Happy Holidays, sonnet23!
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go_exchangeIt is the mid fifteenth century, and after a battle, Aziraphale and Crowley find themselves tied together as hostages in the cellar of an inn. Unable, for various reasons, to resort to miracles to free themselves, they must work together to find a solution before the dawn of the next day, or Crowley risks being discorporated by the very people he was assigned to tempt.
A fic set in the time of the War of the Roses featuring friendship, co-operation and the giving and receiving of stealth hugs.
Rating: Teen and up for some swearing and mild references to violence.
For sonnet23. You asked for a hostage situation in which they can’t just miracle themselves out or miracle everything okay. This is mostly Book canon, but there are hints of Show characterisation here and there. Happy Holidays, I hope you enjoy this.
The Castle Inn, St Albans, 22nd May 1455 - after the battle
It was raining. Thin veils of raindrops, lit by a pale sun that was fast losing ground to the encroaching heavy mass of cloud, were scurrying over the distant fields that were visible from where Thomas was standing. The bright weather that had accompanied the skirmish—Thomas could scarcely call it a battle, so short had been the duration of actual fighting, although it had been savage and bloody while it lasted—had devolved into a fine, persistent drizzle that was doing its best to soak him where he stood. He felt the ancient, pitted wood of the tavern door against his back, glad to have gained the safety of the Castle Inn, that venerable watering hole that was currently acting as a makeshift base for the victorious men and their commander, Richard, Duke of York.
The main street was deserted, all the inhabitants having no doubt rushed into the safety of their houses and barred their doors as soon as the King’s knights had clattered into the pretty little town. Now, the only sign of hostilities was the scattered armour—breastplates and helmets, mostly—around the market cross. The King’s standard, the red and gold of its folds darkening rapidly with the rain, was propped forlorn against the stone pillar of the cross. Rapidly dispersing pools of blood on the cobbles marked where the various slain and wounded men had fallen during the fighting, now carried to their resting places in the makeshift morgue and dressing station within the Parish Church.
Thomas Whitham, bondsman to the Earl of Salisbury, who had ridden out with his son Richard of Warwick, primary adherent of the Duke of York, and his men that morning, surveyed the scene from the scanty shelter afforded him by the doorway in which he stood. The door behind him opened and he turned to see his friend Robert Danby emerge bearing two tankards of ale.
“By, but that’s a welcome sight, Rob, thank you kindly,” he said, accepting the drink thrust towards him by his friend, “did you get that treacherous knave tied well?”
“That I did,” replied his friend. The two had been close for a long while, having served the old Earl since the fourteen-forties. “Never did trust that one. I’ve no idea why the master was so keen on him. Him with his fancy eye shades—even within doors, the flash bastard. He never would say where he hailed from, not to me when I asked, at any rate, yet everyone was so taken with him, my Lord of Warwick, especially.”
“Well, he’s for it now. Once they’ve settled His Majesty, and Buckingham, and slaked their thirst for celebration of this day, I’ve no doubt they’ll want his blood shed on yonder cobbles just like they did with Clifford. Young Dickon will have no truck with turncoats.”
“Aye, right enough,” said Danby, “in the meantime, he’s trussed up with yon priest he seemed so keen on saving. See how they like it in the beer cellar for the night. Sir Anthony, my arse. Don’t know what his game was, but he won’t be playing it e’re long.”
“What’s to happen to him then, the priest, the King’s go-between?” asked Whitham, wiping his mouth on his sleeve after a goodly draught of beer.
“He’s to be taken to London along with the rest of the King’s party. The Archbishop will likely give just as fat a purse in ransom as the arse on that sanctimonious priest to get him back again. He tried to talk me out of it, so I gave him a slap to shut him up. Some folk just don’t know when to stop talking.”
“Come on then, let’s get out of this rain,” said Danby, “there’s more ale and victuals being set up inside, and a few feather beds upstairs so we may get a decent rest before morning. We’ve been given leave to celebrate, but my Lord would that we set off early tomorrow for London, so we’d better look lively.”
Whitham clapped his friend on the back, pleased that they had both survived the day. The group of them had come upon the King’s men in the market square without warning, giving some of the loyalists no time even to don their armour. The fighting had been bitter and felt personal, but had been over quickly, with little loss to the Neville Earls and their retinue. That was worth celebrating, alright.
As they disappeared into the inn, the sky darkened, the clouds having won their battle, and the rain grew heavier, coming down in sheets suddenly. The blood and gore spilled on the thoroughfare from where, two hours earlier, the King’s Commander Lord Clifford had been pulled from his horse and viciously hacked to death, dissipated slowly under the onslaught, meandering between the cobbles in a decreasingly viscous stream.
In a basement only yards away, two supernatural beings were bickering.
“Look, all I’m saying is, why didn’t you just leave?” said Crowley, exasperated at his inability to get a straight answer from the celestial idiot currently attached to him at both wrists and waist.
“I couldn’t just leave, I’m on assignment,” reiterated Aziraphale, peevishly, clearly unwilling to reveal what was actually going on to the person who had taken the trouble to try and free him from his predicament, only to find himself in a worse one of his own.
“I know that,” said Crowley, through clenched teeth, trying to retain a single scrap of patience, “you’ve told me that already. Working for King Henry and trying to stop the two sides from fighting. I get it. I’m just asking why you didn’t, uh…”
Crowley tried to wiggle his fingers as he normally would to indicate a use of power, but found he could not move them overmuch owing to his wrist being tied hard against Aziraphale’s.
“…use your magic,” Crowley continued, “miracle yourself out of here as soon as they went upstairs.”
They had been pulled, pushed and threatened at sword-point until they were seated on the cold stone floor of the tavern’s beer cellar, back to back, then tied together that way, stout ropes passed roughly about both of their wrists and around their torsos, then pulled and knotted tightly. Crowley found himself glad Aziraphale was so well padded. At least he was getting the better deal of it, his bony spine resting against the ample planes of the angel’s sturdy back. It was almost comfortable, if anything about their current situation could be described as giving comfort. The angel was warm and this point of contact went some way to taking the demon’s mind off the frigid hardness of the cellar’s cold stone floor under his buttocks and thighs. Above them, the sound of boisterous singing and louder laughter signalled the collective joy of their captors at their swiftly won victory
Aziraphale sighed, and Crowley felt some of the tension leave the angel’s posture.
