A big Thank You to our Pinch-Hitters!
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go_exchangeTitle: Hot Enough
Fandom: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett (Novel)
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: A very mild T
Summary: In the 1930s, an exiled demon summons Aziraphale to the hazy heat of Australia. Of course, only a terrible emergency would lead Crowley to telegram demanding an angel travel halfway around the world.
To answer the question: How Aziraphale came to hate Australia.
CW: gratuitous mentions of cricket
Mod Note: click on the (2) image thumbnails for the full resolution!
“Hot enough for you?”
Aziraphale managed a withered little smile. The man tipped his hat to him and shoved his way deeper into the crowd.
The reek of pressed-in humans was something Aziraphale rarely endured with the stoic patience befitting of a civilised angel. In Australia in April, the smell of sweat was almost too much to bear. His hat gave some relief from the sunshine, but it was a hot band of discomfort around his head at the same time. His stiff collar was a visitation of Hellfire on the Earth.
The crowds were half solemn and half jolly, in that uncomfortable way humans had when they weren’t sure if they were to be celebrating or mourning. Many of the men stood in lines with slouch hats, or with bright white sailor caps. Here and there in the crowd a lady more sensibly held a pale pastel parasol, shading her head. Ridiculous, these customs that didn’t allow men to wear airy clothes or carry shelter. Humans always had to make things hard on themselves and, by extension, on any celestial agents in their midst.
Aziraphale searched the crowds for a figure in unseasonable black, trying to put down a slightly elevated heart rate to the heat and crowd. He was not sure when he had got in the habit of searching crowds, his senses on alert for a particular light, almost slithering step, a particular sway and the sound of a sibilant voice. It was natural, after all; Aziraphale had as little contact with the Hierarchy as could be managed without a complete breach of courtesy, and as a result Crowley’s was the only regular presence in his existence since the Beginning. It was just fortunate that Crowley, despite his damned soul and several irritating habits, was surprisingly easy to get along with, and reasonably entertaining company.
And Aziraphale had been quite happily occupied over the nineteenth century. No time for a busy angel to be lonely. There was the Lord’s work to be done, of course, and his quite fascinating bookshop, and his excursions into publishing, and his club, and the delightful pursuit of the sleight-of-hand humans chose to substitute for real magic. The Devil made work for idle hands, and is Aziraphale’s were ever likely to be idle, there was doing the occasional temptation and fudged paperwork so that Hell wouldn’t notice quite how determinedly Crowley was napping. Crowley had quite a lot to make up for, of course, under the terms of the Arrangement, and Aziraphale would be very firm on the subject. Then of course the silly boy had got himself temporarily exiled a small town on the other side of the world on the grounds that Sloth, while admirable and to be encouraged among humans, was unacceptable in a demon with a quota to fulfil.
Aziraphale, of course, hadn’t followed him. He hadn’t been lonely in the slightest. No, he was content to let Crowley cool his heels until Dagon forgot about it a bit, and then come crawling back and take care of Aziraphale’s miracles for a few decades to make up.
He had no excuse for packing up and leaving on the next boat when Crowley had telegrammed to him. AZIRAPHALE. COME TO ADELAIDE AUSTRALIA. URGENT.
What possible trouble could he be in, to risk sending openly for his opposite number? Aziraphale’s palms were wet with more than heat, and he gave up all pretence and searched the crowd.
There. Crowley was slouching abysmally among the solemn revellers, looking disgustingly cool, a graceful figure in black among all the summer shades of grey and brown. Some of those newfangled celluloid sun cheaters hid his golden gaze from view. Sensible, obviously, and a saving in miracles, but Aziraphale felt a faint pang at not being able to see the familiar eyes.
His grin had sharp teeth, and showed no anxiety or sense of danger, certainly not enough to justify the telegram. “Hot enough for you, Aziraphale?”
And that was that. A demon probably wasn’t even capable of missing anyone, even someone who was the closest thing he had to a friend. Aziraphale hadn’t missed him at all. And Aziraphale certainly shouldn’t admit to coming running in a panic at a demon’s bidding, wishing he had his flaming sword. He had some self respect, after all.
“I’ve always meant to see how Australia has been getting on.” His chilly dignity was somewhat spoiled by a blowfly trying to make its place on the corner of his mouth, and having to spit to dislodge it. There were a lot of flies, now that the Europeans had come to the continent. Something about all the animals they brought. All the shit they had brought, Crowley might say. Aziraphale, naturally, didn’t even think the word. He was an angel, after all.
Aziraphale risked a discreet miracle to keep the flies away. None seemed to be bothering Crowley, which was quite unfair.
“Going up to a picnic party after this,” Crowley said, as if to himself. “Only time of the year two-up is legal, and encouraging gambling looks good in my reports. Should be cooler down by the River, and the sandstone cliffs are pretty, you’d like them. There’s a bus, but it’s a hot and smelly. I’ve got something better. Picked it up a few years ago. Give you a lift, if you like.”
Aziraphale maintained a cold silence, even though his heart wanted to melt a little in the heat. Cowley was being, not just polite and non confrontational as befitted old enemies, but nice. Aziraphale knew he should have been outraged that there was no emergency, but…Oh, it was as clear as the sunlight above. Crowley missed him, and had resorted to calling for him. Not that he could ever say such a thing.
“I’ve got some excellent cheese and grapes and chardonnay.” Crowley’s tone was almost pleading as if he was afraid Aziraphale would leave after taking all the effort to cross God’s good globe, the dear boy. “With some ice it keeps so cold in my picnic basket that you’d almost think it was a miracle. And some of those little soft white bread rolls you like so much. Ah. They’re unveiling. Glad you could make it for this.”
