Work Text:
They had called it the Great War, but Crowley begged to differ. He had been through any number of clashes, skirmishes, fights, battles, sieges, campaigns and even a couple of crusades. It was not a particularly great war. The Average, Slightly-Bigger-But-Definitely-Not-Most-Barbaric War, maybe. Though, he thought to himself as he meandered along a bombed-out French road, the humans had done a right and epic job roping a good swathe of themselves into it for no real apparent reason. Quality stuff, that. It was why he was here, that mass of humanity all arrayed and ready to kill. Nice and evil, overflowing the Pits with depraved souls who otherwise might have stayed at home, sated and small, indulging in petty revenges on their neighbors with no real aims in life. Crowley shrugged, kicked a rock into the bushes, and kept on. He rather preferred tempting those sorts. A lot more mileage you could get out of them, for starters, and no chance of heroic faith and idealism kicking in at the last moment. “Lot of that going around, these days,” he said to nobody in particular. There would have been a “somebody in particular” if he were thinking about him, which Crowley assuredly wasn’t, but that particular somebody had gone off in a flurry of feathers after a bit of a row over what constituted “helping” in a war zone. “Typical angel,” Crowley grumbled. As he spoke, his ears pricked up. Just under the sound of the guns, there was an engine. It was growling desperately, clanking against the potholes, and, as it grew closer, someone driving it was cursing loudly. He turned to look, but he was too late. There was a horrible roaring noise, and the machine barreled out of the foggy dusk, swerved around the corner of stone fencing that had hidden it from both view and hearing, and sideswiped the fence post where Crowley had been standing only a moment before.
The vehicle he had heard was an ambulance. The woman who had been driving leapt from the seat, swearing in a positively Devilish manner. Crowley decided he liked her almost immediately. When she spotted him, her eyes widened. “I could have sworn I hit someone,” he heard her mutter, and he allowed himself a bit of a smug. Demonic reflexes. He tugged the brim of his flat cap down until it almost touched his dark glasses, and crossed his arms, the wool of his grey-black jacket rustling.
“Monsieur!” She cried, “Britannique, français ou allemand?" Atrocious pronunciation, but he understood.
“Britannique,” Crowley lied cheerfully. He was close enough, he supposed. He did spend a peculiar amount of time tempting Britons and their compatriots.
“Parlez vous langue allemand?” Her dark hair was escaping from under what had once been a white cap, and her uniform was too befouled to see what color it was supposed to be, but her eyes, despite the mire around them, still held a spark, no, more than a mere spark of determination. This woman, Crowley noted with uncanny certainty, this woman was a freight train. And, judging by the way she was storming for him despite the nonsense of war all about her, one who didn’t mind doing things she shouldn’t. He definitely liked her. “Oui oui, Madamoiselle, I speak that too.”
“Good,” she barked. “Get in.” Crowley leaned a little harder against his bit of wall, his curiosity beginning to burn.
“I don’t like to take rides from strangers,” he drawled. “Who are you?”
“Phryne Fisher,” she snapped. “I’m a nurse, I don’t speak German, and the boy in the back keeps spitting at me when I talk to him in French and he’s bleeding out of a hole in his side large enough to put a fist through. Get in.”
“I’m rather the opposite of a doctor,” he protested lazily, and she took two steps forward with such fervor that he could swear they generated a shock wave.
“I need a translator, not a doctor,” she said, “You’ll serve. Get. In.” Crowley, torn between shock and smirking, got.
The interior of the vehicle reeked of death and misery. Felt rather over-familiar, if Crowley were honest. Which, being a demon, he rarely was, particularly with himself. The boy in front of him was strapped to a gurney and bleeding thoroughly, but as soon as he spotted Nurse Fisher, he began to struggle and swear. Crowley reined in his amusement. Usually it was him inspiring that response.
“Can you tell him to hold still?” Nurse Fisher asked, brandishing a syringe full of what he assumed was morphia. “I don’t want to kill him while I knock him out to save his life.”
“There’s a sequence,” Crowley muttered, and the nurse glared. “Oh, very well.” But before he could relay the message, the boy resumed spewing epithets of a terrifically nasty hue at the woman, suggesting Crowley run her over with the car and take them both back to Hell together. Crowley bit back a growl. Humans could be so stupid sometimes. Here this rather brave woman was risking a lot, parked on a ruined road in the middle of a war zone, and the upstart boy was being utterly vulgar as she tried to save his life. He took off his glasses. The boy gave a start, and his eyes bulged wide as he took in the vertical slits of Crowley’s pupils, the unnatural yellow that gave him away as not of Earth if he allowed anyone to look closely enough, the teeth that he let slip from his mouth into their serpentine points. He let the rude young man get a good, close look. “Stille,” he hissed. “Erbärmlicher Sterblicher, jetzt triffst du dein Schicksal.“ The young soldier froze, and then, obligingly, fainted. Nurse Fisher was watching him suspiciously.