“I’m under a miracle restriction, after… after the rebellion, in Southwark, five years ago. I… Well, I healed too many people, you see, after my attempts to calm the mob proved largely unsuccessful. Gabriel called me up not long afterwards. Gave me a lecture, and told me I was to have my power curtailed for a decade or two. In short, I can’t. Use a miracle to escape, I mean.”
“Oh, right, that’s… Yeah.”
Crowley had been about to go on a rant about the unfairness of Aziraphale’s situation. The angel had been constrained in this way before, and always for the same reason—helping individual humans instead of concentrating on what Gabriel insisted on referring to as ‘the bigger picture’. Aziraphale was supposed to work in the background, influencing those in positions of power to improve conditions so that people would be more likely to choose a righteous way of living. Heaven saw no virtue in helping individuals or even easing suffering. Aziraphale was such a soft hearted old thing, though, and was frequently upbraided for using his powers to give assistance when he saw people struggling. It was one of the things Crowley liked about his friend. Still, it wouldn’t help at this point to rail against the cruelties of the celestial administration. What they needed at this particular moment were practical suggestions as to how to get themselves out of the mess they currently found themselves in.
“Why don’t you just miracle yourself away, come to that?” said Aziraphale, lifting his head so that Crowley could feel the pressure of it against the back of his own. “I can stay here and wait to be ransomed to Archbishop Thomas once we get back to London. I don’t imagine they will get physical with me again, given that I should bring them a pretty substantial fee.”
“They been violent with you before I got here, then?” said Crowley, hoping to deflect the question, just as Aziraphale had tried to avoid his similar query of earlier.
“Ah, yes. I tried to reason with the man who tied me up the first time and he assaulted me when I wouldn’t stop attempting to talk some sense into him. Horrid, rough fellow that he was. There really was no need for it. I wasn’t going to put up a fight.”
“Sorry to hear that, angel.”
“It’s of little consequence. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before. Now, Crowley, you haven’t told me yet what you’re doing here, nor why you haven’t just transported yourself away,” said Aziraphale, briskly, brushing Crowley’s concern aside.
“Gnnnh, er, yeah, well, I’m here like you, on assignment. Supposed to be encouraging rebellion.”
“So you are the one behind all of this?” said Aziraphale, and Crowley felt the angel’s irritation at what he thought at that idea telegraphed through the position of his body against his own.
“Nah,” he said, resisting the urge to pull back against the tug upon his wrists, “they thought of it all on their own. I’ve been with the Duke and his followers for a while. You know how divided the country has been since the death of the old King in France.”
“Well, yes, I do. I’ve been in London since the King was crowned as an infant on the death of his father. I was given the remit of trying to stabilise the situation.”
“Yeah, right, so you know how much division there is across the country. I get totally confused about the names, but, basically, as far as I can see, the big landowners all hate each other, and the little landowners take sides with whichever of the big landowners either benefit or intimidate them the most. The whole lot of them have spent the last thirty years or so squabbling about who gets to advise the King. And he’s about as much use as a, a, y’know, not very useful thing.” Crowley finished up, lamely.
“You have the right of it, I suppose,” said Aziraphale, wearily. “It’s been an uphill struggle trying to encourage peace under such conditions, certainly. Archbishop Thomas regularly says that he despairs of ever seeing truly harmonious times at Court again. The King has not been well of late, and every time he becomes ill, the atmosphere at Westminster becomes positively poisonous.”
“Yeah, exactly. I have just been directed to follow the Duke of York around for the past few years—since that uprising you were talking about, in fact—‘cause he’s the main troublemaker at the moment. Haven’t had to do much at all, just stirred up a few spats amongst his supporters now and then—keep my hand in, sort of thing—and now this. I didn’t expect it to turn so nasty, if I’m honest.”
“I was the same,” said Aziraphale, “I had hoped it might end up like that business over in Blackheath a couple of years ago. But as the offers and counter offers were exchanged between the camps, it became pretty clear to me that Henry was not going to surrender Edmund of Somerset as part of any settlement. The King may be not very warlike, and he is terribly pious, but he is also fiercely loyal, and becomes rather suspicious of everyone when he’s not well. I don’t think he would ever have acceded to York’s demands. Somerset is one of his most trusted advisors.”
“Not any more he’s not,” said Crowley, darkly.
“Really? Oh. Oh dear,” said Aziraphale, his voice striated through with melancholy. “Henry will be so upset. Ah, war is such a terrible waste.”
“Anyway,” said Crowley, stricken by the angel’s sadness. In an effort to cheer him up, or at least show some solidarity, the demon opted for coming clean about his situation. “Lost my horse early on in proceedings—can’t say I was that bothered. Horrible beast it was. Not a proper horse, but one of those phantom things that Beelzebub’s always been so keen on, just a load of dark magic shoved into a bony corporation. It fucked off after it threw me. I got shot of the armour, ‘cause it was weighing me down, blended-in at the back of the advance and came into the town once it was clear that the Lord Warwick had captured the King and that la-de-dah arsehole Buckingham. Then I found out they had you—heard two of them talking about a particularly annoying hostage.”
The angel huffed at this and gave an irritated little wiggle. Crowley smiled internally, and continued.
“I sneaked down here with the intention of cutting you loose and then making off where we might find some decent wine. I can’t use a miracle to get out of here because I’m under close scrutiny at the moment as well, and they’ll know if I just fire myself away from the scene of the battle.”
“I am very sorry to hear that,” said Aziraphale, earnestly. “Why have they done that to you? I thought you were well thought of down there.”
“Well, I am, mostly. But this time they caught me slacking. I was in France, supposedly encouraging that load of bollocks that the English were doing over there before the current Henry’s dad’s murderous activities were cut short by a terminal attack of the raging shits. As it was, I was letting them just get on with it—they didn’t need any kind of encouragement from me. While all that was going on, I nipped over to Bordeaux and spent a bit of time sampling the local wine. Then—just my luck— that old scumbag Hastur popped up. Surprise inspection, so he said. I wasn’t anywhere near the latest scuffle. I’d just been checking in every now and then and writing up what I was told by the locals. I mean, there was no point in me getting involved, they were getting along very nicely damning their immortal souls all by themselves—on both sides, I might add. I talked my way out of it mostly—Hastur’s not the brightest—but he is a suspicious bastard, and he reported me. So now I really have to keep my nose clean. I can’t be calling attention to myself at this point in the game.”