There was a final flurry of trumpets, and the National War Memorial was unveiled in all its marble glory.
An angel and a demon stared together at the giant marble relief, spreading its wings over the bronze human figures at the top of the granite steps.
Aziraphale was speechless.
“Not a bad likeness,” Crowley said, nudging him. “I mean, they took some liberties with my description. Shaved more than a few pounds off, added some muscle. Did a good job of the face, though.”
Aziraphale managed a single word. “Crowley.”
“Now, don’t be like that. It’s a compliment. Spirit of Duty. Suits you.”
“Crowley, you can’t…I can’t… Why is there a huge naked statue of me in the middle of this city?”
“Not entirely naked, be fair. You’ve got your big flaming sword back. Although, funny thing, it looks modest from the road, but if you stand at just the right angle and look up, they did a surprisingly accurate job of modelling your…”
“Whatever would Michael say?”
“He’d say: what an impressive sword.”
“Vainglory.” Aziraphale twisted his hands in distress. “He’d say it’s disgraceful vainglory. He’d never believe it wasn’t my fault.”
“He can’t be that down on vainglory. There’s enough paintings and sculptures of him in the altogether wrestling Satan, and let me tell you, the big boss does not find that amusing, even if he’s not portrayed as quite so well endowed in the sword department as you.”
“It’s different when it’s him.” Aziraphale wailed.“He’s an archangel. I’m supposed to be undercover.”
“Thought I’d give the humans a treat.”
“With a giant effigy of my…sword?” A sudden suspicion grasped Aziraphale’s heart. “What do you mean, a surprisingly accurate job? What do you know about my flaming sword?”
Crowley was suddenly very interested in the tips of his snakeskin toes. There was a pink tinge to his cheekbones. “Not my fault that you used to like meeting up at the public baths.”
“You weren’t supposed to pay attention.”
“Like you didn’t.” Crowley stepped closer, and his voice was sultry and heated as the weather, all of a sudden.. “I know you did. And came all this way, didn’t you, angel?”
The burning heat of the Australian sun had flushed Aziraphale’s cheeks bright red. There was no other explanation for the way he could feel them burning. He turned away, and let the crowds melt away in front of him.
“Oh, come on, Aziraphale, it was a joke—hey!” Crowley was apparently finding that the crowds only stayed melted where Aziraphale passed, and closed in quite suddenly behind him. “Look, I’m sorry—”
Aziraphale marched resolutely on. He did not like the demon’s company, and he did not like Australia, and he was determined never to endure either ever again.
“Watch out for the drop bears!” Crowley called, and Aziraphale ignored him.
The tram had been late. Just over eleven minutes late, in fact, and Aziraphale, who was very good at maths, had registered the six hundred and sixty-six seconds with a small but significant upward tick of anger at each. The open windows had done little to relieve the harsh summer heat or the effect on his fellow passengers.
“God, what a bloody pong,” a young man said sympathetically, helping Aziraphale from the tram with a kind of rough courtesy. At least these Australians were kind to their elders. “Hot enough for you?”
Aziraphale was trying to form a reply when he saw a lean, graceful figure in black, leaning on the wall at Beehive Corner. Under the golden beehive, shining almost unbearably bright in the sun, was, Aziraphale had picked up, a place for loitering and meeting for the purposes of canoodling.
Aziraphale turned and strode in the opposite direction, down Hindley Street.
“Hullo, Aziraphale.”
A long stride, resembling something between a lope and a slither, matched the pace of Aziraphale's fretful trot, only at a ratio of one to three steps. The angel marched determinedly on, letting the silence solidify into awkwardness. Crowley had stepped thoroughly on the understandings that had existed long before their formal Arrangement last time, and he deserved punishment, the incorrigible serpent. That tone of voice. The references to Aziraphale’s sword. It was all too much, too thorough a betrayal and incursion onto secret ground that should never have been voiced aloud, and while forgiveness was undoubtedly a virtue, Aziraphale had been among humans long enough to justify holding a grudge.
“Hot enough for—”
“If you complete that sentence, I will smite you.”
“Hello, Crowley, good to see you. How is exile treating you? I missed you so much that I came all the way back to Adelaide again just to see you and now I won’t even say a word in greeting and by the way I’m sorry for leaving in a snit and not letting you apologise.”
“I didn’t come back for your sake,” Aziraphale said, instantly regretting falling into the trap. He pressed his lips together.
“Was it the wine? Because if so we have to hurry, the Temperance lot have the pubs closing at six. You should see the six o’clock swill, it’s disgraceful,” the demon said cheerfully. “Funny, isn’t it, when humans try to suck up to your side they so often do my work for me. Just last night—”
“I came for the cricket,” Aziraphale said, biting off every word.
“Ah.” The monosyllable was as good as a confession.
“Crowley.”
“I may have just suggested to the English team, look, the Don is a thorn in your side, wonder how he’d cope if you threw—”
“Bowled.”
“—threw the ball more directly at the batters. Hard.”
“Crowley, there have been diplomatic incidents. They are saying relations between the countries will never be the same again.”
“Can’t help it if the humans are silly about a game. Not even a particularly interesting one, not a single decapitated head or lion involved. The games we’ve seen, eh, you and me—”
“There nearly were decapitations. The English team were talking about arming themselves against the crowd. If this had been Sydney or Melbourne then there might have been a riot.”