“What did you tell him? Were you threatening him?” She was swabbing the boy’s wound with alcohol as she spoke, not willing to waste her moment.
“Ah no, German just sounds like that,” Crowley shrugged. He put his glasses back on and leaned away as best he could, to let her work. “But you needn’t hurry, I’m sure he won’t notice even if you do let him die. Hellish enough either way.” In response, Nurse Fisher held out one bloodied hand.
“Bandage.”
“Pardon?”
“Bandage, now, dammit!” She snapped. “He might be a miserable, vulgar person, but he’s my patient and I’m keeping him alive no matter what filth he spews. People aren’t usually at their best with a kidney trying to fall out.”
“You have a point,” admitted Crowley, passing her the bandage. “I can’t imagine it’s pleasant.” He did imagine it for a bit then, decided that it was probably Hastur who had invented the Gatling gun for the pleasure of seeing such injuries, and shook his head. Enough about that menace. The woman was now tying off bandages neat as a postal clerk. “Well, Nurse Fisher, I really must be going now, so happy to be of help and whatnot, hope he does as well as he deserves or perhaps a bit better.”
“Wait.” The woman’s eyes burned into him: bright, gleaming blue, like Aziraphale’s eyes when he was being particularly rhapsodic about some frivolous human thing. Crowley waited, curious again. She searched his face. Looked over the strange, gangly (not-quite) man who had climbed into her ambulance and terrified a soldier into unconsciousness. Examined his not-quite-right clothes, the odd tattoo at his hairline, the dark glasses that held an unusual glint. She bared her teeth in a slightly desperate, hopeful grin. “Would you like to help me get into some trouble?”
“Like it’s my job,” said Crowley, entirely truthfully, for once. “Are you going to play Angel of Mercy?”
“Not exactly,” she replied, leaping out of the ambulance to regain the driver’s seat. “I’m not very good at ‘angelic.’ But there’s a young cutpurse and her siblings out there that I was on my way to rescue, and I could use someone to translate when I drop this one at the nearest medical tent.”
“Wol,” he said, grinning behind her back as he followed her, “angelic does run a bit of a spectrum.” Certainly wouldn’t look bad on the memos, him blasting about a war zone and improving the outlook of the looting and thievery on a battlefield. Good look on a demon, really. Quite proper.
“I’ll drive,” he said, sloping around to the steering wheel. But she had already installed herself in the seat and gave him a scowl that was usually reserved for dogs who piddled on things they shouldn’t.
“You most certainly will not drive my ambulance.”
“I can drive it better,” he replied. “You did just crash.”
“I crashed because I was avoiding you,” she said. “You’ll be in the cab, so that can’t happen again.”
“Only if it starts,” he smirked. He had heard a few telltale noises when she swiped that bit of fence. And, sure enough, when she twisted the key, there was no answer from the engine.
“You miserable piece of metallic horse—,” she began, and Crowley, very gracefully, took her seat when she sprang down to inspect the engine. There was a screech when she pried up the hood. Some banging. A sizzling noise. “Try it again!” Nothing. More screeching and another string of curses. The smell of ozone. “Again!” And shockingly, miraculously, and not any miraculously he had doings with… it started. Crowley was dumbfounded. Not dumbfounded enough to move, of course, but he did wave cheekily at her.
“That’s a very good command of the language you have,” he said as she took the passenger’s seat with a grump at his presumptuous “BAGSY!”
“Some things work better when you swear at them,” she shrugged. “Now, get on with it. We have a rude boy to deliver to a doctor and some notorious children to liberate from the can.” Crowley miracled a small rock in her shoe for her disrespect and threw the ambulance into gear. “Now, three clicks south and mind the fences.” The engine roared, and demon barely contained a gleeful grin. If they got out of this with her not dead and him not discorporated, he was really going to have to curse her somehow, just to keep things consistent. They shared a sidelong look as a shell screeched overhead, and it was not one of fear, but one of rising ferociously to a challenge. “Angels of Mercy with terrifying flaming swords!” He cried, and her own grin inflamed as well. Humans were such fun. This definitely constituted “helping.”
