Happy Holidays, Heretic1103!
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go_exchangeTitle: Unexplained Ethereal Phenomena
Recipient: Heretic1103
Rating: Teen
Warnings: None apply
Pairings: Aziraphale/Crowley (TV), Mulder/Scully
Summary: When Crowley shows Aziraphale around middle America in the late 1990s, much pining and shenanigans ensue. They get mixed up in what Mulder thinks is an X-File while Scully suspects the truth about these supernatural beings.
Author’s note: Thank you to my giftee for your prompts, which led to very fun things, including my first time writing MSR. Turns out these two pairs of pining walnuts have a lot in common and make great foils for each other. Eternal gratitude to my partner, who is an excellent brainstormer of silly ideas and a dedicated beta reader. (Caveats: because they’re in America, I went with American spelling. Also, my apologies to any actual people who lived in these towns in the ‘90s, I just used them as my fictional playground.)
Chapter 1: Crop Circles & Car Crashes
6:00pm Hillsdale, Illinois
Farm fields stretch out on either side of the winding road. On one side, corn grows eight feet high and ripples in the warm August breeze. On the other side, a rich green carpet of soybeans glistens in the sun.
From the passenger seat, Scully sighs, “Mulder, we have been driving all day and we’re still in the middle of nowhere. Where are we going?”
“Haven’t you been reading the paper, Scully?”
“I have, but I get the feeling you’re going to tell me about a paper I’ve never heard of.” Her mouth lifts in a fond expression. She turns away towards the window when he glances her way.
“The string of disappearances across the rust belt don’t concern you?”
“On a human level, yes. But no, Mulder, that’s not our job.”
“Don’t be so sure.” He tosses her a sly glance.
When she rolls her eyes, he grips the wheel tighter and grins.
“Crowley, please remind me where we are going? And are you absolutely certain we’re on the correct side of the road?”
“Angel, this is America.” Crowley has very much been enjoying flying down country highways on the ‘wrong’ side of the road. “Hey, that’s a play, isn’t it?”
“Yes, very good, dear. But these American cars are whizzing past my window at an alarming speed. It’s unnerving. And isn’t the driver supposed to be on the other side as well?”
“Yeahhhh… but I’m not going to alter the Bentley, am I?”
Aziraphale makes a little “hmmph” sound. Under his breath, he mumbles what sounds like, “I bet she’d do it for me.”
Crowley chooses not to comment. He’s trying this new thing called ‘taking the high road.’ Instead, he says, “It’ll all be worth it for what I’m going to show you.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale softens. “I hope whatever it is comes with lunch because I’m a bit peckish.”
“Not to worry,” Crowley says, voice surly as ever, but his left hand comes to rest on the seat between them, just inches from Aziraphale’s right thigh. He itches to be closer, but doesn’t dare. He does, however, know how to pique Aziraphale’s interest. “Have you heard of crop circles?”
He watches Aziraphale’s face to catch the moment when he gets a little furrow in his brow—a sure sign Aziraphale has turned his sharp mind to focus on what Crowley has to say.
Rather than take the conversational bait, Aziraphale throws his arms in front of his face and yells, “Crowley, look out!”
And that’s when something crashes into the Bentley.
6:30pm
“Mulder, you definitely had an abrasion on your forehead when we got out of the car.”
When they both reach to check his face, there’s a moment when their hands touch. Scully pulls back and they laugh it off.
“And now it’s healed,” Scully continues as though nothing tender happened, “which is highly abnormal.”
“I know, Scully. Everything about them was abnormal. Did you see their car afterwards? Not a scratch on it. And the guy with red hair? Tried to hypnotize me!”
“He did? I think the blond one blessed me. I don’t know exactly what happened, but I felt all tingly. It wasn’t bad but definitely… strange.”
“I know,” Mulder agrees, growing giddy as a child in an ice cream shop. “You know what this means? We have to follow them.”
“Those were FBI agents.” Aziraphale resumes his nervous fussing as they drive away. “I can’t believe you tried to wipe their memories!” His waistcoat hem is starting to feel quite bare under his fingers.
“How was I to know?” Crowley growls.
“Because they said so! Oh dear, we’re going to be in so much trouble.”
“Who with?”
“The American police, Crowley! They’ll have us tailed!” Aziraphale worries his hands in his lap for a few more moments. Then a black and white movie starts to play in his head, one with trains and cars and one very dashing stunt man. He stills and sits up straighter. “Actually, I’ve never been in a car chase before. It might be exciting.”
Crowley turns to face him, teeth bared in a grin he probably thinks looks menacing but that always charms Aziraphale. “Now you’re talking,” he says and steps on the gas.
As they continue on, Aziraphale keeps glancing out the back, even though the winding country roads don’t offer much. It’s a long drive, and his stomach has been rumbling for some time. “I don’t think they’re following us,” he pouts, not hiding his disappointment.
“Cheer up, Angel. You’ll like this place,” Crowley says and pulls into the long driveway of a farm with vast crop fields spreading out to either side.
As they bump along the gravel, Crowley explains about internet message boards dedicated to strange sightings.