“Well. No one was actually killed, were they?” Crowley hesitated. “Wouldn’t be so much fun that way,” he muttered, low enough that Aziraphale wasn’t sure he’d heard it. The angel almost softened, but then, he really was very cross indeed. He might be an angel of the Lord, but cricket was sacred. “Look, you’ve got to give me credit, it was a great way to spread dissent and wrath with very little effort, right?”
“There have been leaks to the press, Crowley. Of interactions between the captains. Such a thing has never been heard of before, and no one knows who is responsible. Or rather, I have my suspicions.”
“Bit of espionage never did anyone any harm. Well, no, that’s a lie, but it’s only a squabble between sporting men. It’s my job, angel. Be reasonable.”
“A statue of Prince Albert has been vandalised.”
“Not all bad then, is it?”
Aziraphale’s lip might have twitched, just a little, because Crowley went on, “Come on, I know why you’re so upset. It’s just not—”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Just not cricket,” Crowley finished gleefully.
“I despise you,” said Aziraphale.
“Why not? I am, after all, your greatest foil and opponent. Come on. There’s a sweet little restaurant, does a steak like you wouldn’t believe, and I have heard,” Crowley offered in a low, confidential tone somewhat like a hiss, “they serve a cheeky little riesling after six. Shocking, I know. Don’t know how they get away with such sin.”
Aziraphale knew he should pull away from the slim hand grasping his elbow, but it was hot, and he really could do with a drink. He let himself be led away. Resentfully, and not at all fondly. And with no twinge at all at the feel of Crowley’s fingers squeezing the crook of his elbow in a decidedly possessive way, as if fearing he would escape again.
Somehow, over the promised cheeky riesling or two or three or and some rather good dinner and port in its wake, Aziraphale found himself full of warmth and good humour. He felt quite willing to be taken for a “little spin” up in the hills where the summer heat would not be quite so exhausting.
Twenty minutes later, he was sitting with his head in his hands, gasping, as his life rippled itself before his eyes. Given how ancient he was, it took quite a while. A very irritating demon seemed to take up a lot of it.
“Nice little baby, isn’t she?” Crowley said proudly. Aziraphale suspected he was patting the mahogany dashboard like a proud father.
He should probably offer an opinion. “Nnghrgh,” he tried.
“Goes a treat around those hairpin bends, doesn’t she? Had her shipped all the way from from Cricklewood, and I’ll have to ship her back when I go home.”
Aziraphale managed to pant a question through his heaving breaths. “You’re coming home?”
Home. The word came out without thought. His true home, he knew very well, was Heaven, and it was entirely inappropriate to think of an Earthly place as his home. Still, London was where he and Crowley had lived, for a very long time, and a lot of the memories that had just flashed behind his eyes showed a young man with devastating cheekbones and a taste for black in various fashions displayed against the changing streets, or ni the back room of his bookshop.
“Exile is nearly up. They’re impressed with my work here. And I like this place well enough, but I miss—” Crowley caught himself. “Things. It’s no fun without my opponent.”
Aziraphale was silent, behind his fingers. It struck him that the seats of the Bentley were close together, and he had sat closer to Crowley, of course. At theatres, side by side. Crammed into carriages. At banquets, Crowley's legs slung companionably over Aziraphale’s thighs. Some cultures went all in for physical proximity and if they’d been stand-offish it would have blown their cover, obviously, and for some reason Aziraphale was remembering every single occasion. But it was only that up in the hills in the evening it was finally at least a little, blessedly, cool that was leading him to imagine he could feel heat radiating from the demon, somehow warming and not at all hellish.
He had looked. Natural curiosity as to Hell’s handiwork. But he hadn’t imagined that Crowley would look back, at least with anything amounting to… Well, Aziraphale’s form had not been intended to provoke the sin of lust, he reminded himself. Steady. Stable. Comforting. Not provocative.
That statue had been almost offensively idealised. Nothing like Aziraphale’s corporation, not after thousands of years of good food and good wine. But the face had been his. He hadn’t peeped behind the sword, and now he wished he knew how accurate it was.
There was a flurry of happy noises and squabbling in the trees above him, as small parrots fought over the best branches. There was rustling in the bushes, and the occasional clink of the Bentley’s cooling engine. There were no sounds of humans at all.
“Humans,” Crowley said. “They’re the same everywhere, you know. The South Australian colony was meant to be kind of a utopia. Living together in harmony and equality. Well, that was bloody stuffed up from the start, can’t divide up a place where other people already live and declare harmony. And you always get the same old story. War, murder, greed, hatred, division. Good intentions are like door-to-door salesmen. But at least they had them.”
“Handy if you run out of kitchen knives, I suppose.”
“Aziraphale.” The fingers on his were long and graceful and as familiar as his own, even if he couldn’t see them. Burning hot. He didn’t resist as they moved his hands from his face, and the cool air streamed on them. “Look.”
The lights of the city stretched below them, the last dying embers of the sun over the sea.
“Can’t help liking the buggers,” Crowley said. “I’ve been enjoying this century.”
Aziraphale sniffed. “Good of you to stay awake for it.”
“See that little glow? That’s the War Memorial. You took off for the speeches, didn’t get the bit about countries finding a way to resolve disputes without wholesale slaughter. Maybe they’ll actually manage it this time.” There was a pause. “With you watching over them like that.”
“Crowley.” There had to be more words, more thoughts, but Aziraphale, who was rarely wordless and thoughtless, couldn’t find them.
