll make sure to give this to my physician.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale repeated. He wasn’t sure what else to say. The whole thing suddenly felt a bit awkward. He cleared his throat. “I should be getting back to my duties before anyone misses me. Thank you, again, for your help.”

“Of course.” She gave him a smile. “My late husband and I were on opposite sides once. It can make for some interesting quarrels.”

He wasn’t sure what to do with that one. He decided it was best not to say anything, so he settled on a polite smile, a nod, and a ‘have a good evening’ before retreating.

That was, at least, one problem solved. Hopefully talking to Crowley would not brew more.

~*~ Chapter Three ~*~

Crowley played a finger across the folded corner of the letter. For the fifteenth time since entering the cloisters, he paused to study it. It felt surreal. If he hadn’t seen Aziraphale’s distinctive handwriting for himself, he wouldn’t have believed it. His fingers slid down to brush against where his name was written. The letter didn’t say any of the things he might have hoped it would say. I’ll help you. I’m here for you. I’m sorry. It only vaguely requested a meeting during today’s church service. Crowley knew that Aziraphale’s requested meeting might have only been so that he could better excuse his decision to leave Crowley to his fate. The idealist buried deep down, however, clung to the hope that the angel wanted to tell him of a change of heart. Crowley took a deep breath, let it out, and forced his feet to move.

At the door to the chapter house, he peered inside. Aziraphale was perched on a bench under a large stained glass window. His head was bent over a book. To a normal person, he might be reading. Crowley, however, could see how Aziraphale was rubbing the fingers of his free hand against the hem of his robe’s sleeve, how his lips pursed, and how his forehead was almost pinched. Aziraphale had likely been rereading the same two lines over and over the way he did when he was upset about something to the point that it interrupted his concentration.

Unsure what to say, Crowley cleared his throat.

Aziraphale’s head immediately snapped over in his direction. There was a slight relaxation in his posture. “Crowley.”

“Aziraphale.” He didn’t want Aziraphale to know he was desperately hoping for Aziraphale’s aid. At the same time, neither of them could deny he was here at the angel’s request. Crowley held up the parchment he’d been worrying between his fingers the entire way here and decided to go with the non-committal, “I got your letter.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said. He closed his book, setting it on the bench, and stood. “Let me close the door.”

Feeling unsure of what he was supposed to be doing while Aziraphale moved to create a bit more privacy, Crowley moved further into the chapter house. He tucked the letter inside his cloak and let his eyes sweep over the space. He wasn’t completely sure what chapter houses were used for, but the place felt important. He doubted demons were welcome, although demons were not really welcome in cathedral complexes generally. “You sure we can talk in here?” His eyes fell on the paintings along the wall and he frowned. Crowley moved closer for a better look.

“We shouldn’t be interrupted. Everyone is supposed to be at service for the next hour,” Aziraphale said. His footsteps returned. They came to a stop and Crowley had the distinct impression that Aziraphale was now looking at the artwork that had caught his attention.

“Is, uh,” Crowley resisted the urge to pull at his collar as his eyes swept over the murals. He really shouldn’t be surprised at the subject. Humans tended to be a bit obsessed with it - almost as obsessed as his superiors. Crowley, in contrast, tried hard not to think about it. He inclined his head at the mural. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Mmm.” Aziraphale ceased movement. After a pair of breaths, he said, “Yes. It’s the End.”

“Whatever were they thinking, decorating their religious buildings with it?” Crowley remarked. “Seems morbid, if you ask me.”

“It’s…” Aziraphale paused. “Well, it’s a bit different for them, I suppose. There’s a hope in it.”

“They’re being judged after dying horrific deaths,” Crowley pointed out. “It is quite literally a fate worse than death.”

“I don’t believe the humans see it that way.” Aziraphale’s voice suggested he was trying very hard to be tactful.

Crowley forced himself to take a deep breath in and let it out. He knew the anger he felt towards the murals was irrational. It was hard, sometimes, being immortal. There were benefits, of course. You got to see how things turned out. But that was the drawback, too. You were going to be there to see how things ultimately turned out. “You ever think about it? The End, I mean.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale said quickly. He paused. “That is,” his voice took on a very careful tone, “It’s what we’re working towards. The glorious triumph of Good over Evil. There wouldn’t be a reason for angels to be on Earth, otherwise. You?”

“Oh. Uh,” Crowley cleared his throat again. “Sure. The final triumph of Hell. My existence’s sole goal.”

Neither spoke. Something inside Crowley wanted to scream. He wanted to find a chisel or a can of paint and take the awful thing off the wall. It was going to be horrible. He had thought the 14th Century had been bad. He still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around what he’d witnessed - how the humans kept discovering worse ways to wage war, the years of famine, and how more than a quarter of the humans died over three years from what they now called ‘plague.’ And that wasn’t the End. The End would, by definition, have to be worse. Crowley couldn’t begin to imagine how awful what was coming would be - and he had a very strong imagination for a demon.

“Do they ever talk with you about it?” Aziraphale asked as they continued to look at the paintings. “Your superiors?”

“In general terms,” Crowley answered. “I’m not exactly the sort they discuss battle strategy with. I’m most likely to be a casualty.”

“That’s a bit maudlin,” Aziraphale remarked.

“Just the truth. I’m not a warrior. I wasn’t Created for that….” He stopped. Crowley might remember Heaven, and he might complain to Aziraphale how the music was not very good and the Host did not seem to know the definition of a decent drink, but there were parts he’d rather not discuss with the angel. Instead, he asked, “Do your people talk with you about it?”

“Not beyond routine training requirements and admonitions to be always at the ready, as we won’t know the day or hour.” Aziraphale recited. “Crowley, I do enjoy a good discussion about art appreciation, but service is only so long, and I believe we have things to discuss that are a bit more time sensitive than the End of the World.”

“Right.” Crowley agreed. He turned so his back was to the painting. “Right. I got your letter. You, uh, mentioned you wanted to talk.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale moved to face him. “I’ve been giving your request a good deal of thought. I would like to see if we could find a way to work together so that each of us is able to come out better on the other side. That’s why I wrote to you.”

“I have to admit, I’m,” ...relieved, touched, honored... No, not those. Something safer. “Impressed you were able to figure out when Lewis was going to come here, let alone convince him to give me your letter.”

“I left the letter with the family he’s treating,” Aziraphale admitted. “I had a lovely discussion with the mother and she offered to help.” He paused, a slight frown taking over his features. “Do you know, Crowley, I think she thought we were lovers?”

The demon shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“What? Really?” Aziraphale’s mouth fell open. Had Aziraphale never realized humans thought that? It happened dozens upon dozens of times!

“Really.” Crowley said.

“But….we’re enemies!” Aziraphale said.

“Only technically.” Crowley said. “Look, is any of this really relevant?”

“No,” Aziraphale agreed. “We need to stay focused on the issues at hand. This...what did you call the weapon? The one forged in hellfire?”

“Hell-blade,” Crowley answered.

“Yes. That.” Aziraphale said. “I want to help you, Crowley - truly, I do - but I need to make sure I’m not putting anyone else in danger. You understand that, right?”

Crowley nodded. “Yeah. Angel, yeah, I understand. I don’t want anyone to get hurt, either.” He hoped Aziraphale knew that - understood it. Crowley had seen more than enough examples of what violence did to people - supernatural beings and humans alike. For all his talk of his past in terms of sauntering, Crowley even remembered the War and knew it was no saunter. You couldn’t saunter when you were hiding in terror while watching someone get stabbed through the gut and hoping you were not next. He preferred to try to forget it. Like the Fourteenth Century, it was a hard thing to forget. He certainly didn’t want a battle to break out over a hell-blade (or anything else, for that matter).

Aziraphale was similarly contemplative. Coming to some internal decision, he squared his shoulders and motioned to Crowley. “Alright. Start at the beginning.” He took a seat on the bench opposite the Armageddon murals. “What does this hell-blade do that has Hell needing it back?”

“You have to understand,” Crowley started, “most demons are dumb.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows rose. “Meaning...?”

“They have no imagination. That’s not an exaggeration. They don’t have an original idea between the lot of them. They’ve been beside themselves for centuries because your side has flaming swords, and instead of coming up with something of their own, they’ve been trying to copy what you’ve been doing. Hell has a whole team of smiths trying to recreate those divine blades your side has. The only fire they’ve got available is hellfire, so they’ve been using that to forge the blades, but something about the combination wasn’t working,” Crowley said. “One of them had the bright idea to ask a human blacksmith to take a look, and brought the prototype up here. It caused a whole Incident. The hell-blade wasn’t supposed to leave Hell.”