“Oh dear,” fretted Aziraphale, “You should have just left me here. Now you’ll be in trouble. What will those men do to you if you can’t get away?”
“That’ll be up to Warwick. He’ll probably have me executed pour encourager les autres. He’s a bit of a hothead is young Richard—have you noticed how unimaginative they are at dishing out names in England at the moment, by the way? Everyone’s called Richard, Henry or Edward, I get so bloody confused. Anyway, I digress. He’ll probably have my head hacked off in the street outside this inn for fun. That’s the kind of man he tends to be,” Crowley finished, gloomily
Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s arms jerk and back stiffen at this, and the angel gave a small cry of distress.
“Oh Lord! We must get you out of here, then. I can’t bear the thought of you being discorporated for trying to rescue me.”
“Yeah, well, that would the ideal solution, if we can work out a way of doing it without miracles, that is. Let’s have a think and see if either of us can come up with any brilliant ideas.”
There was a very lengthy silence after this. The sounds of celebration continued to be audible above their heads as the winners of the short-lived battle drank the tavern dry.
Crowley drew his long, bony legs up and shuffled on his bottom, trying to get more of himself away from the cold stone beneath him. Although his leather jerkin was warm, the hose he wore were not that thick, and he was getting increasingly chilled in the cool of the cellar. He straightened up as much as he was able, and was glad to feel the angel settle his posture in such a way so as to allow him more support for his back. Although they were in a terrible position, Crowley was glad to have the warm and steady presence of his friend behind him. There was something comforting about being with the only person on the planet who was capable of understanding his current situation. It was very dark and rather dank, and the cellar smelled of stale beer and rat droppings. Still, Aziraphale was there and it was good to see his friend, even if he did end up discorporated for the privilege.
Some long minutes later, Crowley broke the silence.
“Can’t believe we’ve ended up like this,” he said, wearily.
Aziraphale failed to reply, and Crowley merely leaned his head back once more against the angel’s. Aziraphale didn’t move his head away, merely making a small sound of agreement
“I can feel those little wheels inside that head of yours whirring round from here,” said Crowley, in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Anything useful coming to mind?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid,” said Aziraphale. “I was just thinking about how pointless rebellion always is. They have captured the King, he will promise them concessions, especially if he isn’t well again. Then his health will improve, as it has before, and the faction that supports him will rise up and restore him to the throne. He will inevitably renege on his promises, with their encouragement, and the whole thing will start up all over again.”
Aziraphale sighed, heavily, and Crowley could feel each breath he took as he continued with his exposition, his voice a flat, resigned monotone.
“Whatever side wins, any changes will be cosmetic, and the old order will reassert itself. The same greedy, corrupt officials will use their power to advance their friends, only they will have different names this time. And so, on it will go. Nothing ever really changes, and the unfortunate remain disadvantaged and oppressed. A complete and utter waste of time and effort in every iteration of the theme. It is mostdisheartening.”
“Yeah, you don’t have to tell me, Aziraphale,” said Crowley, softly, almost amused at Aziraphale’s testy tone. The angel loved humanity, but could be refreshingly pragmatic about the propensities of the species on occasion.
“Oh,” said the angel, and his back shifted, the muscles in it stiffening, “that was most insensitive of me, my dear, do forgive me.”
“Nah, you’re right. Revolutions—they’re all the same. Start out with such a lot of idealistic intentions and end up with the same old miserable bastards running the show and grinding the faces of the little guys who they intimidate to do their bidding. It would break my tender heart, if I had one.”
Aziraphale scoffed “Your heart is just as tender as anyone else’s, you just like to pretend you’re all hard-faced and uncaring. But I know better,” he said, smugly.
“Oi! Less of the slander, you,” said Crowley, “I would have you know that I am a deeply cynical and thick-skinned individual who laughs in the face of human folly, and all that kinda thing.”
“Whatever you say,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley thought he could discern a certain fondness in the angel’s tone.
“Enough philosophising,” said Crowley, “we need to work out how we’re going to get out of here. Time’s getting on and I can’t hear noises from upstairs any more. I’m guessing they’re asleep. If we want to make our escape, now is definitely the time.”
Another lengthy silence ensued.
“What you got—anything?” asked Crowley, rather desperately, after a while. He wasn’t looking forward to being discorporated publicly in the street, nor to the mountain of paperwork that would ensue once he was back down in hell. Forcas in the Corporation Department was a stickler for bureaucracy, and he could anticipate a long wait, and extra clerical work, before he even qualified to have his application for a new body considered. He shuddered at the very thought, and this appeared to rouse Aziraphale from whatever it was that he was contemplating.
“It’s a great pity I can’t just get my wings out and intimidate them into letting us go like we did things in the old days—‘be not afraid’ and all that—and have them cower in awe,” he mused. “Not that I ever particularly enjoyed doing anything like that, but it would certainly get us out of this spot that we’re in.”
“You can’t, er, do that any more, then?” asked Crowley.
“Oh no,” said Aziraphale, seriously, “very much not. There was a change in policy, not that long after that business at Golgotha. They altered the manual and everything. We are meant to remain incognito at all times, even if it means discorporation. Any deviation from the rule means instant dismissal from one’s post. It would be noticed at once and I would be removed from the Earth. I would rather not run the risk of that, if it’s all the same to you.”
“No, yeah, I get that, angel. Wouldn’t want that either.” He felt Aziraphale’s head twist against his own and heard a short intake of breath. “Augh, just ‘cause I’d have to get used to another feathery idiot down here,” he said, quickly, realising a little too late that he had given his true feelings away somewhat. “No other reason.”
“Of course not. I would be the same if you were to be relieved of your duty,” said Aziraphale, sounding unaccountably amused. Crowley was glad the angel couldn’t see his face, as it appeared to be heating up for some unknown reason.
“Pity,” said Crowley, recovering his composure. “I wouldn’t mind some of these idiots getting a face full of your wings. They all claim they’re fighting on God’s side. I’d love to see their faces when they realised who they’d just held hostage. An Angel of the Lord, no less.”
“What about your, um, more demonic aspects, Crowley? Would it help to manifest those, do you think?”
