Chapter Text
Crowley had been fucking around Paris for month or so. He had chosen a new look, hair a bit darker, a bit curlier. He picked up boxing, foot fencing, and drowning himself daily in alcohol. In an attempt to feel new, he changed his name. He had attempted some sort of an anagram, scrawling his own name out. The “r,” inadvertently much larger than the other letters, caught his eye, and, in a moment of levity, he chose a pun: “Grantaire.” He yearned for connection. He fraternised at the cafes and bars, he went to fight clubs, and, slowly, he heard rumbles of change.
At boxing, there was a man, Bahorel, that he had become drinking buddies with. Usually, they stayed near Crowley’s little “home,” if you can call it that, at a place called the Corinthe. Bahorel would speak, sometimes, of the growing malcontent. It had been a year and a half since the last push of the Republicans, and they were ready for more. While Crowley didn’t exactly express interest in *joining,* he listened as Bahorel pontificated. Soon after they started meeting, Bahorel told him of the leader of the group he was in. It was an offhanded mention, a reference to an Enjolras and how it was funny since he really did look like an angel. Crowley barely managed to not choke on his drink at Bahorel’s further descriptions of the leader, and attempted to be nonchalant as he asked Bahorel if he would be allowed to come to a meeting.
The answer was, of course, a resounding yes, because they would never turn away potential allies. Bahorel offered to take him later that week, and Crowley nodded, a level of lost in thought that was decidedly amplified by the alcohol, before hurrying of to his apartment.
The day of the meeting, he sparred with Bahorel before they went to the meeting, doing all he could to still his nerves. He was beaten quite handily, his mind wandering often enough for Bahorel to get quite a few good hits in. As they approached the Musain, the cafe where the group often met, Crowley did his best to breathe deeply, telling himself that, if nothing else, this could be a chance to make more friends. The others Bahorel had mentioned in passing seemed invariably interesting. There was even a poet, whom he thought could help him learn a less violent way to get his feelings out than hand to hand combat.
He followed Bahorel into the back room and gasped so sharply that he had to pretend to stub his toe in response to a confused glance from Bahorel. He looked younger, late teens- early twenties at the absolute oldest- his hair was darker too, but there he was. Crowley’s angel. Crowley fought the urge to run away as Bahorel cleared his throat, raising his voice slightly over the din.
“We have new comrade! Everyone, please welcome Grantaire.”
The angelic blond figure that was at the center of the largest group of people stood. All eyes swung towards him, the respect everyone had towards him clear. He nodded towards Bahorel and Crowley, an utterly impassive look on his face. “Hello, Grantaire. Welcome to the Friends of the ABC. Feel free to join in any of our conversations,” he began to explain who was working on what and a barrage of names washed over Crowley as he stared, dumbfounded: Jehan, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Joly, Bossuet, Marius… He grabbed a chair and pulled it to a corner, only having the presence of mind to lurk, drinking heavily and listening intently.
Hours later, he had loosened a bit, parrying the ideas around him in debate that was mostly good-natured, at least for the others. As he did it, though, he could not escape from knowing that he was straddling the line of what Hell did and didn’t want, tempting them to revolution, but helping them build arguments. He grew louder and brasher as more people trickled away into the night, terrified of the inevitable but unwilling to leave early to avoid it.
Soon only a handful were left, and as he moved to leave, he saw Aziraphale slip away from the others and follow. The angel reached out, his hand on a trajectory towards Crowley’s arm until it was thwarted by Crowley jumping out of the way with a grunt.
“How are you here?” The angel hissed, cutting into Crowley’s path. “*Why* are you here?”
“Cholera. Meant to be spreading it.” Crowley grumbled.
“Not in Paris. At this meeting, being needlessly contradictory.”
“Bahorel invited me. Listen, can we go somewhere else? The walk to mine is a bit of a hike but we can…” He raised his hand, poised to snap.
Aziraphale nodded once and they were in Crowley’s bedroom. He sat as far as possible from where Aziraphale had delicately perched himself on the edge of the bed.
“Fucking bold of you to ask me why *I’m* at your little meeting considering the last time I saw you, a girl had to *die* for you to even consider that maybe poverty doesn’t quite present people with a wide swath of choices.” He was spitting mad for reasons he couldn’t quite understand, feeling like it was some sort of a betrayal for Aziraphale to have changed so much without him there.
The angel, for what it was worth, still characteristically fidgeted when he was nervous, an activity he was currently participating in. “That’s exactly it! Oh, Crowley, seeing you sucked down like that, for helping someone choose to be good, when I was too much of a-” he swallowed, plunging ahead, “a coward to do it myself, to listen to what Elspeth really needed to be able to do good. To be good. I kept thinking about her, and how you…” Crowley’s eyes flashed for a second with fear, willing Aziraphale not to say it again. “Well, how everything went down. And I thought about that time that- the time with the guillotine so I thought perhaps Paris would be the place to look. After that it just kind of happened. The group coalesced and we’ve been working together since. I’ve been doing everything I can to make up for Edinburgh. Learning and helping and connecting with the humans in a way I haven’t before.” His breakneck speed halted suddenly, his eyes raking over Crowley and the small room, littered with more bottles than felt reasonable for Crowley’s usual alcohol consumption. “What happened to you? I’m so sorry, I’ve been going on and on.”
Crowley gave a carefully measured “apathetic” shrug. “Beelzebub was pissed, I got a piece of their mind, and sent back with a new assignment.”
Aziraphale tensed, knowing Crowley was holding out, but not wanting to push, especially after having watched him spend the evening fighting the others. Even if it had the veneer of being good-natured, he didn’t know how close to a breaking point it had brought Crowey. “Well, I’m glad that you’re back. And you are more than welcome to meetings any time.” The olive branch hung in the air, each waiting for the other to make the first move. After a few moments, Aziraphale stood. “I- I think that I should head out for the night? Let you, uh, sleep?”
Crowley made absolutely no move to properly see Aziraphale off, simply nodding towards the door. “I’ll see you around, Angel-ras.”