“Whyever not?” Aziraphale asked. “Is it just for tormenting the damned?”

“Don’t know,” Crowley replied. “Between us, I suspect it’s more so that your side doesn’t know what Hell’s up to before Hell figures out how to make the blessed things work. Free intelligence for you there. You can tell your superiors and blame it on Carlak.”

“Carlak is the demon who decided to consult human blacksmiths, I presume?”

Crowley nodded. “Right. Carlak somehow gets someone to give him a corporation. I don’t know how he pulled that off, considering the paperwork gauntlet in that division. He did, though, and he ended up here. He even sought me out to let me know he was in town. I avoided him, but he kept coming round again like an outbreak of plague. My boss - uh, my human cover story’s boss - started to get suspicious and I had to spin some nonsense about a human family, and how Carlak works for them. Anyway. One day, Carlak just up and disappears. Next thing I know, Dagon wants to talk to me-”

“Who is Dagon, again?” Aziraphale interrupted.

“The Under-Duke of the Seventh Torment.” Crowley elaborated. “So Dagon gets in touch and says Carlak suddenly popped up in Hell because a demon hunter jumped him, discorporated him, and took the hell-blade.”

“Ah. And then Hell told you to clean up the mess,” Aziraphale translated. He pondered things for a moment. “Alright. I believe I’ve followed all of that. May I ask a few questions?”

“Like…?” Crowley prompted.

“Like - does this hell-blade harm angels?”

“As far as we can tell,” Crowley said, “No more than any human blade would. I mean, Carlak brought it to earth because it wasn’t flaming or anything.”

“Alright.” Aziraphale nodded. “And you know where the human who discorporated Carlak for the dagger lives? You said you tried to recover it on your own.”

“I know where he lives,” Crowley confirmed. “I spend most of my free time watching the place.”

“Good. If we can find a time when he will be away from his home,” Aziraphale said, “Then you and I could just...nip in and take it, I suppose. Did you have any trouble getting in before?”

“Not until, you know,” Crowley held up his gloved right hand. “The demon-proof box bit.”

“How is your hand doing?” Aziraphale asked.

“It’s fine. It was nothing.” Crowley said. “I just can’t open the box.”

“Your hand was covered in burns that you didn’t heal. That’s not nothing.” Aziraphale held out a hand. “Let me take a look.”

“It’s fine, Angel.” Crowley tried to sound like he meant it. When Aziraphale didn’t drop his own hand, Crowley sighed and removed his glove.

Aziraphale carefully pulled his hand closer. He studied the wounds, frowning. “This isn’t healing well at all. Basic warding sigils shouldn’t cause injuries like this. What is this demon-proof box?”

“He soaked it in Holy Water,” Crowley said. “It’s dried, but there’s a residue or something. That’s why I can’t open it. That’s all I need you to do, really. If you can open the box, I can do the rest. We should be able to get in and out in a quarter of an hour. I promise. It’s simple.”

Aziraphale ran a finger over one of the burns. Crowley tried, and failed, not to wince. Aziraphale made a concerned sound and placed his fingers on the burns again. The pain started to recede. The skin tingled. Conversationally, he asked, “Does he keep a schedule?”

“Huh?” The tingling in Crowley’s hand intensified to something that could fairly be called an itch.

“You said you’d been watching this human.” Aziraphale remarked, his concentration focused on Crowley’s palm. “It would be useful if you knew when he would be away from home.”

“Oh, um,” Crowley felt the last of the itchy sensation fade into a gentle warmth and looked down at where his hand was clasped between both of Aziraphale’s. “The human’s schedule. It varies, but I have a way to get him out if you have a time you can meet me.”

“I can arrange something.” Aziraphale said. “How is that feeling?”

“Er?”

“Your hand,” the angel clarified.

“Oh, um...doesn’t hurt anymore?” Crowley said.

Aziraphale removed his top hand and took a few moments to study the repaired skin on Crowley’s palm. “It appears to have healed all right. I wasn’t sure. I haven’t healed Holy Water burns before.” He turned Crowley’s hand over to see for himself that everything had healed properly. “Yes. It looks much better now.”

“Feels much better now.” Crowley agreed softly. His eyes met Aziraphale’s. The angel gave him a small smile and his face began to warm. Crowley quickly extricated his hand and shoved it into his glove. “So, uh, anyway. Meeting up. I can get away most evenings, if there’s one that works for you. No one really keeps track of me once my duties are complete. There are guards at Westminster’s gates, but they should let you pass. You’re…you know….” he waved a hand at Aziraphale in his monk’s robes.

“A man of the church?” Aziraphale offered.

Aziraphale was neither of those things, but he did look the part, so Crowley said, “Sure.”

“Why are there guards at the gates?” Aziraphale asked. “This is a church.”

“Beats me,” Crowley said. “I think Richard’s paranoid. He’s got guards everywhere.” Not that Crowley judged. He himself existed in a low level state of paranoia at all times. It was what kept his discorporations to a minimum and kept him from getting jumped and tormented by colleagues when he had to check in at headquarters.

Aziraphale looked confused. “Who is Richard?”

Crowley wanted to ask how Aziraphale could ask that, but this was Aziraphale and there were a lot of books in this abbey. He wondered vaguely if Aziraphale even knew what decade it was. “He’s the king.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale digested that information. “I thought Henry was the king. Didn’t he overthrow Richard?”

“That was almost a century ago, Angel,” Crowley reminded him gently. “We’ve had two more Henrys and an Edward since then.” He supposed he should be grateful that Aziraphale hadn’t thought he was talking about Richard the Lionheart. Then again, that was before Aziraphale arrived on this cold rock. “You know, we’ve been in this country too long. We should head back to Florence.”

“You never lived in Florence,” Aziraphale observed. “You always preferred Rome, and then, later, it was Venice.”

“More the reason to go,” Crowley declared. “You always said nice things about it.”

“I said it was hot,” Aziraphale corrected, “And dusty.”

“And they had very interesting books,” Crowley recalled.

“There are interesting books here,” Aziraphale interrupted.

Crowley continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “And the food was good.”

“Well,” Aziraphale conceded, “The food was rather good.”

“See? Once this business with the dagger is over, we should go back.”

“Why is this a we?” Aziraphale asked.

“Because if we,” Crowley motioned between them, “are both in Florence, it will make the Arrangement easier. We need to be able to communicate if we’re going to continue our sensible distribution of Heavenly and Infernal duties. Come on, Aziraphale. It’s warm there.” He held his arms out wide and added, “I don’t even know why you like this island.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “This place is nice.”

“It’s backwater.” Crowley said in a tone that was definitely not whining.

“Crowley, perhaps it would be a better use of our time to decide when we’re going to pull this heist of yours.” Aziraphale became completely business-like. “Now, I have various duties assigned this week that it will be difficult to avoid. The following week, I believe I could arrange to meet you at half past five on either Tuesday or on Friday. Do either of those work for you?”

“Friday would be better,” Crowley said. “Do you remember the pub where they had the special selection of wine for gentlemen of discerning tastes?”

"You mean the pub where you bribed the owner for access to his wine cellar?” Aziraphale translated. “Yes.”

“It’s about three blocks from where the human who stole the dagger lives,” Crowley told him. “We can meet there.”

“Wonderful.” Aziraphale gave a brisk nod. “Friday after next, half past five, at the bribery pub.”

“And if you need to get in touch before then,” Crowley said, “pass a letter through Lewis’s patients again. He’ll make sure it gets to me.”

“I’ll meet you as we agreed.” Aziraphale reassured him. “It should not be a problem to get away, and I don’t want to inconvenience your human cover’s boss.”

“It won’t be an inconvenience. Besides, Lewis has been carrying letters for the mother for a bit. One more won’t make a difference.” Crowley admitted. “Between us, it had me a bit worried at first. The letters? I’d seen them in his bag and the handwriting wasn’t his. I thought there might be some sort of affair or something. Nothing will make things go upside down like an affair.” Affairs were such an inconvenience. Humans got mad at each other, and then they got mad at Crowley for the crime of being acquainted with a human they were mad at and not immediately shunning said acquaintance.

“And?” Aziraphale asked.

“And what?” Crowley asked.

“The letters,” Aziraphale elaborated. “Anything to be worried about?”

“Oh.” Crowley shook his head. “No. I took a look at the one I delivered the day I came to see you. Turns out it’s boring human stuff. One of the lady’s daughters is getting married and the letter was wedding planning from the mother of the groom.” He shrugged. “Didn't read much past that. I really don't care what sort of flowers Henry's mum thinks are appropriate for the big day.”