“And they think it’s extraterrestrials who are doing this?” Aziraphale asks, amused.
Crowley chuckles. “More like extra bored demons.”
“Oh my.”
They pull up beside a crumbling barn that may have once held livestock. Now it’s so full of holes as to be see-through, and empty save for the dust motes caught in the evening light. The decay is sad, but at least there are no cows.
Crowley hops out and opens Aziraphale’s door. His hand twitches to help Aziraphale out, but he shoves it in his tiny pocket instead.
“Why thank you, dear,” Aziraphale smiles shyly, almost as though he sensed the intent.
They walk side by side towards the towering field of corn, glowing in the golden hour, keeping their hands to themselves.
They don’t notice a car with a crunched-in fender parking along the roadside at the end of the drive.
7:30pm Farmington, Illinois
Around back of the dilapidated barn, Mulder and Scully, hoping they are out of earshot of the odd couple, whisper to each other.
“I told you this was alien-involved!”
Scully cocks one devastating eyebrow at Mulder. “Humor me and run through this scenario again: there have been a string of disappearances across the Midwest and the only thing connecting them is a vintage car that’s not registered anywhere. And you think, what? It’s registered on Mars? The Martians liked our 1930s vehicles so much, they beamed one down to use for their abductions? Come on, Mulder.”
“No, I think the aliens could be luring people out here. Crop circles are very trendy right now. Maybe these guys are being controlled in some way.”
“So that makes us the ones being led out here?”
“Looks like it. Lucky us!”
“But we weren’t led here. We followed them!”
“What’s your hypothesis then, Dr. Scully?”
She takes a deep inhale. “This might sound weird.”
It’s Mulder’s turn to raise his eyebrows.
“You know I try not to bring religion into my work. I mean, my own personal beliefs. But something about them makes me think they might be… angels?”
“You’re telling me angels crashed into my car?” he asks in mock outrage. “Well that explains why they didn’t have insurance…. Or does it?”
“Mulder, I’m serious.”
“Okay, Scully. I say aliens, you say angels. Let’s see who’s right. C’mon.”
They step into the corridor of corn. A hush falls as the sounds of the world recede. It feels to Aziraphale a bit like entering a library. Then a breeze rushes through the stalks above their head, breaking the silence apart into a symphony of rustling leaves.
“Oh this is lovely, Crowley,” Aziraphale says reverently.
“Just wait.”
They walk farther, trekking deep into the field, and Aziraphale is surprised to find a curving path laid out before them. Do Americans have so much corn they turn the fields into labyrinths? It’s a strange and vaguely romantic idea.
With another turn in the path, they emerge into a clearing. Here, the stalks have been folded to the ground, crisscrossing themselves in a way that suggests something huge and heavy was dropped on this spot. But what?
Crowley proceeds ahead, tromping around in the center of the circle, frowning like a foreman surveying his crew’s work.
“What is it?” Aziraphale asks.
“It’s a little hard to see from down here. Better to go up.”
“What do you mean up?”
“Come on, Angel, you’ve got wings. When’s the last time you used them?”
“Sometime in the 16th century probably. Why?”
“I mean,” Crowley explains, approaching Aziraphale with a spring in his step and a sly look on his face, “we need to get up above this all to see it properly. Perspective, you know. Like DaVinci.”
“Right.” As charmed as Aziraphale is by Crowley’s exuberance, he does still have standards of behavior to follow. “And what will the locals think?”
“Locals? There’s no one around for miles! That’s the beauty of America’s Heartland,” he says with an exaggerated American accent.
“But what if someone sees? I really don’t want to draw any more attention from the local authorities. Or start any rumors.”
“I do!” Crowley grins.
Aziraphale sighs and turns in a circle, seeking another perspective than the maddeningly perplexing demon before him. The view is still nothing but corn and a hint of sky. With a whoosh, a flock of starlings whip across the patch of sky, turning as one, this way and that, snatching up insects. Their sleek feathers glint warmly in the evening light. Aziraphale feels his heart lift with them. He might normally suppress such an inkling, this flight of fancy, but things are strange and wonderful here and Crowley’s eyes are glowing behind his glasses.
“All right,” Aziraphale agrees. “But only if you do the time thingy to make sure no one sees.”
“Done!” Crowley snaps up a bubble around them. As it whooomps into shape, he grabs Aziraphale’s hand, unfurls his wings, and takes off towards the sky, angel in tow.
With a little yelp, Aziraphale bears down to release his wings just as his feet lift off the ground.
Then they are flying and laughing together and it might be the most brilliant feeling he’s had in a long time.
After some giddy circling in and out of the flock of birds frozen in time, he follows Crowley higher into the sky.
“Look down, Angel.”
He does. And oh! It’s an intricate pattern laid out below him. It twists like a Celtic knot. The bright green of upright corn contrasts with the darker shadowed paths between them. The spiral widens, even breaking off into little bubbles here and there. It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen.
“Incredible. I’ve never— How—?” He’s a bit at a loss for words, especially now that he’s looking back at Crowley’s expectant gaze and seeing his eyes practically aflame in the golden light.