“Nah. That’d just give them all the more reason to try and kill me anyway. Demon, never goes down well with the humans when they realise. But…”
An idea struck him. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Stupid idiot. It wasn’t something he liked doing, strictly speaking, but needs must when the… Anyway—if this wasn’t a time to resort to extreme measures, he didn’t know what was.
“… there might be something I can do.”
Aziraphale was conflicted. On the one hand, he had been terribly relieved when Crowley had appeared, seeming to coalesce from the depths of the shadows in that filthy cellar, clad as he was in his black jerkin and dark woollen hose. He had arrived silently by the angel’s side where he was tied to a filthy old wooden chair, pulling at the knot that held his hands together at his back whilst cursing quietly under his breath.
On the other hand, Aziraphale was now extremely worried for the demon’s safety—on two counts. First, and that of most immediate concern, related to the violent plans their captors might have for the so called turncoat in their midst come the morning. Secondly, and in many ways the more alarming, would be what might follow on his friend’s discorporation—that of his possible punishment in Hell were it be known that he had failed his assignment so completely.
Guilt warred with the familiar pleasure of having his only real friend by his side—or at his back, given their current position. It settled something in Aziraphale, experiencing Crowley’s long and bony spine pressed up against the distinctly much more padded expanse of his own back. He knew, by rights, it should not make him happy to be at such close quarters with a demon, but Crowley’s presence inevitably made any situation he found himself in much better whenever he appeared, and had done for a while now. After the way he had been treated by his human assailants, there was a kind of complicated comfort in knowing it was with Crowley that he shared this most unfortunate predicament.
Aziraphale found himself thinking that he would be prepared to do anything in his power to secure the safety of his friend, especially as he knew Crowley hadn’t hesitated when it came to the issue of rescuing him, Aziraphale, his supposed adversary. As soon as the demon had learned of his capture, he had come straight to him, and offered to lend a hand. It was just unfortunate that he in his turn had been discovered, and that there was little Aziraphale could actually do, because of the constraints on his ability to use his powers.
It was a relief, then, after much fruitless rumination on his own part to hear Crowley say that there was something the demon himself might be able to do.
“I’m not that keen on doing it, if I’m honest,” said Crowley, “but I can change my form if I have to.”
“How do you mean?” said Aziraphale, puzzled as to what his companion was getting at. Crowley had already discounted displaying his more demonic side as a solution. Aziraphale wondered what it was he might be referring to.
“My other form. You know, you saw me like that the first day I met you. On the wall, remember?”
Of course Aziraphale remembered, he was hardly likely to forget. It had been the most significant day of his life thus far. Giving away his flaming sword to the human couple had been an impulsive action driven by compassion that had worried him deeply at the time. It was the conversation with a handsome snake, and then that snake in human form, that had left the most lingering impression on the angel, though, and subsequently gone on to have the greatest impact on Aziraphale’s life. He hadn’t exactly forgotten that Crowley could take on the form of a snake if he so wished, it was just that, as he had not witnessed the transformation since that time, Crowley’s capacity to adopt a serpent shape had rather slipped his mind.
“Wouldn’t you be rather, um, large?” he said, “I seem to remember you being very impressive at the time.”
His cheeks were heating now, and he was suddenly very glad that Crowley couldn’t see his face. As if he knew just what uncomfortable emotion Aziraphale was experiencing, Crowley spoke again, and the angel could hear the sly smile in his voice.
“Impressive, eh? You thought I was impressive, did you? Mind you, I’m always impressive,” he said, irritatingly smug.
Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s amusement vibrating against his back.
“Your ego certainly is,” he replied, waspishly. It didn’t do to let Crowley believe that an Angel of the Lord was in any way impressed by his antics. Even if he was, a bit.
“Nah,” said Crowley, “I can be any size, within reason. Not gonna be a grass snake or something. But, yeah, I can change into a medium-sized serpent, then the ropes will slacken and you can get out of here. There’s a trapdoor for the beer deliveries over there.”
There was a tug on the angel’s arm that lay nearest to the outside wall as Crowley tried to gesture. “I noticed it when they found us, before they took the candle away.”
It was true. Aziraphale had seen the short set of wooden steps leading up to a pair of stout doors, bolted on the inside, set high in the outside wall of the cellar. It had undoubtedly been put there so that barrels of ale could be transferred more easily from any delivery cart that might be stationed in the back courtyard of the inn. The perfect means of escape from their place of confinement.
“What do you intend to do, once we’re free?” asked Aziraphale.
“Uh, probably stay in snake form,” answered Crowley, “slither out after you. Don’t want any of Neville’s knights catching me walking around out there.”
“No,” said Aziraphale, shortly. “Out of the question. I don’t think you should risk anyone seeing you in that form either. I have a better idea. I’ll carry you out, concealed in my robe.”
“What? No!” Crowley voiced his objection with some vigour. “There isn’t any need for that.”
“There’s every need,” said Aziraphale, hotly. “There are no snakes in England that look remotely like you do. You know how people can be about, erm…”
“You don’t have to remind me,” said Crowley, properly offended now, ‘thou art cursed above all cattle and above every beast of the field’, and all that. It’s not like I’ve forgotten.”
“Well then,” said Aziraphale, ignoring Crowley’s outburst with a facility borne of long practice, “all the more reason to come out with me. This garment I am wearing is quite voluminous—always better to be comfortable, I say—if you wrap yourself about my middle, from the outside, you’ll just look like, ah, a little bit more of me. I can put you down once we’re a safe distance from the town.”
Crowley gave a dismissive hiss, and wriggled a little against Aziraphale’s back. Ignoring him again, intent as he was on securing Crowley’s safety, Aziraphale soldiered on.
“It’s the best solution, you know it is.” Aziraphale allowed his voice to fall into a softer tone. He wheedled.
“And I would be much happier knowing that you were safe, so you’d be doing me a favour, really,” he said, wistfully.
Crowley gave a frustrated growl, then went quiet, and Aziraphale knew he was thinking the suggestion over. The demon was proud, and accustomed to making his own way in the world. It was often difficult to get him to accept any help, and he professed to detest it when Aziraphale fussed, as he had a tendency to do. Perhaps, too, he was touchy about his ophidian qualities, Aziraphale wasn’t sure, as it wasn’t something they had ever previously had any cause to discuss.
