Happy Holidays, maniacalmole!

[goe_mod]

Title: A Reluctant Longing
Recipient: maniacalmole
Characters: Aziraphale & Crowley
Pairing: Aziraphale and Crowley
Rating: G
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley have run into each other a lot over the centuries. Aziraphale is surprised—and not terribly pleased—to find out he actually misses Crowley when there's a long stretch apart.

  Ravenna, Kingdom of Italy, 492 CE

 The trouble with running into someone all the time is that you get, well, used to running into them on the regular. And when you don’t see them, it feels a bit… strange.

 I wonder where Crowley is, Aziraphale wondered. The balcony of his rented room was right on the piazza and gave him an excellent view of the town’s comings and goings—and his host’s wife was also an amazing cook. But as he sat on the balcony and sipped from a surprisingly good cup of wine, Aziraphale could find no trace of the demon anywhere.

 When Aziraphale had arrived in Ravenna, he had expected to run into Crowley; the small Northern Italian city was a hotbed of political and military intrigue, and the province was in the midst of an ongoing war. Aziraphale’s assignment was to smooth the way for Theodoric, King of the Goths, who was attempting to seize Italy from the current king, Odoacer.

 Upstairs was very keen on having Theodoric be successful, so Aziraphale assumed that Downstairs would be equally keen about keeping Odoacer in power. But so far, he couldn’t find any evidence that his counterpart was in the city.

 Aziraphale quite liked Ravenna. It was much quieter than Rome, but the food (and wine) was just as good, and the city was chock full of exquisite mosaics. While he had explored the nooks and crannies of the city, he kept expecting to turn a corner and find Crowley admiring a wall or ceiling. Aziraphale knew Crowley had a fondness for art, so his absence was surprising, and …disappointing.

 Disappointing? Aziraphale frowned at his cup. Perhaps he was feeling this way because Crowley’s absence meant there were no wiles to Thwart.

 The angel’s frown deepened. No… that wasn’t it.

 If Aziraphale was honest, which he tried to be, he had to admit that when he’d experienced Ravenna’s delights he had wanted to know what Crowley thought of it all.

 He shook his head to drive away the silly, traitorous thought. Just do the job, he told himself.

* * * * * *

  Newburgh in Fife, Scotland, 1426

 Aziraphale wrapped his tartan cloak closer about him while he walked along the rutted track that claimed to be a road, profoundly grateful that it was late spring—although you wouldn’t know it from the chill blowing inland from the Firth of Tay. His stay in St Andrews had been much worse—the small town had been downright wintery, thanks to the North Sea’s icy winds.

 He hoped Perth would be more hospitable, at least weather-wise.

 He was pretty sure he would be receiving a chilly reception from King James, since Aziraphale was going to give him the news that the King’s desire to relocate St Andrew’s University to Perth had been thwarted by the votes of the University Court.

 And, Aziraphale noted, thwarted by one particular angel whose assignment had been successful. “Thwarted,” he said to himself with a smile and a giggle. Almost immediately he thought, See a wile, Thwart it, and his smile faded as the phrase reminded him of Crowley.

 Aziraphale wondered what that wily demon was up to—he hadn’t seen Crowley in ages, not since they’d faced off as armored knights in Wessex. Armor. He shuddered. Not wearing armor was another thing to be profoundly grateful for.

 A spattering of rain stung Aziraphale’s cheeks, rousing him from his thoughts. He glanced skyward, and frowned at the looming clouds. He had a good three hours’ walk ahead to Perth, but if he continued on he would arrive there a soggy mess.

 He did not want to be a soggy mess, thank you very much.

 Aziraphale spied the silhouette of an abbey bell tower a few miles ahead, and the sight cheered him immediately. The bed they’d offer him might not be the most comfortable, and the food might not be the best, but the prospect of a dry, warm(ish) roof over his head was much more appealing than a three-hour trudge in the rain. He drew up a generous amount of his cloak as a makeshift hood and hurried over to the abbey.

 He was greeted almost as soon as he stepped under the arched entrance.

 “Welcome, welcome, get yerself out of that awful caterwaul!” A brown-robed monk approached him, laden with lengths of linen and wool. “We saw ye comin’, the Abbot sent me to take care of ye.”