“You know what I really miss about London, don’t you?” Crowley had set aside his glasses at some point, and his eyes glowed brighter than the lights of the city. One hand was still holding one of Aziraphale’s, and when he raised the other to Aziraphale’s cheek, it was as hot as an Australian summer’s day.
But not as hot as his mouth.
Aziraphale felt tucked away in time. It was foolish; if Heaven watched anywhere, it watched over Australia as much as England, and even if he didn’t feel like they took much interest these days, they would hardly be pleased to watch an angel be kissed by a demon. But somehow, instead of pulling away, his lips parted to let a tongue flicker against his own, too delicate and sensitive in its touch to be human, surely, and hot, hot as blood, hot as the sun, hot as Hellfire…
He pulled away.
“Well, really.” The outrage in his voice sounded hollow, as hollow as the knot of loneliness and unexpressed desire and loss in his chest. “You know better than to tempt me.” And with those words, a different kind of heat rushed in, the heat of anger and betrayal.
He’d missed Crowley, this last century. He’d really, truly missed him. Life without salt, without spice. And it had all been thrown back in his face.
Crowley’s eyes were very wide and golden, the whites drowned out. “Angel. Listen.”
“I’ve listened quite enough. Just because we’re away from home doesn’t justify these games.”
“Angel, please.. I’m sorry.”
“I am sick and tired of being teased by you, Crowley! I know I am staid and old-fashioned and fat and virtuous and I let you get away with far too much, but that doesn’t mean you can provoke me and I will just forgive every time.”
“Just wait—”
It had been long ages since Aziraphale had used his wings. But to stay there in Crowley’s car was unendurable. They stretched, awkward and aching and with disused muscles screaming, and he flapped uncertainly into the sky, over the City of Churches.
He was never, ever going to speak a word to this blasted demon about what had happened. Ever. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
He certainly wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that on his descent he was swooped by a magpie with absolutely no respect for the dignity of an angel.
“Is it always hot here?” Aziraphale asked irritably.
“Well, it’s summer,” Crowley said reasonably. He looked fresh and cool, and had discarded his sharp suits for something far more revealing of skin and the taut muscle of his arms, the oddly naked protuberance of his breastbone and round of his Adam’s apple without a tie. Under his black shorts, his toned calves curved almost obnoxiously attractively, and his hair was longer, whipped by the burning wind around his face. Aziraphale had seen him wearing much less at different times in history, and there was no need for his current apparel to make Aziraphale’s palms sweat.
Just a hot day.
They sat side by side on Montefiore Hill. Many flowers. Despite the heat, the grass was green and cool, the flowers bloomed, and the city spread below them, the cricket stadium glinting white, the Torrens River sparkling in the sunlight, the hills high and blue to his left. The city had changed a lot since Aziraphale had remembered, but in many ways it was the same. Humans.
“I don’t know why you wanted to spend Christmas here. Not a very demonic holiday in any case.”
“Why not? We’re retired now. Adam promised we would be alright. We can do anything, now. Go anywhere.”
“But why here? I was thinking of having Christmas in a nice little cottage in Hampshire somewhere. A crackling fire—a Yule log, remember those?—nice and cosy.”
“Alone?” Crowley’s hand was as warm on his face as he remembered. Despite the heat of the day, Aziraphale found he didn’t mind. This close, the lenses of Crowley’s sunglasses were translucent, the slitted pupils visible.
“No,” he said, quietly. “Not unless I have to. But why here?”
“We never talked about what I did. I shouldn’t have,” Crowley said. “I suppose that was for the best. It was too much and the wrong time and we were both still employed. I didn’t mean to. But I wasn’t just teasing. I meant it.”
The situation felt far too fragile for words. The sun beat down on them, but the bottle of local champagne between them was still cool, droplets condensing on the glass. Aziraphale should pour a glass. Some things were easier with alcohol to lubricate the way.
He didn’t move.
“Most of the time, I succeed in not thinking about it,” said Crowley. “Thinking about you. In that way, I mean. It was useless. I told myself it was just that you were so familiar, and the only one who really got it, got how wonderful all this is, this world. Then when everything was worst the first thing I thought of was going to you, and then Adam looked into the back of my head and he saw everything and now I can’t unsee it, and I hope… You were right. You’re staid and old-fashioned and fat and virtuous and you let me get away with far too much and I thought you’d died, the in the bookshop, and here we are alive…I need to try again.”
The sun was as hot as it always had been here, and there were ants crawling up one of his calves, he was almost sure, monstrous Australian things the size of crickets, or possibly a venomous spider, and he didn’t care, because Crowley’s mouth was as hot as he remembered, hot as hellfire, hot as an Australian summer’s day.
Hot as love.
end
Historical notes: "Bodyline" was the controversial strategy of English cricketers of fast bowling at batters rather than at the stumps, intended to intimidate batters and force errors. It came to a head in the Third Test in Adelaide and it really did cause diplomatic incidents, and had serious effects on Australia's international trade.
The Six O'Clock Will was a name for the disgusting spectacle of binge drinking as men tried to get their last drinks in by Last Call when pubs were banned from serving alcohol in the evening.
The National War Memorial in South Australia was unveiled on the 16th Anniversary of the Gallipoli Landing, in front of an enormous crowd (especially for Adelaide) of 75,000 people, and after a typical South Australian delay of years, including all design competition entries being burned. From North Terrace, the sword does indeed shield the Spirit of Duty's bits and the careful modelling of his pubic hair. Around the back is the female Spirit of Compassion, but Aziraphale never made it that far.