A peal of bells rang out.

“Bless it!” Crowley looked towards the ceiling. “What was that about?”

“Service will be letting out.” Aziraphale translated. “You’d best get in position so you can head out with the others and not attract attention.”

“Terrific,” Crowley said in a manner to indicate it very much was not.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale grabbed his arm so that they were forced to look at each other. “I’ll meet you on Friday next. Half past five.”

“Terrific,” Crowley repeated. This time, it was. For the first time, it felt like this whole nightmare might just work out after all.

~*~ Chapter Four ~*~

“It’s getting cold.” Crowley blew on his hands. It was the third time since they’d taken up positions in this tiny alleyway that the demon had complained about the cold. It was getting ridiculous. This wasn’t like the first time they’d seen snow and wondered if the world was ending. Crowley was now fully aware of the concept of seasons.

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale said, “that is how autumn works.”

“It was never as cold in Florence.”

Ah. There it was. He wasn’t sure what had brought on Crowley’s sudden obsession with Florence. With Crowley, it could be anything from hearing humans might be doing something interesting there to believing the site was ripe for demonic tinkering. Regardless, he was tired of hearing about it. “Crowley, if you want to move to Florence, by all means, please do. No one is keeping you here.”

Crowley became very quiet. He shoved his hands into his armpits and concentrated on the ground in front of him, scowling. “It’s not that simple, you know.”

It was. Crowley was just having a snit because he wasn’t getting his way. Even that seemed rather silly. If Crowley wanted to move to Florence, he could. Hell seemed very keen on letting Crowley make trouble wherever he preferred, so long as trouble occurred. “You’ve spent the better part of 5500 years moving about where it pleased you,” Aziraphale pointed out. “Why is now any different?”

“Most of that 5500 years,” Crowley said, “we didn’t have an Arrangement, and the Arrangement works best when we’re in the same general vicinity.” He made a little hissing noise to emphasize that he was annoyed. “Forget it. We need to concentrate on getting the dagger.”

They both stared at the doorway on the opposite corner. Nothing happened. Nothing had happened for the last half hour. Aziraphale assumed that, whenever it was time to go, Crowley would say something. The demon, however, seemed content to glower from the shadows and shiver every so often. Ah well. Might as well make good use of time and get this bit over with. “I can’t go to Florence,” Aziraphale confessed, “because I’ve been assigned to England indefinitely.”

“What?” Crowley seemed genuinely surprised. Aziraphale filed that detail away as yet another piece of evidence that Crowley’s prior angelic rank was near the bottom of the hierarchy.

“Principalities are assigned to a group of humans - a tribe or a nation - based on the needs of Heaven,” Aziraphale explained. “I don’t get any say in it. Typically, we stay with our humans unless something happens, but after the events of the middle of last century, everything got a bit shaken up because some of the principalities were having, well, difficulties. Our superiors thought it might help to shuffle us about, so I was moved to England. I’m here until further notice.”

Crowley’s forehead furrowed. “You never mentioned that.”

“It wasn’t relevant. You kept going on about how you wanted to check out England when I mentioned the possibility of coming here.” Aziraphale said. “It was your grand adventure. ‘Nothing brings out human inventiveness like having to have your wits in those conditions, Angel. Just imagine what we’ll get to see.’ Remember?”

“Yeah, but…I mean, yes, I said that, but….” Crowley seemed to fumble a bit. “Well, I came because you were here.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t sure what to say about that. “I didn’t realize.”

“Yeah.” Crowley said. There was a beat before he said hurriedly, “I mean - as I said - the Arrangement only really works if we’re in the same vicinity. It’s not like I have arrangements with all of Heaven’s principalities or anything.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “Of course.”

“Coming along was the practical thing,” Crowley continued.

“Very practical,” Aziraphale agreed again.

“And-” Crowley froze as, across the street, the door opened. A well-dressed man stepped outside. At a gust of wind, he pulled his cloak tighter about himself. He latched the door and, with his head lowered, started off towards the opposite end of the street.

“That seemed too easy,” Aziraphale muttered.

“I sent him a letter a good two hours ago, telling him that I had proof he was engaging in Satanism and threatening to take the matter to the king if he didn’t meet with me,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale watched the man’s retreating back. “That was a gamble. You weren’t sure he would believe you.”

It felt as if Crowley was looking at him out of the corner of one eye, although with those blasted glasses, there was no way to be sure. “I described what he has in his house,” Crowley said carefully. “It’s not the sort of thing you want to come to the attention of a paranoid man with a lot of power.”

Aziraphale cast another look at the retreating man. He’d now reached the end of the street and was turning the corner. He wondered what sorts of things they’d find inside, which was followed quickly by the question of how Crowley always managed to get himself into these sorts of messes. “How long do we have before he realizes you stood him up?”

“Maybe an hour,” Crowley said. He detached himself from the shadows of the alley and stepped into the quickly descending night. Casting a furtive glance along the street, he moved towards the front door. Aziraphale wanted to ask if Crowley really thought that was a good idea, but then the demon opened the door and let himself inside.

He hadn’t expected it to be quite that easy. Shouldn’t there be a guard or at least a lock? Aziraphale glanced around. The street was still empty, likely courtesy of the cold fall wind whipping between the buildings. Ah, well. He followed across the street and paused beside the door. There was a lock; it was broken. Aziraphale stepped past it into the dim. The door shut behind him, throwing everything into the dark. He froze.

Some primal part of his mind began screaming about traps and being stuck in the dark with demons. Aziraphale didn’t need to breathe, but decided taking a long, slow breath would be a good idea. He then told those primal thoughts to shut right up, thank you very much. “Crowley?”

“Right here.” A hand brushed against his arm.

Aziraphale turned in the direction of the touch. “Is it too much to hope for a candle?”

“Oh. Right.” There was the sound of Crowley fumbling around in his cloak. Light blazed to life a moment later. Once his eyes adjusted, Aziraphale was able to take in the sheepish look on the demon’s face. “Sorry, Angel. I forgot about the….” He motioned at his eyes. His uncovered eyes.

Crowley never uncovered his eyes these days. Aziraphale couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the demon without dark glasses plastered firmly on his face. It had to be going on near a century by now. They were brighter than he remembered, and looked almost gold in the partial light of the single candle. The dark, slitted pupils seemed to emphasize the harsh lines that made up Crowley’s face in a way that not even good cheekbones and a smartly cut fringe could counteract. If he was being honest with himself, he’d forgotten how reptilian his counterpart could look.

He was staring, and Crowley had to have noticed. Needing an excuse, Aziraphale asked, “Do all demons have night vision?”

“Huh?” Crowley’s eyes blinked in a way that was inhumanly slow.

“Something I’ve been wondering for a bit,” Aziraphale said. “Seems like a useful skill to have, if you ask me, but I wasn’t gifted with it.”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Different levels of ability, but you sort of have to develop it if you’re going to spend considerable time….” Crowley pointed at his feet.

Aziraphale hadn’t spent much time thinking about the lighting and decor in Hell, but he would have thought the Fires Of Damnation were brighter than that. Then again, he wasn’t sure what sort of floorplan Hell used. Perhaps the Fires Of Damnation were confined to certain regions. “Fascinating,” he said, since it felt like a reply was needed. He looked back at Crowley. “Where to?”

“Um,” Crowley fidgeted, then pointed at a set of stairs. “Up there.”

Aziraphale tried not to comment on Crowley’s nervousness. Honestly. One would think the demon had never engaged in criminal activity before. He gave Crowley what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “After you.”

Crowley visibly squared his shoulders. His free hand fell on the banister. Holding the candle aloft, he began making his way up the stairs.

Aziraphale had expected them to squeak or make some other ominous noise, but the only sounds came from their boots connecting with the wood. There wasn’t even dust on the banister. Despite Crowley’s spooked behavior, the only thing at all spooky about the hall was Crowley himself.

At the top of the staircase, Crowley moved further towards the back of the structure. “It was in here last time,” he said, stopping before a door. Visibly suppressing a shudder, he pushed on it. It swung open easily. Crowley stepped into the room.

Pausing at the threshold, Aziraphale peered inside. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. That said, he hadn’t counted on old melee weapons and a collection of nasty looking blades. Paintings of grotesque beings hung on the opposite wall; he wasn’t sure if they were supposed to be dying humans, damned humans, or demons. And it definitely looked like some sort of demonic symbols were written on the floor in what appeared to be a failed attempt at drawing a Summoning Circle. “Why is your side like this?”

