Chapter Text
Aziraphale had almost forgotten – almost, but not quite – what it was like to be in the presence of Michael on her war footing.
He had personally witnessed, over the years, countless human battles of epic import. He had watched Achilles dragging the body of Hektor behind his chariot; had been a guardian to David since the young boy’s first day picking up a slingshot; had appeared to Constantine in a great beam of light and preached Heaven’s will right there on the battlefield. Had followed William, even now, into Hastings. Had known, in short, humanity’s fiercest warriors and most terrifying conquerors.
None of these held a candle to The Angel Who Is Like God.
Aziraphale had fought in that first war, of course, they all had; but Michael was made for battle in a way no other angel had been. Michael blazed. As she approached Aziraphale with terrifying slowness he was reminded of the way the moon would move just so to eclipse the sun, extinguishing everything and leaving only an eerie halo to pierce the darkness. Oh, he had watched many solar eclipses, thanks to –
Crowley had gone, he reminded himself. Safe.
Perhaps repeating this desperately in his mind would make it true.
“Aziraphale.” Michael’s voice was incandescent as lightning cracked again. She advanced on him and jabbed his chest with the point of her lance, not hard enough to pierce his armour, just hard enough to force the breath from his lungs and to send a shock wave of divine energy through his body. This was a holy weapon.
Aziraphale drew himself up in the saddle, as tall as he could. “Michael.” Crowley is safe. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Don’t play coy with me, Aziraphale. I ought to discorporate you right here and now for insubordination.”
“Well.” Aziraphale affected a pout. “That wouldn’t be very sporting.”
A scowl. Michael brought her horse right alongside Aziraphale’s and leaned in close so her face was just inches from his. “You test my patience, principality. I instructed you very clearly to stay out of my affairs. That’s not so difficult to do, is it? Just stay out of the way. So why -” she moved the point of the lance to Aziraphale’s neck and nudged his chin upwards – “are you here?”
“I–” The lance point grazed Aziraphale’s throat and he flinched.
“You’re pathetic.” Michael sneered. She was still calling him tu, and it still rankled. “And you’ve been on this planet too long. You aren’t worth the effort to drag back upstairs. I think I really will discorporate you and save myself the trouble.” Something occurred to her then, and her grin widened. “Of course… perhaps that’s not such a good idea. After all, how do we even know your soul will return to Heaven?” There was malice in her eyes. “Perhaps you’ll follow your boyfriend down to Hell instead.”
No!
“Oh, struck a nerve, have I?” She was grinning properly now, and cruelly. Around them, time had not stopped, but it may as well have done. Aziraphale could almost see bolts of lightning suspended in Michael’s eyes. He imagined seizing the sparks in his own fists, summoned his own angelic power, felt holiness rising in his chest. He drew his sword. It did not flame, but he thought of Eden – of the eastern gate, and Adam and Eve, and the apple tree, and –
“You will leave Crowley alone,” Aziraphale said. His voice was low and flat. “You will say nothing of him to Heaven or Hell. And in return,” and now it was his sword underneath Michael’s chin, and, oh, coming between two archangels was the last thing he had wanted, but it was too late now, this was his only choice. “In return, I shall say nothing to Gabriel.”
“Gabriel?” Michael laughed, short and harsh. “What does Gabriel have to do with anything?
“He ordered me to spy on you.” Without moving the sword from Michael’s neck, he pulled his free hand down from Heaven to summon the celestial scroll upon which he had received Gabriel’s orders, and handed it to her. “He’s suspicious of you. If you ask me,” he continued, and now he was the one grinning smugly, “you’re not meant to be here at all, and you’re certainly not meant to be taking sides in this human battle. I think an angel could get in some real trouble for that. Don’t you?”
She looked over the scroll and frowned. Looked back up at Aziraphale. Regarded him as one might regard an especially disgusting insect that has just taken up residence in the stew pot.
Finally, with narrow eyes and a narrow voice, she replied. “Fine.”
Aziraphale tried and failed to hide his relief. “Oh, really? Er, jolly good. That’s, that’s splendid.”
“Let me be extremely clear about how this will work.” Michael was deathly quiet and her words came in a hiss. “We did not encounter each other here. I did not see you or your – “ her grimace deepened – “pet demon, and you did not see me. I don’t care what you tell Gabriel, but you will leave me out of it. Am I understood?”
“Perfectly.” Démon de compagnie; the insult struck close to home. Not so bad with the right company.
“And one other thing.” She paused for effect. “Normandy is mine. I won’t have you mucking about in my terrain. If I see you there again, or catch you fraternizing.” The lance point was at his throat again. “Then may the Almighty have mercy on you, because I won’t.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Actually… perhaps some insurance is in order.”
And before Aziraphale had a chance to ask what that might mean, she drew one hand down from Heaven and with the other, the hand holding her lance, touched its point to his lips. He gasped out, involuntarily, a cold breath that left him feeling winded though he had no need of air, left him feeling wanting, missing something, somehow.
Missing something? Missing what?