The angel remained quiet as the demon ruminated. He was keen not to tread on any toes, metaphorically speaking. Not that Crowley would have any toes soon, he could not help but observe, internally. Aziraphale had to restrain himself from chuckling out loud when that rogue thought insisted on making its way into his mind. He wasn’t usually prone to humorous diversions in his mental processes. Aziraphale stifled his amusement, and put this uncharacteristic streak of inappropriate giddiness down to the prospect of regaining his liberty after what had been a particularly trying day.
“Alright, fine,” Crowley said at last “I suppose there is some sense in what you’re saying. Don’t you dare look while I change, now.”
“I couldn’t, even if I wanted to,” said Aziraphale, half exasperated, half amused at the petulant tone in Crowley’s voice.
Crowley gave a heavy sigh, then a bitten off grunt. After this there came a series of little popping and crunching noises, loud in the still air of the cellar, and Aziraphale lost the comforting sensation of Crowley at his back. He felt a strange rippling movement along his spine for a moment, then the ropes that had been digging uncomfortably into his belly went slack and fell down on to his thighs. There was a strange, heavy slapping sound that went on for a while, like the clap of leather against some hard surface, then a soft, silky susurration near his outstretched leg.
Crowley was fully changed, then.
“Oh, that is so much better,” said Aziraphale, rubbing at one wrist, then the other, both of which were now free from the coarse, hairy rope that had bound them, the loops of it having slipped easily over both his hands now that Crowley’s arms had disappeared. He attended to the large knot on the loops of rope resting on his legs, then realised he could just as easily step out of their coils.
Aziraphale stood, and the erstwhile bindings fell to the floor. He stretched his arms up to free the cramp in his lower back, and rubbed ruefully at his behind, which had gone quite numb from the chill and the fact that he had been immobile for so long.
“Where are you, Crowley?”
He cast about him, trying to penetrate the gloom that shrouded the room, but could see no darker shadow on the floor that might indicate the presence of his serpent friend. There was a hiss from a spot not far from his feet. “Careful,” said Aziraphale, “last thing I want to do is stand on your tail by accident.” A further hiss was emitted from the floor below the hem of his robe, this one with a definite hint of outrage about it.
Aziraphale resettled his woollen vestments on to his shoulders so that they hung correctly and were comfortable, then untied the soft rope belt at his waist.
“You can climb up now, if you wish,” he said, speaking into what he thought might be a darker patch of shadow on the floor near his leftmost shoe.
He almost flinched when he felt a bony something nudging at his ankle, then relaxed when he realised it was most likely to be the demon’s head. There was a sensation not unlike the smoothest kid leather against his calf, only a whisper of texture telling of the scales that made up the outside of Crowley’s body in this form. The demon was warm, much warmer than the snakes that he remembered from the Garden, all those centuries ago.
Aziraphale had been particularly fond of snakes ever since that meeting on the wall of Eden, and did his best, always, to protect and be kind to them whenever he met one on his travels.
Crowley started to wind his way up Aziraphale’s leg. It was a most peculiar sensation. The angel would never have described himself as sensitive, particularly, but perhaps that was because so few people had ever touched him, and never in the places Crowley was venturing along now. His nerve endings were telling him a very different story as Crowley wound his way around his thigh, then over his hip to begin his sinuous circumnavigation of Aziraphale’s generous middle.
It turned out that Aziraphale was, in fact, extremely ticklish. As Crowley meandered up his body, he tried very hard to stem the giggles bubbling up from somewhere in the region of his diaphragm, but he could not stop his belly from shaking as he strove to suppress his mirth, and, after a few tremulous moments, he was unable to prevent the emission of a most unmannerly snort.
Crowley had left a loop of himself about Aziraphale’s thigh just above his knee, as a secure anchor, the angel supposed. The ticklish feeling settled down as the coils stopped moving, then Aziraphale felt one final push of his friend’s snout along his right shoulder blade, and became aware of a bony jaw resting in the declivity below his neck, where the skin dipped down to his collar bone.
“Sssssomething funny, angel?” said Crowley, and there was a touch of hurt in his tone, for all that the words were mostly sibilance.
“No, no. Nothing funny, not at all. I wasn’t laughing at you, dear boy.” Aziraphale raised a hand to his neck and gave the compact head resting there a small, affectionate stroke with gentle fingers. Crowley hissed again.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, I meant no disrespect. It’s just that I was feeling, um, a little ticklish, you see. I didn’t know that about myself before.”
Crowley appeared to have been suitably mollified by this confession, as he contented himself with settling his head more firmly into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck.
“Better get a move on then,” said the angel, patting at the obvious spare tyre of snake about his torso, then turning to seek a hint of where the exit they had discussed might be. There was a chink of light visible in the darkness that suggested to Aziraphale the outline of the double doors set high in the wall above him. Stepping carefully, a steadying hand on the coils of Crowley close about his waist, Aziraphale made his way stealthily towards the set of steps and freedom.
The Demon Crowley was not, strictly speaking actually a snake. The serpentine form was just an aspect of his identity, and one that he was able to call upon as and when it suited his purposes. Mostly, he didn’t bother with it. Although elements of his ophidian nature did remain with him, reflected in the way he moved, his patience for the long game, and the lightning reflexes he could call upon when the time did come for him to strike, Crowley vastly preferred his human form, feeling it better befitted his dignity. Additionally, it was quite evident to him that a human appearance was much more useful in his general line of work. Crawly the snake had been at his best in Eden. By the mid-fifteenth century a demon of temptation was infinitely more successful if he was indistinguishable from any other man. This was what he told himself, anyway, keeping the secret fear of changing, then finding he was unable to turn back very close to his scaly chest.
There had undoubtedly been times when the ability to transform had been useful, allowing one wily demon to escape from unfortunate situations (usually of his own making), in which his corporeal form as human had been at risk of injury or worse. This was one such time. Crowley as a snake, wrapped around the solid, portly form of the Principality Aziraphale, made his way out of St Albans under cover of night without any of his captors being anything the wiser of that fact.
Part of what worried Crowley about the possibility that he might resort to his snake form, then find he was unable to change back, was that the animal aspect of him tended to be content with very little. It wasn’t that Crowley lost his intelligence, or sharpness of mind when in his other shape, he remained every bit the demon that he had always been (once he had stopped being an angel, of course). It was just that, given warmth, and somewhere safe to snooze, the slothful serpent was apt to drowse away more time than he was consciously aware of. More time, strictly speaking, than often he could realistically afford.