Crowley gave a hissing snort. “Who says he’s a supporter of my side?” He pointed at some neat Latin script around the edge of the Circle.

Trying to get a closer look, Aziraphale stepped inside the room. A painful force slammed into his stomach. The ground fell away. His head snapped back against something hard. He struggled to breathe. Somewhere, far away, he heard Crowley’s hollered “Angel!” as the light seemed to tunnel towards darkness.

Hands. There were hands on his face.

“Angel. Angel. Aziraphale.”

He blinked. His vision cleared. Crowley was looming over him, face terrified. Aziraphale took a deep breath. It didn’t hurt as much as he expected it to. He caught one of Crowley’s hands. “I’m alright.”

Crowley let out a ragged, hissing breath. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know, Angel. I never would have-”

With his free hand, Aziraphale managed to push himself to a seated position. “I’m alright, Crowley.” When the demon continued to clutch his other hand, Aziraphale glanced past him at the now darkened doorway. “I take it that’s warded.”

“I didn’t know,” Crowley repeated, upset and shaken. “I swear, Angel. I never would have thought - he’s one of yours. I don’t know why he’d ward the room against angels.”

“Probably,” Aziraphale said, not bothering to hide the disgust in his voice, “so we wouldn’t interfere.”

Crowley’s mouth hung open. Shock was written across his features.

“Just because you’re an angel,” Aziraphale said, “doesn’t mean you have to be stupid.* I’m well aware of the atrocities humans do while claiming to be acting as holy warriors for God. They claimed the crusades were one of ours, and you know how horrific that was. Now,” he patted Crowley’s hand with his free one and tried to ignore how the demon’s expression was shifting to admiration, “be a dear and go wipe away some of those symbols so I can help you with this whole mess.”

Crowley scurried to obey. He cast worried glances at Aziraphale as he covered one hand with the fabric of his cloak and rubbed at the door frame. After several attempts, he scowled and returned to the hallway. With a “Wait here,” he started down the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Aziraphale called after him.

“Oh. Right.” Crowley stopped mid-step and returned up the stairs. He set the candle beside Aziraphale. “Sorry about that. Be right back.”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale craned his neck to see but this time the demon did not explain. There was the sound of Crowley’s footsteps, heavier now, as he ran down the last few stairs and across the ground floor.

Everything became quiet. The candle flickered, throwing dancing shadows across the walls. Aziraphale rubbed at his head and told himself that the demon probably had a perfectly good reason for why he disappeared downstairs. Crowley - for all his demonic nature - had the oddest habit of being honest with Aziraphale. Most likely, he was trying to find something to remove the symbols.

Aziraphale got to his feet and moved back to the doorway. Careful not to enter, he angled the candle to get a look at the contents once more. In addition to what he’d spotted before, there was a small table with three books, a bell, a carved wooden crucifix, and a small pile of unlit candles on one end. A wooden box sat on the other. That must be the box with Crowley’s dagger.

Hurried steps on the stairs pulled his attention away from the room. Aziraphale held up the candle and caught sight of Crowley, a bottle of wine in each hand. He arched an eyebrow. “Really?”

“I’m not going to drink it,” Crowley scoffed. He checked the label. “Although this is a halfway decent vintage. Rupert’s a bit of a collector.”

“Rupert?”

“The man who lives here.” Crowley handed a bottle to Aziraphale and waved his hand over the top of the other. The cork removed itself. “I don’t trust any water in this place, so I figured wine may work for the-” he pointed at the doorframe. Crowley took a sniff from the bottle as he studied the frame. His eyes flickered to the bottle and, with a little shrug, he tried the wine.

“Crowley!”

“Just curious,” he protested. He held it out to Aziraphale. “Want to try it before I use the rest up to get you into this room?”

Aziraphale looked at the bottle.

Crowley shrugged again. “Thought I’d ask.” He moved to slosh the wine over the doorframe.

“Wait.” Aziraphale motioned for the bottle.

Crowley grinned and passed it to him.

It was a halfway decent vintage. Aziraphale passed the bottle back. “I’ve had better.”

Crowley let out a little laugh. “‘Course you have. Remember the stuff we used to be able to get in Rome?” He began pouring the wine down the wall. “Those were the days. You ever miss Rome?”

“Not particularly.” Aziraphale said. “It was fine, I suppose, but there was a lot of nonsense going on a good deal of the time, and the work hours became horribly long there at the end. You?”

“Me? I loved Rome. I’ll tell you, Angel, Rome was great for demons. All that political intrigue? We could just sit back in the shade, pair a nice red with a cheese plate, and let the humans do our jobs for us.”

“Did other demons do that?” Aziraphale asked. “Or was that just you?”

Crowley made a little exasperated noise. “I’ve told you. Most demons aren’t Capital B Bad. Not really.” He set the bottle on the floor and began scrubbing at a symbol. “We just have jobs to do and do them, same as you.”

“Yes, but your jobs involve recruiting people for eternal damnation,” Aziraphale told him.

Crowley’s shoulder hitched slightly. He pretended like it didn’t and Aziraphale pretended that it didn’t bother him to see it. “We don’t actually damn them, you know,” Crowley said, concentrating hard on the scrubbing. “They make the choice to damn themselves. We just let them know their options.” He picked up the wine bottle and poured the remaining liquid over the space he’d been working on. After a final check of his handiwork, he straightened. “Okay. I think I’ve got one of them off.” He glanced over at Aziraphale. “You alright with trying again?”

“Might as well.” Aziraphale looked up at the top of the doorway. There really was only one way to find out. He stepped inside the room.

Nothing happened.

He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. It felt like something ought to be said, so he nodded in Crowley’s direction and said, “Good job.”

Crowley was already moving towards the wooden box Aziraphale had spotted earlier. He held his hands above the box, winced slightly, and then stepped back. “It’s in there.”

“You can tell there’s something wrong with that box without touching it?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley shrugged as if it was no big deal. Crowley was many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. He had known that this box had been soaked in Holy Water before he touched it. The memory of Crowley’s blistered hand rose in his mind. Crowley had known and had tried to get in anyway. How awful must Hell be if Crowley had thought this was the better option? Had Crowley known he would only be hurt? How much Holy Water did it take to destroy a demon? It was everything Aziraphale could do not to look at Crowley. He forced himself to concentrate on the simple latch to the box, pulling it free and lifting the lid. Inside, nestled amongst linen, sat a sheathed dagger. “Is this it, then?”

Crowley nodded. “The sigil on the handle is Carlak’s name.” He reached to take it.

Aziraphale grabbed his wrist. “Best check it first.” He released Crowley’s arm and moved his own hand over the dagger. The slightest tinge of Holiness danced in the space between his palms and the surface of the metal. “He doused this with Holy Water, too. Why would he do that?”

Crowley flexed his fingers in a subconscious manner. “I suspect because he knows it’s important to demons.” He motioned in the direction of the box. “How the Heaven am I supposed to get that thing to my people if no one can touch it?”

Aziraphale lifted the dagger from the box. It felt rather anticlimactic. He supposed that was how things like this often were. He reached for the linen. Unlike the dagger, the cloth did not give off any aura of holiness. It was probably safe. He could just wrap….

Downstairs, a door opened.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley. Crowley blessed under his breath. Together, they looked around the room. It was still as windowless as it had been when they entered.

Footsteps began to move across the floor downstairs, then paused.

“He knowsss we’re here,” Crowley hissed.

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispered back. “I put that much together.” He wasn’t sure what it would look like to find a monk with a well-dressed man in a demon-hunting room, but…

Wait.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale reached for Crowley’s cloak. Tugging it, he pulled it free of the demon’s shoulders. “Open your wings.”

“What?” Crowley gaped.

“Do you trust me?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley hesitated. Footsteps started to fall on the stairs. A bit of fear flashed in those yellow eyes and, with the rip of very nice fabric, white feathers burst into being.

Aziraphale felt a stab of irrational jealousy. Even in the midst of a potentially existence-threatening situation, Crowley’s wings looked impeccable. Between the two of them, Crowley looked far more like how humans thought an angel should look, with his youthful features, striking cheekbones, dark hair that always appeared effortlessly silky, and those spectacularly glistening wings. Aziraphale, meanwhile, looked like... well ... a middle-aged priest. Which had been the idea.

The footsteps reached the top of the stairs. There was a slight hesitation before they started towards the room.

Aziraphale caught Crowley’s eye and crossed his arms across his chest. Follow my lead, he mouthed. He saw Crowley awkwardly try to take up a similar position.

