Chapter Text
There were many things about A.J. Crowley that Aziraphale didn’t understand. Naturally, of course, given the circumstances under which they knew one another, there were bound to be some differences in character. Given the nature of their work, Aziraphale would say - if he was forced to explain it to anyone else. The whole “good” and “evil” factor was a start. It was just becoming in vogue to question the objectivity of such powerful constructs. However, Aziraphale thought privately, that the real discrepancies between the two of them fell on how they interpreted the phrase “afternoon tea”. The buzzing of bodies in the marketplace was slowly ceasing to a hum, as the sun crept lower in the sky. Crowley, however, was nowhere to be found.
When Aziraphale thought harder about it, he and Crowley had more in common than not. Admittedly, they also understood each other better than anyone else did. Immortality. The ill fate of confinement in this big blue - Aziraphale looked around the plaza for an apt metaphor - fountain . How very sixteenth century, he thought to himself, examining the nearest basin, immaculate water flowing evenly upwards through a mossy spout at the top. Yet, much like the fountain, the sands of time flowed cyclically for him, and not like the hourglass one would expect. Immortality: the perks and downsides.
- Aziraphale imagined it was not as boring as a life with steady flow and a set end date. No, despite having so much more time to kill in the long run, Aziraphale would wager that his life was more pleasantly spent. Eternal life (eternal, of course, until that distant day to which they were all counting down) enabled him to acquire the means to do whatever he pleased. If that meant wandering the Rialto while waiting for Crowley to show up, than that was what it would be. It was really quite beautiful here anyway.
- The drawbacks, however, sometimes seemed to outweigh the convenience. For instance, nobody else understood what it was like to live on a non-linear timeframe and those who did - those on the upper end of things in the hierarchy - had no time or patience to wax poetic about it with Aziraphale. Nobody understood the ill-begotten floating feeling of watching every string be snapped, every attachment that you ever made severed by that pesky little thing called death. No matter how selfless or holy -- no matter how careless or demonic -- it took a toll and not one other being understood it. Nobody but Crowley.
He should be here by now, Aziraphale thought grumpily for the third time, because although he technically had all the time in the world, he also had places to be and experiences to experience. A cup of tea would be nice, for one, and a pipe -- these amenities were getting so much cheaper to come by, these days. Aziraphale glanced up at the skyline anxiously. Perhaps it was too late for tea after all. Before he could pull the heavy spring powered clock from the pocket of his overcoat, Aziraphale heard a familiar voice behind him.
“Enjoying the sunset?” Crowley sauntered up next to him, cat-like, in a flowy white tunic and a hideous pair of belted pantaloons.
“Yes, a nice afternoon sunset indeed,” Aziraphale snapped, his tone unable to contain the underlying fondness as he turned to face his companion, “You look hideous by the way.”
Crowley beamed as though it were a compliment, “Thank you. Just came from a pirating ship off the coast. Rowdy bunch, pirates - and drinkers. You’d like them.”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t,” Aziraphale clasped his hand behind Crowley’s back and nearly steered him towards one of the numerous winery stalls, “but I would like a drink. I’m afraid it’s a bit late for tea.”
Crowley shrugged. “When in Rome.”
“Venice, dear,” Aziraphale corrected.
***
Aziraphale paid for one large bottle of red wine with his very own spring powered clock. Encrusted with rubies and plated with gold, the thing could have easily bought the entire marketplace. Crowley didn’t ask him why, understood that it was tit for tat. If he was going to go off marauding with pirates, than Aziraphale would take it upon himself to right that wrong by a sweeping act of generosity. Nevermind that it was overcompensating for a bit of ship-hijacking and treachery, or that it played into that wine merchant’s sense of greed, or Aziraphale’s own sense of pride. There were many things that Crowley could say, but it had all been said before and would surely be said again, when Aziraphale was too drunk to remember it. Most importantly, he had to watch the battles he picked tonight because he was already several hours late and had been planning on asking Aziraphale a favor.
As the pair reached the shoreline, the last stragglers were just pulling their naked children from the water to wash up and return home. It was a warm night, a nice night for a swim, but the sun had fully set on the rippling waves and the tide was rising. Aziraphale propped himself up against some rocks a safe distance away, the bottle between them, and Crowley admired the glittering reflection of stars on the water. Damn this beautiful world.
“So, you missed me?” Aziraphale taunted him playfully through a mouthful of wine, “Or just bored?”
“Not bored, never bored.” Crowley answered truthfully, “Are you?” Crowley very rarely was. There was so much to do here, so many people to meet, mischievous ideas to plant in their unsuspecting heads. He imagined that setting things astray would be far more interesting than putting things back in place.
“I’m really not bored either, no.” Aziraphale leaned back, contented, “There’s always more to study, more places to see.”