Lest We Forget
Fandom: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett (Novel)
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: A very mild T
Summary: In the 1930s, an exiled demon summons Aziraphale to the hazy heat of Australia. Of course, only a terrible emergency would lead Crowley to telegram demanding an angel travel halfway around the world.
To answer the question: How Aziraphale came to hate Australia.
CW: gratuitous mentions of cricket
Mod Note: click on the (2) image thumbnails for the full resolution!
Anzac Day, 1931
“Hot enough for you?”
Aziraphale managed a withered little smile. The man tipped his hat to him and shoved his way deeper into the crowd.
The reek of pressed-in humans was something Aziraphale rarely endured with the stoic patience befitting of a civilised angel. In Australia in April, the smell of sweat was almost too much to bear. His hat gave some relief from the sunshine, but it was a hot band of discomfort around his head at the same time. His stiff collar was a visitation of Hellfire on the Earth.
The crowds were half solemn and half jolly, in that uncomfortable way humans had when they weren’t sure if they were to be celebrating or mourning. Many of the men stood in lines with slouch hats, or with bright white sailor caps. Here and there in the crowd a lady more sensibly held a pale pastel parasol, shading her head. Ridiculous, these customs that didn’t allow men to wear airy clothes or carry shelter. Humans always had to make things hard on themselves and, by extension, on any celestial agents in their midst.
Aziraphale searched the crowds for a figure in unseasonable black, trying to put down a slightly elevated heart rate to the heat and crowd. He was not sure when he had got in the habit of searching crowds, his senses on alert for a particular light, almost slithering step, a particular sway and the sound of a sibilant voice. It was natural, after all; Aziraphale had as little contact with the Hierarchy as could be managed without a complete breach of courtesy, and as a result Crowley’s was the only regular presence in his existence since the Beginning. It was just fortunate that Crowley, despite his damned soul and several irritating habits, was surprisingly easy to get along with, and reasonably entertaining company.
And Aziraphale had been quite happily occupied over the nineteenth century. No time for a busy angel to be lonely. There was the Lord’s work to be done, of course, and his quite fascinating bookshop, and his excursions into publishing, and his club, and the delightful pursuit of the sleight-of-hand humans chose to substitute for real magic. The Devil made work for idle hands, and is Aziraphale’s were ever likely to be idle, there was doing the occasional temptation and fudged paperwork so that Hell wouldn’t notice quite how determinedly Crowley was napping. Crowley had quite a lot to make up for, of course, under the terms of the Arrangement, and Aziraphale would be very firm on the subject. Then of course the silly boy had got himself temporarily exiled a small town on the other side of the world on the grounds that Sloth, while admirable and to be encouraged among humans, was unacceptable in a demon with a quota to fulfil.
Aziraphale, of course, hadn’t followed him. He hadn’t been lonely in the slightest. No, he was content to let Crowley cool his heels until Dagon forgot about it a bit, and then come crawling back and take care of Aziraphale’s miracles for a few decades to make up.
He had no excuse for packing up and leaving on the next boat when Crowley had telegrammed to him. AZIRAPHALE. COME TO ADELAIDE AUSTRALIA. URGENT.
What possible trouble could he be in, to risk sending openly for his opposite number? Aziraphale’s palms were wet with more than heat, and he gave up all pretence and searched the crowd.
There. Crowley was slouching abysmally among the solemn revellers, looking disgustingly cool, a graceful figure in black among all the summer shades of grey and brown. Some of those newfangled celluloid sun cheaters hid his golden gaze from view. Sensible, obviously, and a saving in miracles, but Aziraphale felt a faint pang at not being able to see the familiar eyes.
His grin had sharp teeth, and showed no anxiety or sense of danger, certainly not enough to justify the telegram. “Hot enough for you, Aziraphale?”
And that was that. A demon probably wasn’t even capable of missing anyone, even someone who was the closest thing he had to a friend. Aziraphale hadn’t missed him at all. And Aziraphale certainly shouldn’t admit to coming running in a panic at a demon’s bidding, wishing he had his flaming sword. He had some self respect, after all.
“I’ve always meant to see how Australia has been getting on.” His chilly dignity was somewhat spoiled by a blowfly trying to make its place on the corner of his mouth, and having to spit to dislodge it. There were a lot of flies, now that the Europeans had come to the continent. Something about all the animals they brought. All the shit they had brought, Crowley might say. Aziraphale, naturally, didn’t even think the word. He was an angel, after all.
Aziraphale risked a discreet miracle to keep the flies away. None seemed to be bothering Crowley, which was quite unfair.
“Going up to a picnic party after this,” Crowley said, as if to himself. “Only time of the year two-up is legal, and encouraging gambling looks good in my reports. Should be cooler down by the River, and the sandstone cliffs are pretty, you’d like them. There’s a bus, but it’s a hot and smelly. I’ve got something better. Picked it up a few years ago. Give you a lift, if you like.”
Aziraphale maintained a cold silence, even though his heart wanted to melt a little in the heat. Cowley was being, not just polite and non confrontational as befitted old enemies, but nice. Aziraphale knew he should have been outraged that there was no emergency, but…Oh, it was as clear as the sunlight above. Crowley missed him, and had resorted to calling for him. Not that he could ever say such a thing.
“I’ve got some excellent cheese and grapes and chardonnay.” Crowley’s tone was almost pleading as if he was afraid Aziraphale would leave after taking all the effort to cross God’s good globe, the dear boy. “With some ice it keeps so cold in my picnic basket that you’d almost think it was a miracle. And some of those little soft white bread rolls you like so much. Ah. They’re unveiling. Glad you could make it for this.”