A man appeared in the doorway.

Aziraphale arched an eyebrow and let his voice take on the tone that Crowley often whined was ‘horribly judgmental.’ “Hello, Rupert.”

The man paused.

Aziraphale saw a bit of movement and cleared his throat. Conversationally, he added, “I wouldn’t recommend going for a weapon if I were you.”

The hand that had been moving towards the man’s tunic stopped. “What,” he managed to get out, “are you?”

Crowley snapped his fingers.

Rupert staggered backward. His shoulders hit the side of the doorframe, and he slid down it until he was seated with his head propped against the place where Crowley had removed some of his handiwork. His face was blank.

“What did you do?” Aziraphale looked at Crowley.

“That was your plan? Did you think we were going to bluff our way out of a conflict with a demon hunter?” Crowley asked. There was a rustle and his wings slid back into place on another plane. His tunic repaired itself.

“I thought,” Aziraphale said, “you were the one who could talk his way out of anything.”

“Even I have limits.” Crowley pointed to his eyes. “And I can’t pass as an angel with these. Where’s the dagger? We need to get out of here.”

Aziraphale moved back to the box and returned to his inspection of the linen. It still appeared to be a normal piece of cloth. He lifted it and began wrapping the dagger in it. “What are you going to do with him?”

Crowley took a look at the scene, then nodded at the empty wine bottle he’d left near the door. “Let him sleep it off.” He turned to look at Aziraphale. “Did you know about him? Before tonight?”

The question felt like it came out of nowhere. “Of course not. My side would never….” Aziraphale had barely gotten the words out before an uncomfortable feeling came over him. On a whim, he opened the book on the top of the stack and paged through it. It was full of notes - names, locations, movements. It wasn’t limited to a few known demons; these looked like people. Humans. There were easily two dozen names here. Aziraphale looked up and met Crowley’s cold gaze. Crowley knew.

“How many?” The demon’s voice was low.

“Too many.” Aziraphale snapped the book shut. He wouldn’t, he realized, put it past some of his colleagues to have encouraged an overly zealous human to discorporate the demons he encountered and then looked the other way when that human branched out into murder. “Crowley? Ask him.”

Crowley nodded and moved to where Rupert was asleep against the doorframe. He knelt so he was at his eye level. “Who do you work for?”

“I work for God,” Rupert said.

“Do any angels give you orders?” Crowley asked.

“No,” Rupert said. Aziraphale felt a wave of relief.

“How do you know what God wants you to do?” Crowley pressed.

“I just know.”

Crowley, who Aziraphale knew had seen quite a few humans decide whatever horrible thing they’d come up with themselves was really a mission from the Almighty, shuddered. Unable to keep the creeping distress from his voice, he asked, “Who have you been hunting?”

Rupert recited, “Demons, witches, sinners-they all needed to be neutralized before they spread their evil-”

“Stop.” Crowley shuddered again. He stood and took two steps back from the man. As he stared down at him, his expression shifted from horror to acceptance to something closed. He didn’t blink. Silence began to stretch into the night. Crowley still didn’t move. In the background, the candle flickered and the shadows shifted. Something cold settled around them, and Aziraphale almost expected to see Death enter the room. The thoughts of Rupert’s human victims seemed to hover throughout the space.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale tried to break the spell.

“Sometimes,” Crowley said very quietly, “I think about killing them. When they…” He looked away. “I hate it,” he whispered. “I hate them. The ones who do such awful things to other humans.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said, because it felt like he should say something.

“No.” Crowley sounded far away. “You don’t.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’ve seen the worst Hell can dish out and humans like that,” Crowley pointed at Rupert, “Make demons look downright pleasant. He has a choice, and he chooses….” He made a little choking sound and repeated, “I hate him.”

Some part of Aziraphale wondered if Crowley would kill the man. Another part of Aziraphale wondered if he’d lift a finger to stop it if Crowley tried. He remained silent and waited as Crowley pulled himself together.

The demon stared at Rupert. The candle burned down. Outside, the fall wind whipped past the building. Everything was still - and then Crowley moved as fast as a striking snake. His hands were hidden from view, but his mouth stopped inches from Rupert’s ear. “You have violated the first of the Holy Commandments.”

“I have put no other gods before the Lord God.” Rupert intoned.

“The most Holy of Commandmentsss is to love God, but you have taken the name of God in vain,” Crowley hissed. “You have killed. You have ssstolen. You claim to do thessse things in God’sss name. In doing ssso, you have defiled the name of God. That is no act of love.”

“But they were evil.” Rupert said.

“You sssin every time you harm someone,” Crowley insisted.

Aziraphale found himself holding his breath.

“They were people.” Crowley’s voice broke. His head fell forward and the anger dissipated. “They were people,” he repeated mournfully. “And you were ordered to love them, too.”

Aziraphale looked away and pretended he didn’t hear Crowley’s choked sob. Even as the demon’s anger died, Aziraphale felt his own spring to life. There was something inherently unjust about what he had witnessed tonight. He wasn’t sure what Crowley had done back before the Beginning to get himself cast out. He knew Crowley’s explanation of guilt-by-association did not tell the whole story, but whatever it had been, it had not been the sort of evil that Rupert and others like him had done. Nonetheless, Crowley could never, ever return, while Heaven gave humans second chance after second chance. That Paul fellow came to mind; he had been a killer, and he’d had a pathway that Crowley was never afforded. Everyone just accepted that was the way it was. Even the most vile human had a shot at redemption, but no demon ever would. If you asked about it, you were told not to worry because it was part of the Plan, and besides, humans were at least capable of love, which was more than anyone could say of a demon. Yet it was Crowley who was crying over the brokenness of humanity while he, Aziraphale, the one who was supposed to be a being of love, stood back impassively and watched. It isn’t, a soft voice whispered, the perfectly groomed wings that make him look more like what an angel should be.

Aziraphale looked down at the box that had burned Crowley’s hands - that had marked him as Evil and unredeemable. It wasn’t his job to try to understand, but he desperately wished he could.

“We need to go.” Crowley’s ragged voice broke through his thoughts.

Aziraphale looked back. Crowley was now standing. At his feet, Rupert let out a snore. Aziraphale lifted the now-wrapped dagger from the table. “Alright,” he agreed. “Let’s go.”

~*~ Chapter Five ~*~

They hadn’t spoken since leaving that house. Crowley wasn’t sure what to say. You really didn’t come back from something like that. He’d been doing so well lately in getting Aziraphale to see him as Crowley first and a demon second. It had felt like maybe there was a chance that Aziraphale could, one day, see they were the same. Except, well, except they weren’t. Oh, they were from the same original stock, and they could both perform miracles, blessings, and temptations. That sort of equipment came baked in. Aziraphale, though, had never thought about killing humans, no matter how awful they were. And now Aziraphale knew Crowley had.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice was soft.

He tugged his cloak tighter against him, as if it would protect him from the chill in his blood. “Yeah?”

“Are you coming?” Aziraphale motioned towards the street in front of them. It was only then that Crowley realized he’d stopped walking.

He should have said something like ‘Yeah, Angel, of course’ and swept everything away as if all was fine and natural. If he acted like nothing of importance had happened, they could pretend as if it was true. They could go back to how it always was.

“Crowley?” A hand reached out to touch his arm. “Are you alright?”

A wooden voice that sounded nothing like his own asked, “Why did you do it?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Why did I do what?”

Crowley motioned back in the direction they’d come. “Help me.”

Aziraphale gave him a look that on anyone else might have looked concerned, but on Aziraphale also managed to look both concerned and judgmental at the same time. “You asked me to.”

“Yeah, but.” Crowley looked at his feet. He told himself to drop it. Instead, he looked back at the angel. “You could have said no.”

Something passed in Aziraphale’s eyes that looked disgustingly like pity and Crowley hated himself for asking. It disappeared and Aziraphale’s expression shifted to a mixture of judgmental boredom. The angel lifted one shoulder in half a shrug. “I’m sorry to say a bit of selfishness got the best of me. If they recalled you to Hell, they’d replace you, and any new demon would cut into my reading time.”

“Right.” Crowley agreed.

“Not to mention,” Aziraphale continued, “That I wanted to get a look at that weapon you told me about - figure out if it was a risk to Heaven. I was able to gain some good intelligence for my side. I believe you also noted that.”

He had. Crowley nodded and repeated, “Right.”

“So then,” Aziraphale’s eyes searched his face, although Crowley wasn’t sure what he was looking for. “We’re agreed. It’s simple pragmatism, when you get right down to it.”

“Yes,” Crowley said. “Pragmatic.”