Aziraphale was very warm, his corporation soft, its curves welcoming, Crowley’s slender body settling into them quite naturally. He smelled delightful. Crowley had taken the liberty of tasting him, surreptitiously, with a light flick of that tongue that he could do so many interesting things with, and had judged the flavour very fine indeed. Wrapped around his best and oldest friend, Crowley, quietened into somnolence by the regular sway of the angel’s gait as he ambled gently southwards along Watling Street, humming quietly to himself, allowed the repeated rocking movement, and the cadences of a lively madrigal sung in Aziraphale’s fine tenor, to lull him into sleep.
“Crowley.”
Something was patting at his flanks. Crowley grumbled, tucking his head more firmly into the folds of fabric where it had been resting and attempted to return to the delightful dream he had been having, where he was being held and was sure somebody loved him. He let the muscles of his long body flex and then contract in response to the dream embrace, and was rewarded with the soft vibration of a near vocalised exhalation, making something like an ‘oof’ noise.
“I say. Crowley. Do wake up, there’s a good chap. I think we’re far enough away now. It’s safe for you to change.”
Crowley came to with a start, the salient facts of where he was and what he had to do coming back to his mind with the return of full consciousness. He raised his head from the warm nook where it had been resting, and nudged the angel’s jaw. He felt Aziraphale’s arms raise and the pressure lessened from the rope belt tied loosely around the robe on top of his coiled form.
“Alright,” he hissed. “Gimme a minute. Once I’m down, you make sssure you don’t look while I change,” he warned, beginning to uncoil.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Aziraphale, mildly, and Crowley thought he felt the angel smile as if he was amused by something.
Crowley retraced the line of his earlier circumnavigation of Aziraphale and was soon lying in a perfect circle at the angel’s feet. His friend regarded him with fondness, tilting his head as he ran his eyes over his coiled body.
“You really are a handsome fellow in that form,” he remarked, casually, as if it was the sort of thing he was regularly in the habit of saying.
“Sssssstop it, angel,” said Crowley, glad, for once, that snakes only have one expression and no cheeks with which to blush.
“Ssssilk underssshirt?” said Crowley by way of retaliation for the remark on his appearance. Aziraphale looked mildly affronted at this.
“I have standards,” he said, huffily, and busied himself with retying his belt.
“I would have exsspected sssackcloth under there,” Crowley needled. “And assshes, maybe.”
Aziraphale made an irritated noise in response to the demon’s teasing.
“Oh goodnesss no! I am not remotely interested in the mortification of the flesh.” Aziraphale patted his stomach affectionately. “I’m rather fond of this corporation. Had it a long time now, and it’s been very good to me. No need to go around mortifying it for no good reason. I leave that to the humans.”
“Not one of yourssss then?” said Crowley.
“Absolutely not. I see no point in self-inflicted suffering; it doesn’t gain them any additional merit points in Heaven, despite what they might think. No, they came up with that sort of thing entirely on their own.”
“Typical,” said Crowley. “Right, turn around. No peeking now!”
At that, Aziraphale merely smirked, then turned his back pointedly on the contrary pile of snake demon and fixed his gaze politely on where the purple sky was growing paler at the eastern horizon, faint streaks of peach and pink heralding the imminent arrival of the sun.
Once he had regained his human shape once more, Crowley snapped his fingers and called forth rich garments in night black silk and velvet, attiring himself in the fashions he had seen lately at court.
“That’s better,” he said, adjusting his fur trimmed brocade cloak to sit more comfortably on his shoulders. “You can turn around now, angel.”
“Ah,” said Aziraphale, looking Crowley up and down. “Very smart. Although that doublet is terribly short. Is that really necessary?”
“It’s fashion, angel, and it’s as necessary to my work as you being perpetually thirty years out of date evidently is to yours.”
“Well, really! At least I’m decent,” said Aziraphale, smoothing his hands down his modest priestly garb.
“And I’m indecent. It’s what I do. The day I start taking fashion advice from you, is the day I’ll willingly be discorporated. Where to now, angel?”
Crowley was pleased to get back to their usual bickering. He had felt a little uncomfortable before and after his recent metamorphosis, and exchanging mild insults with his immortal adversary felt reassuringly much more like familiar ground. He had been relieved when Aziraphale had picked up the conversational baton and reverted to their usual banter back and forth.
They fell into step together on the ancient cobbles of Watling Street. Crowley could remember the labourers laying-down this straight thoroughfare during the Roman occupation, and had watched it blend into the countryside as the centuries had passed him by. Throughout all that time, Aziraphale had, essentially, been by his side. Even if at times they hadn’t seen each other for long stretches of years, Crowley always knew the angel was about somewhere, and would come if he was called upon. The thought was a comforting one, and Crowley was visited by a small, quotidian flash of happiness to be whole and alive and in such steady, reliable company on this fresh, bright spring day.
“Back to London, I suppose,” said Aziraphale in answer to his question. “I was thinking we might find somewhere to hire a horse in Boreham Wood, which is not too far hence. I really don’t fancy a thirty mile walk, although I have to say, it certainly is the weather for it—isn’t the morning glorious?”
Crowley smiled, humming his assent. The sun was fully risen now, and the day was indeed a beautiful one, the rain of the previous afternoon having washed the air clean as it passed through. There were grassy meadows that bounded the road on both sides, and their verdant raindrop drenched expanses, spotted with ladies smock, dandelions and early buttercups, sparkled in the bright morning sunlight. There were lilacs in the hedgerows, which were heavy with may blossom like snow. The air was heady with the commingled sweet, powdery scent of both flowers. Crowley found all thoughts of battle and captivity and what cruelties humans were capable of when fuelled by ambition, grow distant in the face of this immediate sensual pleasure.
“It’s alright, I s’pose,” he grumbled. “If you like that sort of thing.”
It was important to keep up appearances. Letting an angel know of his inner delight at their current circumstances would never do. This angel especially—Aziraphale was far too aware of his weaknesses as it was. His companion merely turned his head and looked indulgently at Crowley, then sent a smile up to the expanse of blue above them. Perhaps Crowley wasn’t as good at hiding his happiness as he had thought.
“I’m for London too,” said Crowley. “Get back to court, invent another blessed alias…” He sighed, then eyed the angel walking beside him, who was looking around at the cattle grazing in a nearby field and exuding quiet contentment.