There was a final flurry of trumpets, and the National War Memorial was unveiled in all its marble glory.
An angel and a demon stared together at the giant marble relief, spreading its wings over the bronze human figures at the top of the granite steps.
Aziraphale was speechless.
“Not a bad likeness,” Crowley said, nudging him. “I mean, they took some liberties with my description. Shaved more than a few pounds off, added some muscle. Did a good job of the face, though.”
Aziraphale managed a single word. “Crowley.”
“Now, don’t be like that. It’s a compliment. Spirit of Duty. Suits you.”
“Crowley, you can’t…I can’t… Why is there a huge naked statue of me in the middle of this city?”
“Not entirely naked, be fair. You’ve got your big flaming sword back. Although, funny thing, it looks modest from the road, but if you stand at just the right angle and look up, they did a surprisingly accurate job of modelling your…”
“Whatever would Michael say?”
“He’d say: what an impressive sword.”
“Vainglory.” Aziraphale twisted his hands in distress. “He’d say it’s disgraceful vainglory. He’d never believe it wasn’t my fault.”
“He can’t be that down on vainglory. There’s enough paintings and sculptures of him in the altogether wrestling Satan, and let me tell you, the big boss does not find that amusing, even if he’s not portrayed as quite so well endowed in the sword department as you.”
“It’s different when it’s him.” Aziraphale wailed.“He’s an archangel. I’m supposed to be undercover.”
“Thought I’d give the humans a treat.”
“With a giant effigy of my…sword?” A sudden suspicion grasped Aziraphale’s heart. “What do you mean, a surprisingly accurate job? What do you know about my flaming sword?”
Crowley was suddenly very interested in the tips of his snakeskin toes. There was a pink tinge to his cheekbones. “Not my fault that you used to like meeting up at the public baths.”
“You weren’t supposed to pay attention.”
“Like you didn’t.” Crowley stepped closer, and his voice was sultry and heated as the weather, all of a sudden.. “I know you did. And came all this way, didn’t you, angel?”
The burning heat of the Australian sun had flushed Aziraphale’s cheeks bright red. There was no other explanation for the way he could feel them burning. He turned away, and let the crowds melt away in front of him.
“Oh, come on, Aziraphale, it was a joke—hey!” Crowley was apparently finding that the crowds only stayed melted where Aziraphale passed, and closed in quite suddenly behind him. “Look, I’m sorry—”
Aziraphale marched resolutely on. He did not like the demon’s company, and he did not like Australia, and he was determined never to endure either ever again.
“Watch out for the drop bears!” Crowley called, and Aziraphale ignored him.
Adelaide, January, 1933
The tram had been late. Just over eleven minutes late, in fact, and Aziraphale, who was very good at maths, had registered the six hundred and sixty-six seconds with a small but significant upward tick of anger at each. The open windows had done little to relieve the harsh summer heat or the effect on his fellow passengers.
“God, what a bloody pong,” a young man said sympathetically, helping Aziraphale from the tram with a kind of rough courtesy. At least these Australians were kind to their elders. “Hot enough for you?”
Aziraphale was trying to form a reply when he saw a lean, graceful figure in black, leaning on the wall at Beehive Corner. Under the golden beehive, shining almost unbearably bright in the sun, was, Aziraphale had picked up, a place for loitering and meeting for the purposes of canoodling.
Aziraphale turned and strode in the opposite direction, down Hindley Street.
“Hullo, Aziraphale.”
A long stride, resembling something between a lope and a slither, matched the pace of Aziraphale's fretful trot, only at a ratio of one to three steps. The angel marched determinedly on, letting the silence solidify into awkwardness. Crowley had stepped thoroughly on the understandings that had existed long before their formal Arrangement last time, and he deserved punishment, the incorrigible serpent. That tone of voice. The references to Aziraphale’s sword. It was all too much, too thorough a betrayal and incursion onto secret ground that should never have been voiced aloud, and while forgiveness was undoubtedly a virtue, Aziraphale had been among humans long enough to justify holding a grudge.
“Hot enough for—”
“If you complete that sentence, I will smite you.”
“Hello, Crowley, good to see you. How is exile treating you? I missed you so much that I came all the way back to Adelaide again just to see you and now I won’t even say a word in greeting and by the way I’m sorry for leaving in a snit and not letting you apologise.”
“I didn’t come back for your sake,” Aziraphale said, instantly regretting falling into the trap. He pressed his lips together.
“Was it the wine? Because if so we have to hurry, the Temperance lot have the pubs closing at six. You should see the six o’clock swill, it’s disgraceful,” the demon said cheerfully. “Funny, isn’t it, when humans try to suck up to your side they so often do my work for me. Just last night—”
“I came for the cricket,” Aziraphale said, biting off every word.
“Ah.” The monosyllable was as good as a confession.
“Crowley.”
“I may have just suggested to the English team, look, the Don is a thorn in your side, wonder how he’d cope if you threw—”
“Bowled.”
“—threw the ball more directly at the batters. Hard.”
“Crowley, there have been diplomatic incidents. They are saying relations between the countries will never be the same again.”
“Can’t help it if the humans are silly about a game. Not even a particularly interesting one, not a single decapitated head or lion involved. The games we’ve seen, eh, you and me—”
“There nearly were decapitations. The English team were talking about arming themselves against the crowd. If this had been Sydney or Melbourne then there might have been a riot.”