***
It was 1921, and Aziraphale was on the prowl. He had heard tell of a flourishing vinery down south near the sea. “In Gaul?” he had asked, and the man had given him a strange look. “Oh, right, they are calling it France now.” So, he had gone alone. Crowley, he was still avoiding. It didn’t bear thinking about, the things that a demon got up to during wartime. And France was only a slight detour, really – he was supposed to be supporting the saints in their times of tribulation, and surely things were quite, er, tribulatory down here, what with the Prohibition on alcohol being enforced in the New World. Surely, the vintners would need supporting. So, he had popped across the Channel, puttered his way through the country and found himself in a beautiful little town. “Oh, now this is lovely,” he exclaimed. “Not moving quite so fast as the rest of the world. And look, they’ve kept the castle keep just as it was ages ago, how sweet!” He decided that he could settle in for a bit of observing the world, just for a few moments. He found a branching peach tree and leaned against it, enjoying the dappled pattern the leaves cast along the road, the scent of blossoms growing into delicious fruit, the skittering of the bugs up and down the bark. “Hello Brother Ant,” he said, “care to watch with me?” But Brother Ant had an important crumb to move along, so Aziraphale turned his attention to the humans instead.
A black-haired woman was coming out of a nearby alleyway. She walked in a way that put him oddly in mind of Crowley – loping, and a little feral. There was a neat beret on her head, which he found charming, round sunglasses, and her clothes looked breezy and cool, perfect for the summer except for the deep shade of the coat. Maybe a little shorter and sheerer than was the fashion, but humans would place such peculiar taboos on the feminine body. He never did like when they did that. The first thing they did – the very first thing! – was cover up their splendid Divine-made bodies with leaves and skins and things, and then start making rules about which bits could and couldn’t get some sunshine. Although he did quite love the neat waistcoats with some warm flannel to them. Those were definitely a tick in the positive column for staying on Earth. The woman was scowling, with a cut bleeding on her hand, but she brightened when she saw him. Perhaps it was the bowtie. She made for him, and he noticed a stagger to her step – broken heel on her shoe. Aziraphale paused, reassessed. Dark glasses. Broken shoe. Clothes out of place. Several small cuts. Strap torn on her bag. And heading right for a stranger with a worried look to her face. He knew he could be a bit naïve, but that said to him that this woman was in trouble, or was trouble. Possibly both. Aziraphale felt his feathers ruffle. Just a bit. He looked over her shoulder and saw a man in equally disarrayed clothing storming along the other side of the street, his fists clenched, red smear on his face where he had wiped a cut. She followed the gaze and the expression she turned back to him was too unhappy to ignore.
“Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur, Je suis…“
“I speak terrible French,” he said brightly. “But I can help you in English.”
“That man,” she said, jerking her head. “I broke his nose when he grabbed for my pocketbook and he’s quite furious about it. Will you walk with me towards the police station until he gets bored?” Aziraphale looked over her shoulder again. The clouds seemed to drift away quite suddenly, and the sunlight brightened to a direct beam, uncomfortably burning the pavement between this bedraggled woman and the stalking man. The man paused, then threw up an arm to defend himself against the sun, and blisters raised on his skin. He yelped, and decided that the shade was a better place from which to glower. A tiny sizzle rose from a puddle between the cracks of the stones, and the glare was quite blinding. Aziraphale turned his back intentionally, drawing the lady with him.
“My dear friend!” Aziraphale exclaimed, quite loudly and cheerfully, “My very dear… what name are you going by these days?” The lurking fellow retreated a bit further. The sun stayed unnaturally bright, but not enough to harm anyone with real goodwill in their hearts.
“It’s Phryne Fisher still,” she said, equally loudly, “though there’s an Honorable in front of my name now, thanks to the War.” Her tone was light, but her blue eyes were scanning for threats.
“It looks like he might be retreating,” the angel murmured, suppressing any gleam of triumph from his voice. “I guess Mr. Fell here,” he winked, “is far too intimidating for any rotter going about bad business.”
“He is indeed,” Phryne Fisher said, with an ambiguous expression. “Well, in that case, I should be going. I need to find where I dropped my knife.” But as she spoke, a shade of worry darkened her tone. “If it’s still there. It might not be safe to go back yet. But thank you, thank you all the same.”
“Oh, happy to help, if I can,” said Aziraphale. “I’m hunting for the vineyards, myself.” He offered her his elbow, and, after a moment of hesitation, she took it. Aziraphale knew that look. Wise woman, being cautious, even of him, just in case he might turn on her too. Thousands of years, and some things were constant as the rain after that first drop. “But first, could I persuade you to let me take you to lunch?” Supporting people in their tribulations – this certainly counted. The angel smiled and patted her hand delicately, but Miss Fisher was still wary.
“Only if you let me pay for the wine, Mr. Fell,” she replied, watching him closely.