“I built this one. Well, designed it anyway. Left the actual execution bits to the lesser demons. First time I get to see it in person. Turned out all right, if I do say so myself.”
“All right? Crowley this is beautiful!” Aziraphale gushes and takes both of Crowley’s hands in his own. They don’t normally touch but he’s not really thinking, and Crowley took his hand just a moment ago, and time is stopped to boot. His mind races with the implications and consequences, but he’s too caught up in the moment. “Simply marvelous,” is all he can say.
Crowley looks away—anywhere but at Aziraphale. He might be blushing or that might be the glow of the sun, setting just now in magnificent golds and reds.
8:22pm
“Twenty-one minutes! I’ve never lost that much time before!” Mulder hollers giddily back to Scully who is trailing him through the crop circle.
“What was that flying through the air?” Scully yells back, equally giddy. “It was way too big to be a bird.”
“I don’t know, but isn’t this incredible?”
They stumble into the clearing at the center and Scully immediately drops to her knees to inspect the ground. She lifts up two feathers: one black and one white, each as long as her arm. “Mulder, look,” she says, voice heavy with reverence.
Mulder scoffs. “We’ve found more evidence of aliens and you’re looking for birds?”
“No Mulder, these didn’t come from a bird,” she replies, unsurprised but still stung at his dismissal. “Not any species that’s native to this region, anyway. I’d like to take it back to the lab.”
“Sure. But first, let’s find dinner. I’m starving.”
“We did lose 20 minutes.”
“Twenty-one! Oops—” Mulder’s foot catches under the bent corn stalks, pitching him forward into Scully.
She catches him by the shoulders and for a few long moments their noses are inches from each other. He smiles sheepishly.
Scully looks away first, claps his shoulder, and turns back the way they came. “Okay, let’s find a diner then.”
Chapter 2: Pie & Pay-Per-View
Just as Aziraphale takes his last bite of chicken pot pie, the bells above the diner door jangle merrily. “That was scrumptious,” he says with a wiggle.
In walk two familiar humans.
“And look, it’s our pursuers!” Aziraphale adds as one might say ‘oh look at the ducks!’ But then his voice drops to a dramatic whisper and he leans across the table towards Crowley, “Do you think we’re in trouble?”
Crowley stretches an arm casually over the booth and cranes his neck around just in time to catch the startled expressions when the agents recognize him. The shrewd redhead (a woman after his own heart) and the eager puppy dog man’s faces both imply they were not expecting this rendezvous. “Nah,” Crowley says, turning back to Aziraphale.
“We should probably introduce ourselves properly, then.” Aziraphale gives a little wave to the humans as they look around for a seat. “Oh hel-lo,” he says in his best ‘be not afraid’ voice so that the humans have no choice but to approach, “we keep running into each other”—Crowley scoffs into his endless cup of coffee, earning a side eye from Aziraphale—“but silly me, we haven’t introduced ourselves. I’m Aziraphale and this is Crowley.”
“I’m Special Agent Dana Scully,” says the redhead carefully, like someone not sure how softly to tread. When she shakes Aziraphale’s hand, Crowley notices her eyes grow wide, but she swallows to quickly tamp down whatever the emotion was. “And this is my partner, Special Agent Mulder.”
Crowley gives a two-fingered wave and a lip raise in their general direction. They don’t try to shake his hand, so he counts that as a win.
“How lovely you two work together,” Aziraphale beams at them.
“Right—that’s not—“ Scully begins to argue, but Crowley watches—with great sympathy—as Aziraphale conversationally steamrolls over any hint of awkwardness.
“We’re not from around here, in case you couldn’t tell,” Aziraphale says in a friendly rush. “What about you?”
“We’re from out East,” Mulder says, leaning a little too close and a little too casually on Crowley’s side of the booth. “Just working a case out here. Have you heard anything about people going missing?”
“Missing? Oh my!” Aziraphale brings a hand dramatically to his lips.
Crowley can’t watch. “Lotta tall corn out here. Easy to go missing,” he says, just to stir the pot.
“So there is,” Mulder says, his eagerness an impressive match for Aziraphale’s. “And if you wanted to make someone disappear, how would you do it?”
Scully grabs his arm and starts to pull him away. “Mulder, come on, let’s eat and leave these nice people alone.”
9:00pm
Mulder and Scully find open seats on sparkly red-topped stools at the bar. From there, it’s not hard to listen in on the conversation continuing in the booth behind them.
“Anything else I can getcha?” they hear the waitress ask Aziraphale and Crowley in the bored tones of politeness familiar to anyone in the service industry.
“Not unless you happen to have some berry pie?” Aziraphale says hopefully.
“Afraid we’re out of that today. Something else?”
After some silent exchange between them, Crowley says to the waitress, “You should take another look.”
“Sure. I’ll check the back,” she says, unconvinced, and walks away.
A couple minutes later, she returns with a plate. Mulder’s eyes track the deep purple filling oozing out of the crust. “Scully, look at that.”