“Well. No one was actually killed, were they?” Crowley hesitated. “Wouldn’t be so much fun that way,” he muttered, low enough that Aziraphale wasn’t sure he’d heard it. The angel almost softened, but then, he really was very cross indeed. He might be an angel of the Lord, but cricket was sacred. “Look, you’ve got to give me credit, it was a great way to spread dissent and wrath with very little effort, right?”
“There have been leaks to the press, Crowley. Of interactions between the captains. Such a thing has never been heard of before, and no one knows who is responsible. Or rather, I have my suspicions.”
“Bit of espionage never did anyone any harm. Well, no, that’s a lie, but it’s only a squabble between sporting men. It’s my job, angel. Be reasonable.”
“A statue of Prince Albert has been vandalised.”
“Not all bad then, is it?”
Aziraphale’s lip might have twitched, just a little, because Crowley went on, “Come on, I know why you’re so upset. It’s just not—”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Just not cricket,” Crowley finished gleefully.
“I despise you,” said Aziraphale.
“Why not? I am, after all, your greatest foil and opponent. Come on. There’s a sweet little restaurant, does a steak like you wouldn’t believe, and I have heard,” Crowley offered in a low, confidential tone somewhat like a hiss, “they serve a cheeky little riesling after six. Shocking, I know. Don’t know how they get away with such sin.”
Aziraphale knew he should pull away from the slim hand grasping his elbow, but it was hot, and he really could do with a drink. He let himself be led away. Resentfully, and not at all fondly. And with no twinge at all at the feel of Crowley’s fingers squeezing the crook of his elbow in a decidedly possessive way, as if fearing he would escape again.
Somehow, over the promised cheeky riesling or two or three or and some rather good dinner and port in its wake, Aziraphale found himself full of warmth and good humour. He felt quite willing to be taken for a “little spin” up in the hills where the summer heat would not be quite so exhausting.
Twenty minutes later, he was sitting with his head in his hands, gasping, as his life rippled itself before his eyes. Given how ancient he was, it took quite a while. A very irritating demon seemed to take up a lot of it.
“Nice little baby, isn’t she?” Crowley said proudly. Aziraphale suspected he was patting the mahogany dashboard like a proud father.
He should probably offer an opinion. “Nnghrgh,” he tried.
“Goes a treat around those hairpin bends, doesn’t she? Had her shipped all the way from from Cricklewood, and I’ll have to ship her back when I go home.”
Aziraphale managed to pant a question through his heaving breaths. “You’re coming home?”
Home. The word came out without thought. His true home, he knew very well, was Heaven, and it was entirely inappropriate to think of an Earthly place as his home. Still, London was where he and Crowley had lived, for a very long time, and a lot of the memories that had just flashed behind his eyes showed a young man with devastating cheekbones and a taste for black in various fashions displayed against the changing streets, or ni the back room of his bookshop.
“Exile is nearly up. They’re impressed with my work here. And I like this place well enough, but I miss—” Crowley caught himself. “Things. It’s no fun without my opponent.”
Aziraphale was silent, behind his fingers. It struck him that the seats of the Bentley were close together, and he had sat closer to Crowley, of course. At theatres, side by side. Crammed into carriages. At banquets, Crowley's legs slung companionably over Aziraphale’s thighs. Some cultures went all in for physical proximity and if they’d been stand-offish it would have blown their cover, obviously, and for some reason Aziraphale was remembering every single occasion. But it was only that up in the hills in the evening it was finally at least a little, blessedly, cool that was leading him to imagine he could feel heat radiating from the demon, somehow warming and not at all hellish.
He had looked. Natural curiosity as to Hell’s handiwork. But he hadn’t imagined that Crowley would look back, at least with anything amounting to… Well, Aziraphale’s form had not been intended to provoke the sin of lust, he reminded himself. Steady. Stable. Comforting. Not provocative.
That statue had been almost offensively idealised. Nothing like Aziraphale’s corporation, not after thousands of years of good food and good wine. But the face had been his. He hadn’t peeped behind the sword, and now he wished he knew how accurate it was.
There was a flurry of happy noises and squabbling in the trees above him, as small parrots fought over the best branches. There was rustling in the bushes, and the occasional clink of the Bentley’s cooling engine. There were no sounds of humans at all.
“Humans,” Crowley said. “They’re the same everywhere, you know. The South Australian colony was meant to be kind of a utopia. Living together in harmony and equality. Well, that was bloody stuffed up from the start, can’t divide up a place where other people already live and declare harmony. And you always get the same old story. War, murder, greed, hatred, division. Good intentions are like door-to-door salesmen. But at least they had them.”
“Handy if you run out of kitchen knives, I suppose.”
“Aziraphale.” The fingers on his were long and graceful and as familiar as his own, even if he couldn’t see them. Burning hot. He didn’t resist as they moved his hands from his face, and the cool air streamed on them. “Look.”
The lights of the city stretched below them, the last dying embers of the sun over the sea.
“Can’t help liking the buggers,” Crowley said. “I’ve been enjoying this century.”
Aziraphale sniffed. “Good of you to stay awake for it.”
“See that little glow? That’s the War Memorial. You took off for the speeches, didn’t get the bit about countries finding a way to resolve disputes without wholesale slaughter. Maybe they’ll actually manage it this time.” There was a pause. “With you watching over them like that.”
“Crowley.” There had to be more words, more thoughts, but Aziraphale, who was rarely wordless and thoughtless, couldn’t find them.