“Offer accepted,” he replied, and he felt her relax, a half-smile flexing on her face. A natural exuberance to her, under that prickliness. Oh, she really did remind him of Crowley. They strolled together, Miss Fisher and Mr. Fell, until blessedly, they found a little café. Azriaphale bustled (he couldn’t help it – he was a natural bustler) about, arranging her chair, then his, then the napkins and the glasses just so, while she settled in politely with one eye toward the door, not so much sitting down as temporarily pausing her standing.
“Excuse me, Mademoiselle?” The waitress was trying to get her attention, a tiny slip of a menu in one hand. “Miss?”
“Oh!” Miss Fisher recalled herself. “I apologize, thank you.” She took the paper, and then, to Aziraphale’s surprise, turned her focus not back to the door, but to the woman. “Would you prefer French?”
“Oh, no,” the waitress replied, flushing slightly. “I need practice.” The café was empty except for them, the cook was outside shouting at a messenger boy about bills, and Aziraphale decided that they could be another support to the tribulated if they stayed for a while and had a long meal, rather than a quick nosh and dash.
So, Miss Fisher and the waitress chattered in English, then French, then both in a Babel-ish mish-mosh, nibbling all the while, while Azriaphale tucked into a particularly delicious array of cuisine. He had a lovely fish consommé, delicate and fragrant, some savory stuffed olives with fresh, crispy baguette, something called ‘fricassee of chicken giblets’ with springy garlic beans (not bad), roasted potatoes with herbs, a peach water ice, and three perfect glasses of wine, every one a complex delight. Miss Fisher, by this point, had persuaded the waitress to sit with them, and was riffling through her pocketbook to cover the woman’s time. “Oh, no, allow me,” he said, pushing her hand gently away and replacing the currency on the table with a massive silver coin that was probably out of date. “You’re covering the wine.” He took a deeply-appreciative sip. “And it is a lovely vintage.”
“Oh yes,” exclaimed the waitress, whose name, they had discovered, was Joanne. “It is my family’s farmyard…?”
“Vineyard.”
“Vineyard that makes it. But this year,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially, “this year will be the best. The rain and sun are perfect. The grapes will be perfect too.”
“My dear woman,” the angel exclaimed, “it’s that precise place I have come to find!” He rubbed his hands together in glee. “Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher, we’ve found our contact. How would you like to come along on my adventure?”
Phryne Fisher had never turned down an adventure in her life. She did not want to start now. But she took another long, careful look out the door for her assailant – one of René’s “friends” who had resented her escape from him – hating herself for her fear, for the creep of her hand toward the knife on the table and the catch of her breath when she saw movement beyond the panes. Mr. Fell, who, despite his light sweetness, had some threads of lightning through him too, was watching her look. She turned to face him, and some long, unspoken moments passed between them. He knew. He understood her fear. Fear almost as old as Creation. He understood that she could drive seventy miles an hour with shells whistling overhead and ragged pickpockets and bleeding soldiers in her vehicle, and feel less fear than she did right now – less small than she did right now. He knew that too. And somehow – somehow, softly, the hate and shame withered in the kind sunlight of the man’s eyes. Or maybe it was that suddenly, the unrestrained love she carried for those around her in need had suddenly leafed out and budded for herself as well, and a smile breezed onto her face.
“Would it help,” said the man, politely arranging Joanne’s coat for her, “if we doubled back and searched for your knife first? Is it a memento?”
“Not at all,” said Miss Fisher. “Although a woman alone in a strange town should always carry protection.”
“I heartily agree,” replied Mr. Fell as they left the café together in pursuit of some bottles of Chateauneuf de Pape. “A sword of some size or other is always a handy thing to have, even when it isn’t aflame. Perhaps I can procure you a new one.”
“Angel of Mercy with a terrifying flaming sword,” she murmured, and smiled at the memory. “Just like that Crowley fellow who commandeered my ambulance would say.”
Aziraphale started, blinked, and regained his footing. Perhaps he would need to find out what Crowley had been up to during the previous war after all.
***
“Why is it,” said Jack, looking on the astonishingly unruffled Miss Fisher for the fifth time in as many weeks, “that no matter how poorly you store that knife, it doesn’t stab you, but you never can keep ahold of your gun when you try to fire it?” He handed the pistol back to her, having recovered it from yet another ill-timed skitter under a piece of furniture during a struggle with a suspect. She took it and reholstered her knife into a garter that Jack supposed must have some sort of iron threads running through it. He thought about that garter a great deal more than was necessary.
“No idea,” she said with a tulip-colored smirk that snagged at his heart. “Blessed and cursed in equal measure, I suppose.”