“Do you ever get tired of it all, angel” ‘Cause I do. It’s exhausting sometimes.”
“Of work?” said Aziraphale, turning a puzzled face to Crowley. Crowley nodded. “Some aspects of it, certainly,” he replied. “I do enjoy helping people, when I am permitted to, that is. But dealing with powerful men—kings, bishops, popes—can be, um, well, exhausting, as you say.”
“What d’you think will happen now?” Crowley gestured behind them vaguely. “With that lot, I mean?”
Aziraphale frowned again, and thought for a moment. “To be honest,” he said, after a little while, “given the mood everyone is in, I don’t realistically see hostilities ceasing anytime soon. The King isn’t going to change his stance, whatever he might say under pressure, and Richard of York has always been ambitious. I can only think that the struggle between them will continue until either they depose the King, or York and his followers are captured, or killed.”
“Yeah,” said Crowley “I was thinking the same.”
“If the King is removed from office,” continued Aziraphale, warming to his theme, “then the regime that succeeds him will inevitably be unstable, usurpers always are. The whole situation could rumble on for years. You know how they get. The advantage shifts, depending on which faction has the upper hand and they carry on until they are either all dead, or too exhausted to continue fighting. Then, up pops an unlikely claimant, and, as everyone is far too tired to argue, they all accept him, and go home. We’ve seen it all before, of course.”
“Yeah,” agreed Crowley, again, “you’re right—we have.”
A sombre silence settled over the pair of them. Somewhere nearby, a blackbird started singing, the inhuman beauty of its liquid notes piercing the still morning air. Crowley brooded. Life on Earth was so wonderful, in many complicated ways, yet still the humans would insist on being horrible to each other, for reasons he still struggled to comprehend. Free will was a bugger, alright.
The thing was, he reasoned to himself, nothing either of them had been doing seemed worth the effort of doing it. Crowley had long experience of civil strife. When conflicts emerged, quite often he and the angel had, in the past, ended up changing their affiliation with the different human antagonists so often it had made both of their heads spin. Mostly, it was impossible to tell which lot had the right of things and could be regarded as having virtue on their side. In Crowley’s opinion, you might as well just toss a coin and have done with it. Aziraphale, despite vocally protesting the righteousness of the set of humans he was supporting at any one time was often secretly of the same mind, Crowley was very well aware of that. They just didn’t talk about moral ambiguity, it caused arguments that were pretty much impossible to resolve between the pair of them, and, ultimately, neither of them really enjoyed being put in that position.
Crowley let the silence lengthen, hoping that Aziraphale was following the same thought processes as himself—and coming to the same conclusions. The angel wasn’t stupid. Currently, as was customary, he had been directed to support Henry, the royal incumbent, appointed as the humans believed, by God. Crowley, for his part, had been assigned to the would-be rebel and usurper, Richard Duke of York and his bunch of sycophants and hangers-on. Were Richard, or one of his sons to be successful in his challenge, and be crowned King in his turn, custom would dictate that he and Aziraphale swap sides, God, having simply changed His mind—as far as the humans were concerned at any rate—a notion Crowley found extremely amusing. Then, as the angel had observed, the conflict would start up again. The to-ing and fro-ing could go on for quite a while, if Crowley were any judge. He eyed the angel next to him, who appeared to be lost in thought.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he ventured. Aziraphale met his eye, and looked a little shifty.
“I might be,” he said, cautiously.
“These humans are really invested in this conflict,” said Crowley. “Don’t know about you, but I think it’s unlikely anything we do will make much difference at this stage. Like you said, could go on for years, this. Years,” he mused.
“You’re quite right, of course,” said Aziraphale, looking at Crowley, hopefully.
“I think,” said Crowley, “that it might not make a lot of difference if we were to…”
“Let nature take its course?” suggested Aziraphale at the same time as Crowley said:
“… just let them get on with it…”
“We could do that, couldn’t we?” said Aziraphale, brightening. “I doubt if it would alter anything materially if we simply stood back and let free will dictate what they do. For a bit, anyway. It might be the kindest thing, in a way,” he said, clearly talking himself round to Crowley’s viewpoint, if he wasn’t there already, in his heart of hearts.
“We could just write-up what happens. Don’t think anyone would notice, if I’m honest,” observed Crowley, airily, “my lot hardly read the detail in my reports as it is.”
“Not do mine, I fear,” said Aziraphale, then added waspishly, “I don’t think they understand half of what I tell them anyway.”
“That’s settled then?” said Crowley.
“I rather think it is,” agreed Aziraphale.
They smiled at each other, perfectly in accord, and Crowley felt his mood improve immediately, the weight of previous days lifting from his metaphorical shoulders as the prospect of an indeterminate period of agreeable leisure time stretched out before him.
“Tell you what,” said Crowley, excited by possibilities all of a sudden, now he was freed from the tedium of duty for a while, “let’s have some lunch once we’re back in London. Compare notes, get our stories straight.”
“Oh. Lunch!” said Aziraphale, beaming. “What a grand idea. We can go the The Tabard in Southwark, they do a wonderful roasted woodcock, and, oh, yes, wild boar stew with mushrooms and the most delightful crusty bread, baked fresh daily, you know…”
Crowley regarded his companion with fondness born of long acquaintance as he chattered volubly about potential menu items. Aziraphale was never happier than when they ate together. The angel was the best company Crowley knew, regaling him across the table whenever they met to dine with anecdotes and little witticisms as he consumed his food with obvious enjoyment and blessed (in the human sense of the word) the entire establishment with an atmosphere filled with his genteel bonhomie.
“If it suits you,” Aziraphale said, “might we share a horse back to London? I know you’re not fond of them, but they are quite biddable for me. We could ride together, it’s not so terribly far.”
Riding with Aziraphale, giving Crowley the opportunity to be close to his friend, sounded very good in that moment to Crowley. But it wouldn’t do to appear too keen, and let the angel guess at his enthusiasm for the plan.
“I’m not opposed to that,” he said, casually, “if that’s what you want to do.”
“Splendid. That’s settled then,” said Aziraphale, a pleased smile sweetening his features.
They stepped out together at a brisker pace once their chat was concluded, and were soon rewarded with the sight of a square church tower through the trees over the next rise in the road, then drifting smoke that signalled their approach to the small settlement of Boreham Wood, where Crowley knew there was a livery stables that would hire the pair of them a horse.