“That’s one of the things I like about you, you know,” Aziraphale said, giving Crowley’s arm a little tug to encourage him to walk. Crowley felt his feet obey and allowed himself to fall into step beside the angel. “You appreciate the pragmatic. You’re quite a sensible demon of the world in that way. Like with your current human cover.”

Crowley felt his feet stumble. He managed to regain his footing, and glanced at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye. His mind whirled. He tried to come up with an excuse. The sinking realization set in that he wasn’t sure which part he was trying to excuse. Instinct told him that he should roll out what he told Hell - that it wasn’t that he wanted to learn how to make things a little less miserable and that there were lots of ways he could cause trouble in his role. But this was Aziraphale, who generally had a different outlook on things as compared to someone like Hastur. Should he mention the Fourteenth Century?

“Physicians can go anywhere, really.” Aziraphale continued, apparently blissfully unaware of Crowley’s distress. “Everyone needs them. No one ever questions them. You could get into all sorts of places a normal human never could, and no one would think anything of it. No one really questioned you when you were coming into Westminster to visit me, and they’re guarding the place like it’s a matter of national security.”

“Why is that?” Crowley asked, grateful for a segue into safer conversation. “Do they ever tell you anything?”

“Hardly.” Aziraphale snorted. “They’re just as bad as Upstairs, sometimes. But whatever it is, I doubt it will be important in the grand scheme of things.”

It was true and they both knew it. Humans tended to think every little thing could change the course of history. He sometimes wished that they were right and that beings like Aziraphale were wrong - that Plans weren’t written in stone and that choices could change Destiny and that maybe nothing was actually Ineffable. Crowley patted his tunic and felt the dagger wrapped securely in its linen, nestled against his ribcage. At least his history on Earth would be continuing a bit longer. “You want to come back to my place for a drink? I’ve got some of the good stuff squirreled away in a hidey hole not even Lewis knows about.”

“Sounds delightful,” Aziraphale replied. “You would not believe what I’ve been putting up with. The abbey thinks communion wine is an appropriate form of drink.” He sniffed.

“Thought it was supposed to be holy and all that,” Crowley observed, relieved that they were falling back into the familiar rhythms, that they were once again Aziraphale and Crowley and not whoever left that house.

“Dear boy, the first miracle He performed involved creating a whole lot of very excellent wine.” Aziraphale’s voice took on a tone that could only be considered prissy. “Terrible wine is the exact opposite of holy.”

“Your side does not get to claim good wine, Angel,” Crowley protested.

“We most certainly do.” Aziraphale huffed. “It was a miracle, after all.”

Crowley snorted, and they fell into a companionable silence. A new thought occurred to him. The dread began to feel thick and heavy. “Uh, listen, Angel. I need to warn you. I’m, you know, undercover and all on very important business for Hell, so my place is not exactly...er...the height of style. I mean - physicians are decently well off but apprentices don’t necessarily have, you know, the most stellar of accommodations.”

“I figured as much,” Aziraphale said, “when you told me you were living in a loft above a physician’s workroom.”

“Oh.” Crowley said. “Right. Terrific.”

“I have also deduced,” Aziraphale continued, “that he thinks you’re a human, considering that you have not been given nicer accommodations befitting the famed Serpent of Eden, and that we should avoid discussions of our respective employers during this drink?”

“That,” Crowley said, “would be an accurate deduction.”

“Are you still Crowley, then?” Aziraphale asked. “Or should I call you something else?”

“Crowley,” Crowley confirmed as they turned onto his street. “Well, mostly around here they just call me-”

“Anthony!” A voice hissed.

Crowley stopped. He let his gaze trace through the shadows until he saw a familiar form standing in a small gap between two buildings. As that was not where he typically expected to find his neighbors, he jerked his head at Aziraphale, then moved to join her. “Beatrice? Everything okay with Mark? Do you need Lewis?”

“No, I was lookin’ for you,” she said. “The king’s got a warrant out on you.”

Crowley stared. That was....remarkably fast. They’d only left Rupert’s house within the hour. He should still be asleep, for Someone’s sake! And since when did he know the king?

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Good evening, Madam. I’m afraid there must be some sort of mistake. Anthony is an apprentice. He’s not the sort of person the king would know exists.”

“No mistake, sir.” Beatrice paused and seemed to recognize Aziraphale’s dress. “I mean, Father.”

“Brother.” Aziraphale corrected.

Crowley ignored him. “Did Lewis send you to find me?”

“No, that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Beatrice said. “He’s already been arrested.”

“Arrested?!” Crowley exclaimed. “Lewis? I...that’s just ridiculous. He spends his free time studying astronomy. He likes maths. Whatever could he have done?”

“Treason,” Beatrice said. “I heard everything when they came for him. It was a right bit of street theater. They read out the charges and everything - said he was helping the former queen and the Duke of Buckingham try to overthrow the king.”

“Lewis?” Crowley repeated.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale grabbed his arm.

“Not now, Angel.” He turned back to Beatrice. “This has to be a mistake. Lewis would never be involved in something like that.”

“They were looking for you, too,” she continued, “but the doctor said he’d acted alone and that you had nothing to do with it. They don’t believe him. There’s a man waiting to question you.”

Crowley looked in the vague direction of the road that would take him back to his lodgings.

“There’s nothing you can do,” Beatrice added. “They took him to the Tower. My Mark thought we should try to find you if we could do it without...you know...looking like we were.”

“But-”

“Thank you, Madam.” Aziraphale cut in. “I will make sure he stays out of the king’s hands.”

Beatrice bowed her head. “Thank you, Father.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s hand found his. Crowley felt fingers interlace between his own. There was a firm tug. “Come.”

“But Lewis-” Crowley started again.

“We’re going.” Aziraphale tugged harder. With his free hand, he made the sign of the cross in Beatrice’s direction. “A blessing to you and your Mark. May your lives know peace.”

“Aziraphale-” Crowley tried a third time.

The angel caught Crowley’s eye. His voice took on a tone that brooked no arguments. “We need to leave. Now.”

~*~

There was room at the Inn. Crowley let Aziraphale do the talking. He lurked in the shadows while money exchanged hands, his mind spinning. His fingers brushed against the hem of his cloak. It was torn. He needed to patch it. He took better care of his things. He didn’t let them get torn.

Humans who had seen Crowley without his glasses had one of two reactions - they either recoiled in disgust or they asked to make a deal with the devil. Lewis had seen his eyes but done neither. He’d let Crowley demonstrate his knowledge in human herbalist techniques and judged him fairly. While Crowley preferred to say that Lewis was his employer and instructor, the man had also tried to be his friend. Friends were not something Crowley had many of. There was….well, there had been...hmm.

“Let’s go.” Aziraphale appeared at his side. “They’ll bring up some bread and beer in a bit.”

There was Aziraphale. Aziraphale was his friend. Crowley felt himself nod, even as his mind pointed out that Aziraphale was not his friend. Aziraphale was an angel. Angels were his hereditary enemies. Aziraphale was supposed to destroy him. Maybe not now. He was somewhat useful to Aziraphale now, and if he stayed useful, the status quo could continue, but someday…. Well. Everyone agreed that the Earth was temporary and that everything would end in a final battle. The Final Battle.

That was the thing about war. You could only outrun it so long. Sooner or later, it always got you. And when it was time for the Final Battle, Aziraphale wouldn’t need him anymore and….

“You need to get out of your head.” Aziraphale’s voice was soft but firm.

Crowley realized they’d walked upstairs and were now outside a door. Aziraphale was opening it and leading him into a room. “I’m fine.”

Aziraphale pushed him inside and shut the door behind them. “You’re not fine. You’re a complete wreck - more than usual, since you usually hide it better.” He took both of Crowley’s hands in his and caught his gaze. “Crowley, I need you to listen to me. I know today was a lot. What happened at Rupert’s was difficult, and now your life here has been completely pulled out from under your feet. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed. Sometimes, there isn’t a way to fix things.”

Why not? He was a demon. He could do demonic miracles. Maybe the guards wanted fortunes. Everyone had a price. He said nothing.

“You need to think about this rationally. You need to deliver that dagger to Hell.” Aziraphale said. “If you get discorporated before you can do that, then you’ll never be permitted back on Earth.”

Crowley wanted to tell Aziraphale that he was clever and he would be fine. Crowley knew that was a lie. He was rubbish at even the smallest heists like breaking and entering to steal a weapon out of a home. Not to mention that he wasn’t brave like Aziraphale. He might think about saving a human who had been kind to him, but deep down, he knew he wouldn’t be able to do it. He really had been a rubbish angel, hadn’t he? Maybe Aziraphale was right. Maybe he was always destined to be a demon and he didn’t choose anything….