Scully watches the waitress set a thick slice of berry pie before Aziraphale, who gushes, “Oh Crowley, I—“
“—Don’t,” Crowley warns.
“Well, it was very nice.”
“Not nice,” he grumbles.
At last, the waitress comes around the bar to take Mulder and Scully’s orders. They whip their heads around to face forward as if they weren’t just staring.
“I’ll have what he’s having,” Mulder says, flicking his chin towards Aziraphale.
When their food arrives, Scully glances between the booth and Mulder, and then cranes her neck to peer into the back of house. “She said there wasn’t any of that kind of pie. The kitchen is no bigger than my bedroom. Not too many places they could hide it.”
“Relax, Scully, and eat your burger before I do.” He swipes one of her fries for emphasis.
After digging into the pie, Mulder lifts his fork in a toast to Aziraphale, who gives a full body wiggle ending in a wink.
“See, I’m not the only one who appreciated it,” they hear Aziraphale whisper loudly to Crowley.
“Angel, can we please get out of here?”
“Of course, dear.”
There’s some shuffling as Crowley hands Aziraphale his coat and hat (despite the 85-degree heat) and tries to help him into it. Finally, they’re out the door with a jingle.
Even though the vintage car has long since pulled away, Scully whispers when she asks Mulder, “Did you hear him call the other one ‘angel’?”
“It’s okay to be gay, Scully,” Mulder smiles, proud of himself for that one.
“I know that! But there’s something else going on here. Why does his name ring a bell?”
“It’s the pie—“
“—Yes!”
“It’s divine, heavenly! You should really try some.”
“Mulder.”
“Your loss, Scully.”
10:08pm Canton, Illinois
Scully glances down the catwalk as she puts her key in the motel room door.
Aziraphale and Crowley seem to have followed them again and are currently fumbling with their key several doors down. She watches them for a minute out of curiosity. At last, they get the door open, but before they go in, she hears Aziraphale scold Crowley.
“Get thee behind me, foul fiend,” Aziraphale says sharply. And then he steps aside, gesturing and adding in a much more obliging tone, “After you.”
Crowley troops inside and Aziraphale follows him. It seems this kind of interaction is part of their normal repertoire.
“Huh,” Scully says to herself. She wonders if her theory still holds.
In her room, she pulls out the Bible from the bedside table, flipping to the Book of Matthew.
After several minutes of searching for the remote in vain, Aziraphale gives up and asks the TV nicely if it will turn on. It obliges, blinking on with a zip of static followed by a loud moaning and urgent huffing. The noise continues, traveling up and down a couple octaves, as Aziraphale lowers himself onto the end of the bed, his eyes glued to the bodies moving in a choreographed dance of sorts on the screen. The effect is rather stilted and the noises are a bit dramatic in contrast, but he finds himself transfixed all the same.
Crowley comes out of the bathroom, scrubbed pink from a scalding hot bath, and wearing black silk pajamas. “What are you watching?” he asks, surprised and amused that Aziraphale’s first act in their motel room is to turn on the TV.
“It’s humans getting up to some rather interesting things. I believe I’ve come in the middle—“
“—you certainly have,” Crowley grins.
“What? Oh never mind, I’m just waiting to find out what the plot is.”
“Plot? What plot?” Crowley can barely contain the laughter bubbling up.
“You know, what’s the story? Who are these two people? And how did they end up in this situation?”
“Oh, Angel.” At this point, Crowley is doubled over, wheezing from holding in his laughter. “Good luck with that.”
Aziraphale doesn’t see what’s so funny. “Thank you. I shall—oh bother! It stopped playing. It says you have to pay to keep watching.”
“Yup. They’re stingy in America, all right.”
“What will I do now? You’re going to sleep, I suppose.”
“Didn’t you bring an entire suitcase of books? Or were those bricks in there?”
“Ah right, my books!”
Crowley flops onto one bed while Aziraphale sits up against the headboard of the other. He listens to Crowley shuffling around, trying to find a comfortable sleeping position. After a short while, he closes his book.
“I can’t stop thinking about those missing people.”
“Mmmph?”
“Do you think we could do something to help? …Crowley?”
Crowley grumbles but turns his face towards Aziraphale, eyes still closed. “What would we do?”
“Well that’s the problem. I was hoping you might have an idea?”
“Nope.”
“Don’t you have any sort of location-y powers?”
“Me? Nah. D’you?”
“No. Unfortunately. That’s why I get to go on this trip. I told Upstairs it would take me a month to find my next assignment. They don’t know about phone books.”
Crowley opens his eyes, yellow as the sun. “That… sounds like something I would do? How positively devious of you!”
Aziraphale giggles. “I know.”
Crowley blinks at him like he’s seeing Aziraphale anew. Then he closes his eyes and his lips curve up in a contented smile.
The quiet that falls between them is full to the brim with… something coming from Crowley. Although Aziraphale can’t name the feeling, he finds he wants to stay a while, to wriggle into it like a warm bath.
“Good night, Crowley,” he says with as much of that feeling as he can translate into speech.
“Night, Angel,” Crowley says back, his voice rich and warm with impending sleep.