“You haven’t run out yet?”
Aziraphale shook his head. “No, on the contrary, I ran out centuries ago, but I like to go back...check up on things. It’s like a whole new world every fifty years or so. Especially after the plague. Have you been Eastward since…?” Aziraphale’s eyes darkened as he trailed off.
“I haven’t, no,” Crowley cleared his throat awkwardly, fingers brushing against Aziraphale’s as he reached for the wine, “It was the most catastrophic thing I’d ever seen.”
“Your side was behind it I’m sure?”
“There had been some...disagreement. I swear to you, I was strongly opposed - horrified even.”
Aziraphale smiled warmly, a little sadly. “I believe it.”
“I’m curious though, why are you in Venice?” Crowley could feel his head getting sloshy, cheeks blooming with a pleasant warmth - results no doubt of the wine. It was the best Crowley had had in some time. Venice had risen from its ashes, reborn into this hub of food, thought, and art. It was a phoenix, but then, so was everything when your reality was cyclical.
“Mm,” Aziraphale smiled coyly, the redness in his ears betraying his composure. Three more sips and he would be slurring. Evidently aware that Crowley was observing this, the shorter man scowled. “I could ask you the same thing,” One sip down and Aziraphale rocked unsteadily against the jagged stone, “What is so important that you came all the way out here by pirate ship to see me?”
“You have to promise not to laugh.”
Aziraphale shot him his most serious expression, so overly dramatized that they both broke into a fit of giggles. Crowley shut his eyes, letting the sea breeze wash over him. It was really quite soothing, the sort of moment you treasure forever. Literally, because of the whole immortality thing.
“Tomorrow,” Crowley clarified, “When we’re less…”
Aziraphale snorted, as Crowley pulled him closer. “Stop being affectionate, fuh-rankly you’re shcaring me.”
They fell asleep against the rocks soon after, like a wayward pair of lovers.
***
The cafe was bright and open, with sculptures adorning the doors and a lovely ocean view. It was busy, mainly with gentry and clergymen, those with enough wealth and taste to afford such a thing. The only coffee house until Vienna, Aziraphale had told his companion as they stood beside the counter. He frequented it often since coming to Venice - typically to get the tea that was imported here. He only drank coffee when he was hungover.
“Two coffees,” Crowley told the attendant, as if reading his mind. The rich bitter smell of the stuff was enough to snap Aziraphale out of it, if only for the time that they stood at the counter, enjoying the visual appeal of roasted beans in marble bowls. When their drinks finally came, the pair took a seat outside.
Crowley sighed contentedly as he took a sip. “This is really good stuff, you know. I’m surprised it isn’t illegal here - by your people at least.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale replied, hiding his sly smile behind his cup.
“Someday, they’ll have these little shops everywhere,” Crowley mused, “Mark my words if I know humans. This is going to get big.”
“Quite,” Aziraphale quirked his head. “Why...are you here again?”
Crowley almost looked embarrassed - for a split second, before sliding into a casual smirk, “Well, I am looking for some centuries-old information. A book, tablet, manuscript - anything really that you might have on it.”
“On what?” Aziraphale interrupted, “ And since when are you interested in reading? Or anything centuries-old for that matter?”
Crowley straightened. “All right, fine. You know that Tartan blanket I had - got it ‘round the mid 1200s in the Scottish Highlands?”
Aziraphale peered over his spectacles. “Mm, Yes. The pattern was indicative of the Galar clan. Good for you, tartan is fashionable these days.”
“That’s just the thing, though,” said Crowley, “I accidentally was having too much fun one night, a huge bonfire and, well, it burned up.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes, as he let the sharpness of the beans and the coolness of the fresh milk, meld perfectly together over his tongue. Typical. “So go back to Scotland. Buy a new one. Or better yet, wish one into existence for yourself, like you do. I suppose if I had such questionable praxis, I wouldn’t be half as sentimental.”
Crowley looked down into his coffee glumly. “I can’t.”
“Nonsense. You always do.”
“No,” Crowley clarified, “There has to be something of its kind in this world already for me to wish myself a new one and the plague wiped every last Galar out. The make of this Tartan is lost along with the clan itself.”
“That’s a shame,” Aziraphale clicked his tongue. “I should have known this was about things and not about books.”
“Books are things,” the demon pointed out. He stirred his coffee with one long finger, looking past Aziraphale, into the sea.
“It really meant a lot to you, then?”
“It didn’t,” Crowley explained, “until the plague hit. Between you and me, I wasn’t able to live up to it - to revel in the death and destruction. I felt sick. I had friends who were Galars.”
“Hush now,” said Aziraphale, “It was only a test run.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Well, when the real apocalypse comes around, you’ll surely do better.”