 “You have my heartfelt thanks,” Aziraphale said. He removed his sodden cloak and coat, and used the linen toweling to get himself mostly dry. “What awful rain!”

 “But today's rain is tomorrow's whisky,” the monk replied with a smile. He handed Aziraphale the wool blanket. “Here, hand me those wet things, ye can warm yerself with this wool.”

 “Whisky?” Most of the abbeys Aziraphale was familiar with produced ale or wine. The wool was rough but oh so warm.

 “Aye, the River Tay blesses us with water that lets us make a most lovely aquavitae. We’ll get ye settled by the fire and ye can have a wee dram to warm yer belly. Come with me, Master—?”

 “Fell,” Aziraphale replied.

 “Master Fell.” The young man nodded. “My name is Thomas. Come this way.”

 Minutes later Aziraphale was seated at a trestle table next to the large hearth in the refectory, thoroughly enjoying a meal of salmon, potatoes and crusty bread. He smiled when Brother Thomas approached. “This is a feast!” he said, raising his wood trencher. “I am grateful for the Abbey’s generosity.”

 Thomas return the smile. “Are we not admonished to show kindness to strangers? ‘For thereby some have entertained angels unawares.’”

 Aziraphale managed to suppress a snort.

 “As promised, a wee sip.” Thomas set a small wooden cup on the table. “When you’re finished yer meal I’ll show ye to yer bed.” He headed across the room to join some fellow monks who sat at another table.

 Aziraphale took a tentative sip. Heather and muted spice burst across his tongue, and floral notes filled his nose. He took another sip. Delicious.

 “Crowley would love this,” he murmured, and he felt a pang of melancholy. “Silly serpent.”

 Perhaps he could persuade the monks to part with a bottle or two.

* * * * * *

  Amsterdam, South Holland, 1565

 Perhaps Dam Square at mid-afternoon was not the best place to stop for a snack, Aziraphale realized as he entered the large cobble-stoned plaza. Market stalls lined the edges of the square, while crowds milled about, laughing, drinking, and eating. He could hear several enterprising musicians vie for coins.

 He clutched his paper-wrapped parcel closer to him, and craned his neck to see what the food offerings were.

 “Aziraphale?”

 Startled, Aziraphale turned to see Crowley, bedecked all in black, sporting a pair of dark spectacles.

 “Crowley! Whatever are you doing here?”

 Crowley shrugged. “Finishing up an assignment in de Wallen.”

 Aziraphale frowned. “The brothel district?”

 “There’s talk of prohibition,” Crowley said. “And we can’t have that, can we?” He peered at Aziraphale’s parcel. “What’s this, did a bit of shopping? Over here for pleasure, not business?”

 “I bought some books,” Aziraphale replied, hugging his parcel close to him.

 “Books.”

 “Yes, books,” Aziraphale said tartly. “I quite like collecting them. I seem to recall that you like collecting art.”

 Crowley smiled, showing sharp teeth. “I do. So where are you keeping your books these days? Haven’t seen you in quite some time.”

 “I’ve got a place in Westminster,” Aziraphale said. “I find I like staying near London. You? Where are you hanging your art?”

 “Over in Chelsea, not too far from you.” Crowley grinned at him. “We’re practically neighbors.”

 “You should stop by some time.” The words tumbled out of Aziraphale’s mouth before he could stop them.

 Crowley cocked his head and regarded him. “Perhaps I should. You always did have some nice wines. And it has been awhile.”

 Aziraphale tried to tamp down the lightness that swept through him. Stop this nonsense, he admonished himself. It’s not like you’re friends. But they weren’t exactly enemies, either, and Aziraphale had to admit he missed Crowley’s company, however maddening he could be sometimes.

 He reached under his cloak and fished a card from his doublet. “Here’s the address. I actually have a treat to share with you—a bottle of whisky I’ve had for a number of years.”

 Crowley took the proffered card. “I look forward to it, I quite like whisky. Say, have you eaten yet? There’s a marvelous place right near here, just up the Kalverstraat.”

 “That sounds splendid,” Aziraphale said, and meant it. As they walked together down the crowded market street, he decided that Crowley didn’t need to know he’d kept that extra bottle for over 130 years.

  -fin