Chapter 3: Bushes & Beds
8:05am Canton, Illinois
“Scully, you’ll never guess what’s happening today in the next town over,” Mulder says as they sip coffee from styrofoam cups in the beige dining room.
Scully picks at her complimentary breakfast waffle and scrambled eggs. “Was it a vintage car show? I saw the flyer in the lobby.”
“Yes! We have to go.”
“So does that mean you don’t think Aziraphale and Crowley are involved?”
“I wouldn’t rule that out. I think they still might lead us to something interesting.”
“All right.” Scully smirks at him. Two can play at this game. “I’ll admit I’ve never seen an alien driving a car before. That could be interesting.”
Mulder smiles back, privately pleased at the ribbing. “Get anywhere with your ethereal phenomenon research last night?”
“Why yes, I did. The hotel Bible turned out to be useful after I heard one of them quoting the New Testament.”
“Did you find any mention of Aziraphale in there?”
“No, but I called a friend about your suggestion of Israfil in the Qur’an. He blows the trumpet that signals Judgment Day.”
“I hope we don’t see our pie-eating friend playing any instruments then. Say, do you think I should start wearing sunglasses indoors like the other one? That would be cool, right?”
“It’s very cool not to see where one is going.”
10:20am Peoria, Illinois
When they pull up to the car show, Scully rolls her eyes. “Of course they’re here.”
Just past the entrance to the show field, Crowley leans against the (noticeably unscathed) bumper of his car and answers questions from a gaggle of enthusiasts.
Mulder parks his car and strolls up to the crowd around Crowley. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“The Bentley is very popular. How could I deny her admirers?” Crowley gives a little wave as said admirers disperse in search of other treasures.
“Sure, you just happen to be here,” Scully says.
Aziraphale sidles up to them and asks eagerly, “Is this part of your ‘investigation’?”
“They wouldn’t tell that to suspects,” Crowley says, cool as a cucumber.
“Don’t worry, you’re not suspects,” Scully explains and then side-eyes her partner. “Mulder just doesn’t like filling anyone in until he’s certain of his theories.”
“Ah!” Crowley finger guns at Scully. “Doesn’t that sound familiar.”
“Does it?” Aziraphale asks innocently.
Mulder opens his mouth for a retort, but gets interrupted by yelling. They all turn at the sound of a commotion at the entrance, just a few yards away.
A broad man with a bushy beard and motorcycle leathers yells at the ticket salesman. A group of fellow bikers flanks him.
Aziraphale and Crowley immediately move closer to the ruckus. Scully hangs back, wondering what will happen if guardian angels meet Hell’s Angels.
“We have as much right to be here as anybody. Does this guy look like he belongs here? No.” Biker man points at Aziraphale in his vest and slacks, which are even more old fashioned than the cars themselves. “Does that matter what he looks like? No! Y’all are just chicken-shit, prejudiced assholes when it comes to us!”
“Who are you calling chicken shit?” the car show man splutters, now backed up by some of his fellow comrades, all equally dressed in plain, conservative clothes.
In the next moment, car show guy and biker man are chest to chest, nose to nose, and snarling insults like ravenous wolves.
“All right now, that’s enough,” Aziraphale calls in his best ‘children calm down’ voice.
Although car guy is smaller, he grabs the bigger man by his vest, rears back, and, with an awful crunch, headbutts him in the nose. The rest of the motorcycle gang rush in, but Crowley slips into the middle of things quicker.
“Hey, he said that’s enough,” Crowley shouts and the bush next to the entry table bursts into flames. “Now cool it!” The visceral shock from the flames, which quickly become a bonfire, is enough to stop the men in their tracks. Everyone backs up hastily, effectively ending the fight.
“In the car, Angel,” Crowley growls and stalks away. The fire extinguishes as he leaves.
Aziraphale makes a strange gesture at the group and then trots after Crowley, his eyes practically made of hearts.
The crowd blinks and begins to disperse, their strong feelings seemingly dampened.
“Whoa,” Mulder says intelligently.
“Hmm,” Scully replies. She wonders if she just witnessed a miracle. A burning bush was not on her bucket list for this trip.
“Aren’t they a sweet couple?” Aziraphale sighs a lovelorn sigh. “Too bad you scared them with your demonic flair.”
Crowley huffs an appreciative laugh at ‘demonic flair.’ As they wait for the mysteriously absent clerk to return, he sprawls across a chair in the motel lobby. The armchair is very small and upright in contrast to Crowley, who is very long and almost perpendicular to it, legs flung out over the armrests.
“Sweet?” he whines. “First they crash into my car and then they follow us everywhere and you think they’re cute? Second, they were not scared off. And,” he counts on his fingers to see what point he’s on, “third, they’re not together.”
“Really? I think they want to be.”
“Sure,” Crowley shrugs, scratches his nose, and levers himself out of the chair. He takes a slow turn around the bland lobby. “Maybe they want to be, but work probably keeps them apart,” he adds, rifling through a 3-year-old Better Homes and Gardens magazine.
“Oh, that’s true. I did see them coming out of separate rooms this morning. How sad. Maybe we could help?”