“You know what I really miss about London, don’t you?” Crowley had set aside his glasses at some point, and his eyes glowed brighter than the lights of the city. One hand was still holding one of Aziraphale’s, and when he raised the other to Aziraphale’s cheek, it was as hot as an Australian summer’s day.
But not as hot as his mouth.
Aziraphale felt tucked away in time. It was foolish; if Heaven watched anywhere, it watched over Australia as much as England, and even if he didn’t feel like they took much interest these days, they would hardly be pleased to watch an angel be kissed by a demon. But somehow, instead of pulling away, his lips parted to let a tongue flicker against his own, too delicate and sensitive in its touch to be human, surely, and hot, hot as blood, hot as the sun, hot as Hellfire…
He pulled away.
“Well, really.” The outrage in his voice sounded hollow, as hollow as the knot of loneliness and unexpressed desire and loss in his chest. “You know better than to tempt me.” And with those words, a different kind of heat rushed in, the heat of anger and betrayal.
He’d missed Crowley, this last century. He’d really, truly missed him. Life without salt, without spice. And it had all been thrown back in his face.
Crowley’s eyes were very wide and golden, the whites drowned out. “Angel. Listen.”
“I’ve listened quite enough. Just because we’re away from home doesn’t justify these games.”
“Angel, please.. I’m sorry.”
“I am sick and tired of being teased by you, Crowley! I know I am staid and old-fashioned and fat and virtuous and I let you get away with far too much, but that doesn’t mean you can provoke me and I will just forgive every time.”
“Just wait—”
It had been long ages since Aziraphale had used his wings. But to stay there in Crowley’s car was unendurable. They stretched, awkward and aching and with disused muscles screaming, and he flapped uncertainly into the sky, over the City of Churches.
He was never, ever going to speak a word to this blasted demon about what had happened. Ever. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
He certainly wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that on his descent he was swooped by a magpie with absolutely no respect for the dignity of an angel.
December, 1990
“Is it always hot here?” Aziraphale asked irritably.
“Well, it’s summer,” Crowley said reasonably. He looked fresh and cool, and had discarded his sharp suits for something far more revealing of skin and the taut muscle of his arms, the oddly naked protuberance of his breastbone and round of his Adam’s apple without a tie. Under his black shorts, his toned calves curved almost obnoxiously attractively, and his hair was longer, whipped by the burning wind around his face. Aziraphale had seen him wearing much less at different times in history, and there was no need for his current apparel to make Aziraphale’s palms sweat.
Just a hot day.
They sat side by side on Montefiore Hill. Many flowers. Despite the heat, the grass was green and cool, the flowers bloomed, and the city spread below them, the cricket stadium glinting white, the Torrens River sparkling in the sunlight, the hills high and blue to his left. The city had changed a lot since Aziraphale had remembered, but in many ways it was the same. Humans.
“I don’t know why you wanted to spend Christmas here. Not a very demonic holiday in any case.”
“Why not? We’re retired now. Adam promised we would be alright. We can do anything, now. Go anywhere.”
“But why here? I was thinking of having Christmas in a nice little cottage in Hampshire somewhere. A crackling fire—a Yule log, remember those?—nice and cosy.”
“Alone?” Crowley’s hand was as warm on his face as he remembered. Despite the heat of the day, Aziraphale found he didn’t mind. This close, the lenses of Crowley’s sunglasses were translucent, the slitted pupils visible.
“No,” he said, quietly. “Not unless I have to. But why here?”
“We never talked about what I did. I shouldn’t have,” Crowley said. “I suppose that was for the best. It was too much and the wrong time and we were both still employed. I didn’t mean to. But I wasn’t just teasing. I meant it.”
The situation felt far too fragile for words. The sun beat down on them, but the bottle of local champagne between them was still cool, droplets condensing on the glass. Aziraphale should pour a glass. Some things were easier with alcohol to lubricate the way.
He didn’t move.
“Most of the time, I succeed in not thinking about it,” said Crowley. “Thinking about you. In that way, I mean. It was useless. I told myself it was just that you were so familiar, and the only one who really got it, got how wonderful all this is, this world. Then when everything was worst the first thing I thought of was going to you, and then Adam looked into the back of my head and he saw everything and now I can’t unsee it, and I hope… You were right. You’re staid and old-fashioned and fat and virtuous and you let me get away with far too much and I thought you’d died, the in the bookshop, and here we are alive…I need to try again.”
The sun was as hot as it always had been here, and there were ants crawling up one of his calves, he was almost sure, monstrous Australian things the size of crickets, or possibly a venomous spider, and he didn’t care, because Crowley’s mouth was as hot as he remembered, hot as hellfire, hot as an Australian summer’s day.
Hot as love.
end
Historical notes: "Bodyline" was the controversial strategy of English cricketers of fast bowling at batters rather than at the stumps, intended to intimidate batters and force errors. It came to a head in the Third Test in Adelaide and it really did cause diplomatic incidents, and had serious effects on Australia's international trade.
The Six O'Clock Will was a name for the disgusting spectacle of binge drinking as men tried to get their last drinks in by Last Call when pubs were banned from serving alcohol in the evening.
The National War Memorial in South Australia was unveiled on the 16th Anniversary of the Gallipoli Landing, in front of an enormous crowd (especially for Adelaide) of 75,000 people, and after a typical South Australian delay of years, including all design competition entries being burned. From North Terrace, the sword does indeed shield the Spirit of Duty's bits and the careful modelling of his pubic hair. Around the back is the female Spirit of Compassion, but Aziraphale never made it that far.
Lest We Forget