Something shook him. “Crowley.”

He blinked. It was only then that he realized his glasses were missing. “I’m cold.”

Aziraphale waved a hand at the hearth. A fire blazed to life. “Crowley, come over here and sit down. We need to talk about this.”

It wasn’t like there was anything to talk about, but Crowley obeyed. He shivered and sunk onto the floor before the hearth. There was a rustling noise. A moment later, something heavy was draped across his shoulders. It smelled of dust and stale air.

Aziraphale appeared in his sight line again. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I’m fine.” Crowley said. If he said it enough, he might be able to imagine it into being. He could imagine a lot of things into being. Surely, he could imagine being fine.

“You aren’t.” Aziraphale said. “You’re about five minutes away from doing something self-destructive or getting blindingly drunk.”

Crowley tried to glare at him. It was hard to glare without his glasses. He was a lot less menacing when Aziraphale could see his eyes.

A knock came from the door. “That’s the beer, so let’s go with Option B, shall we?” Aziraphale disappeared momentarily. Voices came from the door, and then the angel was back with a pitcher. He set it in front of Crowley.

Crowley took it. He looked at Aziraphale over the top of the pitcher. When the angel waved a hand in his direction, he began to drink directly from the pitcher. It wasn’t strong enough to dull everything, but it was a good start. Maybe when he got through with the pitcher, it would be enough to let him curl up here in front of the fire, wrapped in what now seemed to be the blanket from the bed, and he could sleep. Sleep seemed like a good idea. He could go for a week or so’s nap. Things would be easier to think through after a nap.

Except….that would be too late, wouldn’t it? Justice wasn’t a real thing - that was something Crowley had come to understand a long time ago - but what the king would deem justice would be swift. He set the pitcher down and wiped at his mouth with the back of one hand. “He’s innocent, you know.”

Aziraphale looked at him skeptically.

“Yes, yes,” Crowley waved a hand in his direction, “I know. According to your side, innocent people don’t get arrested, do they?”

“The sarcasm is unnecessary,” Aziraphale said coldly. “You of all beings should know how my side views innocent people getting arrested.”

The firelight caught off the cross around Aziraphale’s neck and Crowley inclined his head towards the angel. Telling oppressed people that oppression was bad wasn’t exactly innocent from Rome’s point of view, but the man had had a point, so he conceded, “Fair enough.”

“I’m going to ask you something, and before you throw a biting remark at me, I want you to think about it.” Aziraphale said. “When you delivered the letter about the wedding, what did the doctor tell you it was about?”

Crowley wanted to roll his eyes, but Aziraphale had gotten him a fire and alcohol, so he at least owed the angel the courtesy of considering the thought. Lewis hadn’t told him anything about it, had he? Just asked him to deliver the letter…. No. No, that wasn’t right. He’d asked and received an answer. “Instructions,” he’d said, “about how to take the medicine.” Crowley shook his head. “But that makes no sense. He said he’d written it, but he hadn’t. It was about the wedding. Why lie about that? And why would the king have a problem with it? Surely, he already knows. Stanley is one of his top people.”

Aziraphale stared at him.

“What?” Crowley asked. He was missing something. It was a big something, too, if Aziraphale was aware of it. “Aziraphale - what?”

“Margaret Stanley is Henry’s mum?” Aziraphale ran a hand over his face. “Oh, sweet Earth. No wonder everyone’s up in arms.”

“You know this woman?” Crowley asked. “You didn’t even know who the king was.”

“Of course I know her,” Aziraphale said. “She’s very devoted to the church.” He sighed. “Crowley, her son is in exile in France because he has a claim to the throne. Don’t you see what they were doing?”

No. He thought about it, though, before responding. He’d be blessed if he let Aziraphale know he didn’t know. He was supposed to be the one up on current events. Obviously treason was involved. Beatrice said the other plotters were the Duke of Buckingham and the former queen. Now that he was thinking about it, the woman from Westminster did look quite a bit like the former queen - the one who had been married to Edward and people had complained about. It would explain a lot of the odd occurrences at the abbey. Crowley returned to his pitcher of beer while his mind worked through it. The former queen’s daughter and this Henry in exile…. The story he began to piece together was more treasonous than what he and Aziraphale typically got up to and made their activities earlier in the day look like child’s play. Crowley lowered the pitcher. “Well,” he said, “shit.”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale said.

“They really were going to marry their kids off to unite their claims to the throne and overthrow the king, huh?” He held out what was left of the beer to Aziraphale.

“That’s my read.” Aziraphale replied, motioning for Crowley to keep the pitcher.

“Seems kind of wild,” Crowley opined.

“We’re an angel and a demon who conspired over the last month to steal a Hellish weapon from a religious zealot,” Aziraphale reminded him.

“Yes, but,” Crowley protested, “We always do that sort of thing.” He frowned at his pitcher. “Lewis knew. Bless it.” He sighed. A traitor’s death was an incredibly cruel way to die. “He’ll be executed for this.”

“Most likely,” Aziraphale said. “Which brings us to you. You’ve been implicated in the plot. In all fairness, you are an accessory to it. We need to get you out of the country as quickly as possible.”

“Wait - what?” Crowley set down the nearly empty pitcher.

“Unless you fancy getting hung, drawn, and quartered?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

“No, but-” but you’re here. And I won’t be. Crowley rubbed at his eyes. It was all too much. This whole day had already been on the road to Too Much before this whole treason part kicked in. “Where would I even go?”

“Florence,” Aziraphale replied matter-of-factly.

Crowley dropped his hand and looked at the angel. “Florence?”

“You’ve talked about wanting to move to Florence for a bit now. If I recall correctly, it has many things to recommend it. It’s warm. It has good food. It has good wine. It has interesting humans doing interesting human things.”

“The Arrangement….” Crowley started. “You’re assigned here. You can’t just up and leave with me, and if I’m in Florence and you’re in England, how would that even work?”

“I suppose we’ll both have to get by doing our jobs for a few years.” Aziraphale conceded. “But, I can always be reassigned.”

“Yeah,” Crowley groused. “Sure. One day, Michael is just going to wake up and go, ‘Gee, that Aziraphale really needs to be moved to another post for no reason at all.’”

“You’re a clever demon,” Aziraphale said. “I’m sure you can give them a reason.”

Crowley snorted. “What do you want me to do? Get a Medici elected the next pope?”

“If anyone can pull something like that off, dear, it’s you.” Aziraphale patted his knee.

Crowley shook his head and turned his eyes back to the fire. He pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “What about Lewis? I know he’s guilty and all, but….”

“Let me worry about that.” Aziraphale said.

Crowley looked at him out of the corner of one eye. He could not think of one good reason Aziraphale should lift a finger to help a random human he’d never met.

Aziraphale noticed his gaze and gave him a sheepish look. “Let’s just say I am well aware that I owe you one from that whole thing with Darius.”

“Who?” Crowley tried to remember a Darius. For his existence, he couldn’t recall anyone significant with that name.

“The king who kept pet lions? He had a whole den of them,” Aziraphale offered. “My one job was to keep one of his counselors safe, but I was distracted by some scrolls and didn’t notice when Darius passed that stupid law that everyone had to worship him or be fed to his lions. By the time I learned what had happened, my charge had been imprisoned with them. He should have been eaten, but he emerged the next day unscathed saying an angel had saved him.” It was Aziraphale’s turn to watch Crowley out of the corner of his eye. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Oh. That. Crowley squirmed. He remembered that. He’d been there when the people had thrown the poor sod to the lions, and had worried that Aziraphale might get recalled if his charge was eaten. Aziraphale had just started to go for drinks with him, and Crowley didn’t want to risk losing the one angel that did not want to smite him on sight. “He was openly rebelling against the king,” Crowley said. “Open rebellion against authority figures is typically supported by my people, you know.”

“Mmm.” Aziraphale said.

“Wasn’t my fault that the humans misinterpreted it,” Crowley added. He’d had quite a lot of Explaining to do in Hell for that one.

“I still owe you one for that.” Aziraphale said. “So let me repay you and help your friend.”

He didn’t deserve Aziraphale. Crowley knew they weren’t allowed to say they were friends, but Aziraphale had been the best friend he could ever have imagined. He didn’t deserve a friend like Aziraphale, but he was glad he had one. “I’ll find a way to get you to Florence,” he promised.

“I have every faith you will,” Aziraphale agreed.