“No, Angel.”
“Please, Crowley?”
“Shh,” Crowley shushes Aziraphale and points to the other end of the lobby.
A woman talks softly and urgently into the pay phone. Her back is to them but the curl of her shoulders conveys distress. She hangs up and walks past them, her eyes red and tears staining her cheeks.
“That’s not good,” Crowley mutters softly.
Aziraphale pulls down a blessing for her, to give her strength for whatever she is facing.
The clerk returns to the desk and clears her throat to show she’s ready to help them.
Aziraphale turns back to Crowley, his features tuned to just the right amount of pleading.
“Fiiiiine,” Crowley groans and stalks over to the desk. “Yeah, I’m going to need to ask for a room change,” he tells the clerk.
“Oh!” Aziraphale claps his hands and beams. “Be back in a jiff.”
9:20pm Canton, Illinois
A finely manicured hand stops Scully from fitting the key in her motel room door.
“I’m so sorry, dear,” Aziraphale says.
Somehow, this apology is so sincere, she believes him utterly, even though she doesn't know what else he’s going to say.
“There’s been a bit of a mistake on the hotel’s end and they had to rearrange rooms. So you see, now this is actually OUR room. Yours is, I believe, 220, but you should double check with the front desk to be sure.”
“All right, let me just get my things out.”
“That would be lovely. So sorry for the inconvenience. May you sleep well in your new room.”
After swapping her key at the front desk, Scully sees Mulder in the adjoining dining room, sipping coffee and eating sunflower seeds. The newspaper open before him shows pictures of two local women who have disappeared in the last month.
Something about the familiar sight of Mulder shakes loose the grip of the angel’s apology. It had made her feel warm and obliging, an unnatural combination for her. Except when Mulder is concerned, some small part of her thinks. She files that away to consider later. Or never.
“Did your room change, too?” she asks as she sits across from him.
“No. What room are you in?”
“Two-twenty.”
Mulder looks down and then back up to Scully with an odd sparkle in his eye. He holds up his key that says ‘220’. “Guess we’re roommates.”
Scully sighs, annoyed that she still sounds a little fond. “The front desk did say they were full up tonight. Must be spillover from the car show crowd.”
Back in their room, Scully sets up her laptop and notebook on one bed. Mulder stretches out on the other bed, head propped on his hand.
Scully takes off her glasses and turns to Mulder. “It was strange,” she says. “The angel—I mean Aziraphale—told me it was his room now. The front desk confirmed it.”
“And you still don’t think they’re up to something? Maybe trying to throw us off the scent?”
“They certainly have a theatrical flair. That stunt at the car show today shifted my hypothesis slightly.”
“How so?” Mulder sits up, his eyes shining with curiosity. Having his considerable intellect trained directly on her… well, it would be enough to make anyone sweat.
“When was the last time you saw a well-watered shrub spontaneously burst into flames?” she asks rhetorically. “I think Crowley is capable of some rather occult things.”
“What’s a supposed angel doing with an occultist?”
“Beats me. But at any rate, I don’t think they’re involved in the disappearances. In fact, I’m not sure what to make of the vintage car lead. None of the people we interviewed today seemed like potential suspects.”
“There must be a million car shows in the Midwest.”
“Exactly. We need to narrow this down.”
They chat about the case until Scully starts yawning and Mulder tells her to go to sleep.
Before he clicks off the light, he says, “Goodnight, Scully.”
She drifts off feeling warm and strangely content.
Crowley walks into the new motel room he has arranged for them at Aziraphale’s insistence and immediately realizes he’s put his foot in it. This room is just as small and utilitarian as their previous one, but with one glaring difference: there is only one bed.
It would be just his luck if the room they sent the humans to had two beds after all. Why did he have to waste a miracle on making sure there were no open rooms if it was just going to backfire on him?
Aziraphale, seemingly ignorant of Crowley’s self-flagellation, calls to him excitedly, “Oh good! You’re just in time to see what appears to be the beginning of that fascinating film from last night.” He pats the end of the bed beside him.
Knowing himself as he does, Crowley opts to drag the corner chair closer to the TV and flops over that instead.
“I’m putting the pieces together now,” Aziraphale says, a regular Sherlock. “It’s the plumber who comes to the house to help this woman fix her sink. He is very handsome, isn’t he?”
Crowley nearly chokes. “Oh yeah, it’s usually the mailman, but a plumber will do.”
“So you’re familiar with these kinds of films? Do you pay for them?”
“I don’t pay for anything. Not when I can bill it Downstairs and they chalk it up to me doing an evil deed.”
“Oh, right. So is this from your side?”
“Nah, just people being people.”
They watch the plumber pretend to check the housewife’s sink and very quickly it’s her who is bent over the counter.
“That’s not his job, is it?”
“It is now, Angel.”
“Oh.”
Once the pay-per-view screen comes up, Aziraphale clicks off the TV with a frown. He bustles about for a few minutes, changing into pajamas and getting his book, before settling himself against the headboard on the far side of the bed.