Crowley was comfortable on horseback, for once. Aziraphale had insisted that Crowley ride at the front, saying that it would suit the horse better, the angel being the heavier of the two of them. Now his back was pressed to the warmth of the angel’s chest and stomach, and a plump arm was wound about his waist, the two reins being held in Aziraphale’s other hand.
“It’s my turn,” Aziraphale’s voice had insisted from behind his ear, and Crowley heard amusement in his tone, and waited for the punch line he knew was coming. “You were holding me earlier around my waist, and squeezing,” the angel tightened his arm about Crowley for a moment, his action suiting his words.
“So now I get to do the same with you. The humans call it a hug, I understand. I rather liked it.” His voice was less sure, shyer, now, “I thought you might too. But if you’d rather…”
The arm was loosening now, and Crowley couldn’t have that. This was a golden opportunity. Neither of them could observe the face of the other, so they could have this without being seen to be as flustered as Crowley certainly was, and as he guessed Aziraphale might be too. He lay his arm on top of Aziraphale’s, arresting its movement.
“No,” said Crowley, "it’s fine. I… I like it too.”
He had enjoyed being wrapped around Aziraphale in his snake form, and was quietly pleased that the angel felt the same. It had been a stressful few days, for both of them. Crowley took this small act of comfort from his friend, and was grateful for it. Together, on the placid grey mare that Aziraphale had picked out at the livery, which had taken to the angel immediately, they ambled their way home to London, and the prospect of a period of congenial quiet in each other’s company.
London, Outside Westminster Abbey, 30th October, 1485
“That’s the new King crowned then,” said Aziraphale, leaning sideways slightly to speak to the man in black, coincidentally standing next to him in the cheering crowd.
“I suppose it is,” said Crowley.
“I expect that means we’ll be given new assignments pretty soon, doesn’t it,” said Aziraphale, keeping his gaze on the richly dressed nobility on horseback in procession before them, following on from the new Lancastrian King and his Yorkist Consort.
“Yeah, I expect so,” said Crowley, face turned forward likewise.
“Ah well. I suppose we were lucky to get thirty years. It was really nice, while it lasted,” said Aziraphale, ruefully. Crowley felt a broad, warm hand sneak into his own where it hung by his side between their bodies, and give it a gentle squeeze.
“You know what they say, don’t you?” he said, trying to elevate the mood with a gentle tease, and failing somewhat, such was his mood of disappointment.
“No?” said Aziraphale, turning his head slightly.
“No rest for the wicked,” said Crowley, sadly, and squeezed back.
(no subject)
Date: 2023-12-27 04:56 am (UTC)Really lovely.
- Ruby
Thank you!
Date: 2024-01-13 01:41 pm (UTC)Thank you!
Date: 2023-12-27 11:20 pm (UTC)The conversations about human revolutions, and power, and never-ending wars...
I also liked the beginning where we see the scene and both main characters with Thomas's eyes.
And their adventure was delightful! You create so many soft and warm moments - with them sitting back to back and enjoying the comfort of each other's presence; with both of them thinking they'd do anything to help each other out; and then - Aziraphale carrying snake!Crowley on his body! Aaaaw! My favourite moment was probably Aziraphale finding out he was ticklish, ahaha. <3 Because it's funny and sweet, but there's sadness to it too:
"The angel would never have described himself as sensitive, particularly, but perhaps that was because so few people had ever touched him..." << I mean they're both so touch starved, and they're just basking in each other's closeness here! It's one of my favourite tropes ever. So, it was sooo satisfying! <3 Love-love-love it!
And then you went further and added the hug! And you inserted it so brilliantly in the story!
I mean, I can't live without hugs in the fics, but I always find in hard to find reasons for them to hug early in history, ahah. And you found such a beautiful way for it! (Also, I can't help myself, I have to say, when Aziraphale said it was his turn I thought he was going to tickle Crowley now! XD But it was sooo much sweeter! <3 :D)
Oh, yes, and the whole Crowley and horses theme is one of my favourite too!
And I absolutely adore how you describe Aziraphale - both his soft and cheeky smiles and remarks, and his soft body. I absolutely understand Crowley: I want to hug this angel too! :D
Thank you, dear Secret Author! It was a wonderful gift! I hope you have a happy holiday season too!
Re: Thank you!
Date: 2024-01-13 11:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2023-12-28 04:33 am (UTC)He SLAPPED AZIRAPHALE!!!! >:(
Aziraphale used too many miracles healing people :(
““particularly annoying hostage.” The angel huffed at this and gave an irritated little wiggle. Crowley smiled internally, and continued.” Heehee
Aziraphale’s thoughts about revolution were interesting, and it somehow took me off guard when Crowley was like ‘Yeah I KNOW’, too! Of COURSE he knows!
I love how you describe Crowley showing up to help Aziraphale here, coalescing from the shadows, much less showy than he tends to be in the TV show rescues.
“Not that Crowley would have any toes soon” made me laugh XD Also Crowley’s outraged hissing.
“It was just that, given warmth, and somewhere safe to snooze, the slothful serpent was apt to drowse away more time than he was consciously aware of.” This sentence is lovely
“delightful dream he had been having, where he was being held and was sure somebody loved him” !!! Sad but also not sad because it’s reaaal!
They really did do the ‘Ay yo snake, you cute as hell’ ‘sssssstahp’ vine XD
Intelligent Aziraphale who understands human politics and conflicts, I missed youuu <3
Crowley finally comfortable on horseback! Aziraphale holding on to him this time! This is such a good parallel, I never would’ve thought of it!!
Oof, the end is sad, but at least they had that time together—and we know they’ll have much more in the future :) Thanks for writing this historical fic with book omens vibes and SO much detail! And bickering, plus gentleness between them :’) I loved it!
Thank you!
Date: 2024-01-13 11:26 pm (UTC)Re: Thank you!
Date: 2024-01-19 03:53 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2023-12-28 07:54 pm (UTC)Angel wearing silk undies under his robes XD <3
This was such an intimate and lovely story, and with such rich and vivid historical setting, I loved it <3
Thank you!
Date: 2024-01-13 11:27 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2023-12-30 05:17 am (UTC)Thank you
Date: 2024-01-13 11:29 pm (UTC)