What?
“–”
No speech. Only another gasping breath. What was wrong? What had Michael done? He reached for the words and found none. His mouth gaped like that of a fish. Guided by muscle memory alone, his lips struggled to form a syllable.
“Qu – qu –”
Michael smirked, satisfied. Said something unintelligible.
“Reste en dehors de la Normandie.”
Aziraphale’s mind was dreadfully empty as he grasped wildly for understanding, for a reply, for anything at all, and again found nothing.
The smirk deepened. “Stay out of Normandy, Aziraphale.” And with that, she tightened the reins of her great red horse, and turned, and rode away.
His relief at his ability to comprehend was so great that it took Aziraphale several moments to notice that Michael’s second command had been made in the language of the Angles. In desperation, he called after her in the same fashion and found that the words came freely.
“Wait! Michael!” A final, anguished cry. “What have you done?”
Michael paused, turning only halfway. Smiled coldly. Said something unintelligible.
Then she turned her horse roughly and was gone.
Oxfordshire
1067
It was a number of months before he dared to seek out Crowley again, to stretch out his divine essence like timid fingers reaching out to find one particular spot of occult energy on earth, to nudge against the edge of Crowley's aura, ever so gently, and to feel a pull in response, and let himself be drawn to it. Aziraphale shivered. He had always known this was something it was possible for him to do.
He had not known that it would feel so –
No. It wouldn’t do to think such things. He reminded himself of this in a voice that sounded like Michael’s.
Aziraphale swallowed the hard lump that rose like an apple in his throat and tugged back on the ethereal thread, and followed it, in the only direction he could.
He found Crowley apparently residing in a large but unpretentious stone building some miles outside of Oxford, doing what he did best – that is to say, lurking, a slouching black shape against a grey wall. But Crowley stood up straighter as Aziraphale approached, and the relief was visible on his face even behind his dark glasses. His voice was low and careful.
“Mon ange.”
The words lit up no intuitive sense of understanding in Aziraphale’s mind. He recognized the familiar syllables, though. How could he not, after hearing them every day for 12 years? My angel. The breastplate of his armour was only dented, but he felt Michael’s lance stabbing into his chest.
“Crowley.” He spoke in the tongue of the Angles. “Thank Heaven you’re all right.”
Crowley gave a dour smile and replied in English as well. “Seems I’ve you to thank, a lot more so than Heaven. What happened back there, anyway?”
“I’m not sure, to be honest.” Aziraphale grimaced. “It seems Michael has been involved in, er, activities outside the purview of head office. Lord only knows what. Evidently Gabriel got suspicious.”
“Oh-ho!” Crowley’s smile turned bright. “Did you do what I think you did?”
“Erm –”
“You did!” A hearty laugh. “You blackmailed old Mikey! Well done, angel. Always knew you had it in you.” He shoved Aziraphale on the shoulder playfully, and his grin was positively wicked. Positively fond. “You really are a bit of a bastard, aren’t you?”
It was just angel in English, of course. The possessive wasn’t needed, grammatically speaking. Another stab from the lance.
“Er. Yes. Quite.” Aziraphale sighed, dreading the next part of this conversation. “Er. Listen, Crowley.”
They both knew what was coming. Crowley slumped back against the wall, a collection of limbs and angles once again, lurking, shapeless.
“It’s not that I don’t enjoy your company, Crowley. Only there’s no telling what Heaven might do if they knew we had been –” He did not say fraternizing. “In contact. You understand, don’t you?” he asked wretchedly. “It’s for your own safety. Truly.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I get it.” Crowley sighed and smiled weakly. “We had a good run, though, there. Got off scot-free in the end, didn’t we? You clever bastard.”
The pain in Aziraphale’s chest was nigh unbearable. “Scot-free. Er. Indeed.” He wrung his hands. “It won’t be forever, you know. We just need to… lay low for a while, until things settle down upstairs. I’ll go back to the earl’s castle in Wessex and you can carry on with, erm, whatever it is you’re doing here.” With a tilt of his head, he added, “What exactly is it you’re doing here, anyway?”
“Oh, this?” A careless wave of Crowley’s hand. “New thing I’m trying out. I figured, your side have got convents, so why not mine?” He grinned a bit, in spite of himself. “Satanic nuns. Not bad, eh?”
Silly demon. An ache under the ribs, a stabbing pain in the chest. “Not bad at all.” A small smile. “Er, that is to say, quite bad. Positively diabolical, in fact.” He bowed his head. “Well then.”
“Well then.”
“Best of luck with your Satanic nuns. And may we meet again on a better occasion.”
As Aziraphale turned to go, he heard Crowley’s voice one more time, soft, so soft. “Au revoir, mon ange.” He could not speak the language, but he recognized the syllables, worn smooth on his ears with time and familiarity. Tears threatened behind his eyes. He bit his lip.
“Au revoir, Crowley.” Clumsy, poorly accented. The foreign words felt like too much stale bread in his mouth.
He turned and fled into the nearby woods.