Crowley hasn’t moved this whole time, waiting to see what will happen, not trusting himself to breathe.
At last, Aziraphale looks up at him and pats the open spot in the bed. “Aren’t you going to sleep, dear boy? It’s a little cramped quarters, but I think we can make do.”
Crowley breathes out slowly to keep himself from launching into the bed next to Aziraphale, who is surely very warm and very soft. “Yep,” he manages to say.
He snaps on his pajamas and very slowly slithers under the covers, facing the door, careful not to let any of his long limbs actually touch Aziraphale. Certain he could immolate on the spot, Crowley’s treading the fine line of scooting close enough to feel the radiating body heat but not so close that they could accidentally make contact.
“Comfy?” Aziraphale asks.
“Mmm,” Crowley replies without relaxing at all.
“Mind if I stay up and read?”
“Nope. Enjoy.”
“Good night,” Aziraphale says and pats Crowley’s shoulder.
Luckily for Crowley, his already-tensed muscles keep him from jumping out of his skin.
Aziraphale snaps off Crowley’s bedside light and wiggles himself into a more comfortable position.
Crowley begins to exhale slowly and eventually the quiet shuffle of turning pages lulls him to sleep.
In the morning, Crowley wakes bleary-eyed to the sound of Aziraphale whispering his name. He’s warm and utterly relaxed, two very unfamiliar states. He must still be dreaming.
Then he hears engines revving outside, sounding sort of familiar, like the motorcycles from the day before.
“Crowley, I think there might be trouble. Wake up.”
Crowley’s brain finally boots up and he opens his eyes fully to a close-up of striped pajamas. Oh no. Upon moving his limbs, he discovers both his arms and one leg are wrapped around Aziraphale’s leg and his face is smushed into Aziraphale’s hip. “I… uh. Ngk,” he says by way of apology. He looks up at Aziraphale, whose cheeks are pink.
“It’s quite all right, dear. But we really should get up and see what’s going on.”
“Right,” Crowley, says and rolls out of bed, snapping on proper clothes.
Outside, they see the bikers pulling away with a woman on the back of one bike, the tails of her nightgown flapping in the wind.
“Hey, that’s the pay phone woman!” Crowley points uselessly after the receding bikes.
Aziraphale grabs Crowley’s sleeve and pulls him down the catwalk. “I know who can help us investigate,” he says, annoyingly awake and excited at this hour.
Crowley groans but follows hot on Aziraphale’s heels to knock on door 220.
Scully answers the door, her hair looking a little mussed, and a small hope blooms in Crowley that maybe Aziraphale’s scheme worked to get these two together. “Mulder, we have company. You better get up.”
She steps aside to let them in and two things become clear: there are two beds and both have been used. Aziraphale’s head whips around in a double take between the beds and Crowley, but Crowley just shrugs, hopes dashed. He tries to focus on why they came.
“FBI humans," Crowley says in his best crime show voice, “there’s a person who just went missing from this hotel.”
“Yes, we could really use your help tracking her down,” Aziraphale adds, fluttering his hands anxiously.
7:14am Farmington, Illinois
Two days ago, Mulder could not have anticipated that he and Scully would be riding in the backseat of what he now knows is a 1933 Bentley, currently being driven like a bat out of hell on the wrong side of the road chasing a motorcycle gang.
It’s kind of exciting.
Plus, Scully is gripping his hand. He knows it’s largely out of fear and nausea from the breakneck driving, but he’s going to savor it anyway.
Whatever forces converged so that he and Scully could share the same room—if not the same bed—last night, he is grateful for them. Seeing her let her guard down a little bit, hearing her shifting as she sleeps, and waking up to the sun shining through her hair—it’s all these little moments that he’s piecing together to store away in his heart.
In the front seat, Aziraphale clings to the grab handle with one hand and with the other he studies a local map. Scully had the presence of mind to bring the map and a phone book, but with her eyes currently squeezed shut, she’s not much help. Aziraphale seems to be at least slightly more acclimated to his partner’s driving style.
“It looks like this ‘Biker Bar,’ as you say, is just northwest of here,” Aziraphale explains. “Crowley, you're going to turn left when this road comes to a T, then turn right on the next major road. Well, major for these parts, I take it.”
When they pull up outside the low wooden building, Aziraphale lets out a sigh of relief, “Oh this place doesn’t feel bad at all.”
Mulder and Scully exchange glances, unsure what to make of that assessment.
The bar falls silent as four very out-of-place people walk in. There are a surprising number of customers in the dimly lit establishment for it being so early in the morning. Mulder supposes it must be more of a hangout than a place to get drunk. Or else they’re having some sort of meeting.
“Hey, I remember you from yesterday,” the broad man at the bar says. “I hope you’re not here to cause any trouble.”
“Trouble?” Aziraphale asked innocently. “It seems you were the one ‘causing trouble’ yesterday.”
As murmurs begin to rise from the other patrons, Scully steps up and says in a voice that is calm but brooks no argument, “We’re here to make sure the woman from the hotel is all right.”
“She’s better now!” someone shouts defensively.