“Not sure how I get to Florence,” Crowley admitted. “Unless you happen to have a friend with a boat looking for a passenger who can’t pay?”

“Hmmm.” Aziraphale was thoughtful. “I don’t, but I might have one with a smuggling ring who is in desperate need of a favor.”

“You know smugglers?” Crowley was dubious. What were they smuggling? Books?

“Don’t look so surprised. I know lots of interesting people.” Aziraphale said primly. “I lead a very exciting existence.” He reached out and took Crowley’s hand again. “It’s not fine now, but it’s going to work out. You’re going to fulfill your mission for Hell and meet me in Florence. I’m going to see what I can do about your friend and prepare for the orders to go thwart you after you start making some trouble my superiors can’t ignore. Good wine, good food, good books. All of that.”

There was something about Aziraphale saying it so confidently that awoke Crowley’s inner idealist. He wasn’t sure if it was that Aziraphale was a guardian or if it was just simply because Aziraphale was Aziraphale, but he had a way of making you feel like things would be okay, in the end. “Thanks, Angel.” Crowley said. He gave the angel’s hand a squeeze. “I appreciate it.”

Aziraphale squeezed his hand in return and gave him a small smile. “What are immortal enemies for?”

~ finis ~

Notes

There is a lot of this that is historically inaccurate or historically questionable. I took liberties for purposes of storytelling. That said, as I discussed above, the background of this story is pulled from history. The War of the Roses is complicated and everyone has an Opinion. I tried very hard to keep any Opinions I had out of this and to frame it such that Crowley and Aziraphale don’t care much who should be king. Crowley’s concern for Lewis of Caerleon (who did survive) arises out of Lewis showing Crowley kindness. Aziraphale knowing Margaret Beaufort is a nod to Margaret’s reputation for providing financial support to religious causes. Once we're allowed to reveal ourselves, I'll drop some links on my Tumblr about more War of the Roses stuff.

The paintings Aziraphale and Crowley look at in the Chapter House are real and would have been on the walls at the time this story was written. Westminster Abbey's website (www.westminster-abbey.org) has some pictures. The website was a great source of information while I was researching this story (although I did take some liberties for the purpose of narration).

We know from canon that Crowley is in Florence when Leonardo da Vinci lived there, as there’s a footnote where they drink wine and discuss the Mona Lisa and helicopters in Florence. The Mona Lisa is believed to have been painted between 1503 and 1506. That means Crowley was also likely there in 1513, when a Medici did become Pope (Pope Leo X). During Leo X’s tenure, the practice of granting indulgences gave rise to Martin Luther writing the 95 Theses. I’m not saying that the Reformation started because a demon wanted to get his angel friend to live in the same town as him, but…

I portray Crowley as being able to walk on consecrated ground. In the novel, Crowley, Hastur, and Ligur meet in a churchyard. These spaces are typically consecrated, yet the demons seem to be fine and Hastur and Ligur had been lurking there for quite some time due to Crowley’s tardiness. Since this is a bookverse fic, I took the position that if demons can stand around in a churchyard then Crowley can also stand in a cathedral.

*The asterisk denotes a Book Quote. This section shows up in two places in this fic, but both are from the same passage in the book (with minor tweaks). It’s from when Aziraphale talks with men who note how flammable his bookshop is. The actual lines in the book are “And Aziraphale would nod and smile and say that he’d think about it. And then they’d go away. And they’d never come back. Just because you’re an angel doesn’t mean you have to be a fool,” and it’s found at Page 61 of my copy (the white cover).

Comments

[shoebox_addict]

This was so good! Your writing is impeccable and so engaging, and I love the way you wrote them. Crowley, especially, just really sounded like Crowley. I know nothing about the War of the Roses, but this was so fun to read. Well done!

[secret_kraken]

Hi shoebox_addict! Thank you so much! I'm so glad you enjoyed it and liked Aziraphale and Crowley. I am thrilled to hear that you thought Crowley sounded like Crowley. I love him. He's so complex and interesting in canon.

I knew nothing about the War of the Roses until a few years back when I had YouTube on autoplay and a documentary came on after the show I'd been watching. I sat there and binged four-episodes about it and then started Googling. When this prompt came up, I went through various historical things related to the UK (Aziraphale appears very British to people; he had to have spent a long long time there) and figured it offered a good opportunity for Aziraphale and Crowley to be obliviously caught in the history. I tried to write this story so it could be an enjoyable read regardless of whether someone had previously encountered the War of the Roses. I'm glad it worked. :)

Thank you again for reading and for your lovely review.

[hsavinien]

Strong characterization! I like the details about previous and future hijinks- get a Medici elected Pope indeed. :D

[secret_kraken]

Thank you so much. I really tried to find their voices and make them seem like them. I'm so glad they felt true to character!

The previous and future hijinks - my original plan for this story was to tell a series of events in which Aziraphale and Crowley were oblivious to the things going on around them. Once I started getting into the writing, though, I realized that would be too much for me to accomplish in time (I had to get an extension just for this part). I tried to keep some of the details as "noodle incidents," and I'm glad they were fun to see in the story.

Thank you so much for your kind review!

[curiouslissa]

I love the journey they took here: from Aziraphale's annoyance and their total miscommunication to working together and supporting each other.
And the way Crowley always tried to live close to Aziraphale :)<3 Very practical of him, sure!
Interesting and clever story, thank you!

[secret_kraken]

I love the journey they took here: from Aziraphale's annoyance and their total miscommunication to working together and supporting each other.

Thank you! I tried to pull on their dynamic in the book. There are a couple times where, despite their close relationship, they talked past each other, so I figured that this was probably something that happened from time to time. I used some inspiration from the Cold War themes of the novel to make the miscommunication over a weapon, and then let them find a way to work through it and come out stronger on the other side. I'm so glad you enjoyed their journey through these events.


And the way Crowley always tried to live close to Aziraphale :)<3 Very practical of him, sure!

He's a very practical demon. He's just maximizing his time for sloth and such. It certainly has nothing to do with how his enemy is sort of his friend or anything. ;)


Thank you so much for your review! I'm thrilled you enjoyed this story.

[cupidsbow]

This is absolutely spectacular! I love the caper, I love the tension between Aziraphale and Crowley, I love the background politics and shenanigans. Thank you so much, Santa.

[secret_kraken]

Thank you, cupidsbow! I'm so glad you enjoyed it! My original idea was that one or both of Aziraphale and Crowley was somehow involved in the passing of the (real) letters but that they didn't recognize the impact of them. I decided to layer the caper on top of it; it gave them a reason not to be as curious as they might be in other circumstances.

I'm glad the tension worked. One thing I like in the novel from a characterization angle is that there are times that they have this tension because they've got conflicting goals, despite the same ultimate goal. The scene with Aziraphale getting distracted because he gets the book while Crowley is having a silent panic attack about what Hell will do to him is just so layered and I wanted to try to find part of that dynamic here. I also tried to put in some nods to the Cold War themes and what it might mean to have an enemy-who-is-sort-of-a-friend on the other side. While I cannot take credit for the background historical politics and shenanigans, I find this period in history fascinating and I love that the backdrop worked.

Thank you so much for your review!

[maniacalmole]

Crowley is the perfect amount of cool and awkward, unconcerned and an anxious mess XD

The whole ‘fussy’ debacle is so good, too

““I beg your pardon?” His voice made clear he most assuredly did not.” Wonderful

It’s so good to read absolutely unrufflable Aziraphale :D CANNOT be bothered. WILL NOT be threatened.

Oh my god, Crowley WOULD go into medicine after the plague…I’m emotional.

Aziraphale just being mildly sympathetic about the queen’s loss of her husband and having no idea what a big deal it was is so funny

““You have to understand,” Crowley started, “most demons are dumb.””” XD

The letters are wedding planning XD Yes, just frivolous stuff!

Aziraphale healing Crowley—classic. Aziraphale not understanding that Crowley wants to stay in the same city as him, always—PAINFUL but CLASSIC. But I’ve never actually read of a reason WHY Aziraphale ends up in England, and it makes sense! He does fit there very well, as it turns out, though :)

The ways they avoid telling each other ‘thank you’, oh my gosh, infuriating and so good

The whole scene where Crowley breaks down crying, but especially, “It isn’t, a soft voice whispered, the perfectly groomed wings that make him look more like what an angel should be”

Crowley and the lion’s den!

“I’m not saying that the Reformation started because a demon wanted to get his angel friend to live in the same town as him, but…” <3

The pain and longing and fear and hesitation and relief but not quite because they’re not quite ready yet! This destroyed me I loved it