“What does that mean?” Mulder asks.
“Who’s asking?” counters the big guy.
“Federal agents Mulder and Scully, and… Aziraphale and Crowley are here to help,” the odd couple give little waves as Scully introduces them. “We’ve heard about some local disappearances. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
Whether due to the strangeness or the authority of the interlopers, the energy in the room now seems more subdued.
“Pull up a chair,” the big guy says, sliding out—not a chair—but a bar stool.
The four of them arrange themselves at the bar, receiving nods from the others seated nearby.
“Would you like a drink? Suppose it is a little early.”
“No, thank you,” Scully says graciously. “We’d like to hear what you know.”
“Yes, there are some women who have ‘disappeared,’” the big guy says with air quotes, “but we know where they are.”
“You do?” Aziraphale asks, astonished.
Mulder makes a subtle shushing motion at Aziraphale, who responds with a much less subtle gesture, tapping his nose with his finger.
“They’re with us,” the big guy admits. “See, we have a kind of underground program to help people get out of bad situations. Ends up being women who need to stay somewhere else for a while till they figure out what’s next for them.”
Mulder and Scully exchange eyebrow raises. “Well that is not what we expected,” Scully admits.
“Brilliant,” Crowley claps the guy on the back and grins with far too many teeth.
“So they’re safe here? They’re being taken care of?” Aziraphale asks.
“Yes,” a woman across the bar says. “I’ll show you.” She heads towards the back room and beckons someone out.
Another woman, who Mulder recognizes from the newspaper, enters the room, looking weary but clean and put together. He supposes this must be the person who fled the hotel.
“Hi,” she says. “You wanted to talk to me?”
“Hello there,” Aziraphale says.
For some reason, Mulder notices, her shoulders relax when he greets her.
She settles in at the bar and offers her side of the story. “These guys made a scene at the car show yesterday so I could get away. I was having some second thoughts when you saw me at the hotel last night,” she glances between Aziraphale and Crowley, “but it’s the right thing for me to be on my own. I’m really grateful for the help.”
“We’re glad you’re safe,” Scully says.
“May you have safe travels,” Aziraphale tells her, his voice grave and resonant.
At these words, Mulder swears he sees a little sparkle of light travel through the dark room from Aziraphale to the woman.
He glances towards Scully who meets his eye with a knowing smile.
Huh.
He never thought angels were real before.
So that means the other one is… a demon? He flicks his eyes over to Crowley, lounging at the bar with slivers of yellow eyes visible above his glasses, and then back to Scully. He makes little horns out of his fingers and raises his eyebrows in a question. She nods affirmatively.
Well that explains some things. And makes other things very mysterious.
9:30am
“I suppose you’ll be needing a lift home,” Crowley drawls, his dark clothing a stark contrast to the bright sun outside the bar.
Scully and Mulder exchange glances. “Yes, all right,” Scully agrees. “But since we’re not chasing anyone down, would it be possible to go just a little bit slower?”
“Might do. Might not,” he says, amused.
Aziraphale offers her a sympathetic look. Knowing who he is, she lets herself feel comforted.
When they drive by the farm with the crop circles, Mulder asks, “So you guys aren’t involved with any alien stuff, are you?”
For a moment, Aziraphale seems at a loss for words.
Crowley splutters a laugh. “Oh, that’s rich.”
Aziraphale’s words return in short order. “My dear boy. Is that what you thought? That we were in cahoots with extraterrestrials who are making people disappear?”
Scully, still bracing herself against the nausea from Crowley’s driving, cracks one eye open to gauge Mulder’s reaction.
“Sort of,” he admits with a shrug. “Maybe just hoping.”
“Hope is the thing with feathers,” Aziraphale quotes. “It can’t hurt to hope. Don’t laugh, Crowley. I'm serious.” Aziraphale twists around to look back at Mulder. “That means don’t give it up.”
Scully thinks of the feathers she picked up in the field. She takes Mulder’s hand.
Thank you!!!
Date: 2024-12-23 03:31 am (UTC)And I laughed so much while reading it-- at the way they kept "running into" each other, at Aziraphale trying to understand porn, at Mulder making the devil horns gesture at Scully, and the list goes on and on. But the best part may have been Crowley screwing up the miracle and ending up with ONLY ONE BED for him and Aziraphale! Also, it was very in character for Mulder to be so exited about losing time and for Aziraphale to be both worried and excited about interacting with American law enforcement, which cracked me up.
Finally, I love the ending! It's very sweet and hopeful. :) Thank you so much for this story. I loved it the first time, and I am definitely going to enjoy reading it again!!
Re: Thank you!!!
Date: 2024-12-23 03:05 pm (UTC)It was really a delight to write and I’m so gratified to know what made you laugh (Crowley thwarting himself is my personal favorite). Thank you for your prompt and the chance to play around with a merging of these two worlds. Happiest of holidays to you!
-Your Currently Anonymous Gifter
Re: Thank you!!!
Date: 2025-06-09 09:33 pm (UTC)Crowley once again Crowley'ing himself was so artfully done, haha!
Re: Thank you!!!
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