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London, 1411
Aziraphale had made inquiries. Well, to be honest, he had done some serious investigation, and that had led him to a slum on the outskirts of the city. People said that this inn was frequented by some kind of warlock. He'd gathered that the wenches who conducted their business in the upstairs rooms always avoided the room at the end of the hall. That last room was either permanently rented by a rich noble or cursed with a demonic presence, depending upon who Aziraphale questioned.
-
The banging was insufferable. Crowley’s first waking thought was that he still felt like shit. His second thought was that whoever had ignored his warnings needed to be taught a demonic lesson he’d not forget. The banging on the door continued, and Crowley dragged himself upright with difficulty, shouting, “I thought I made it clear the last time, that I’d burn this disgusting establishment to the ground! Maybe I should just shrivel the manhood of anyone stupid enough to –“ He threw open the door and found himself nose to nose with the angel.
He took in Aziraphale’s fretful expression, and all his bluster drained away.
For once, Aziraphale looked more put together than his counterpart. He was wearing blue stockings under his tunic and a white jacket with lots of extra laces and buttons running down to the wrists. Crowley looked a mess, his tunic hanging off one shoulder, his thin knees exposed.
“Um…” Aziraphale stood there, twisting his hands nervously.
“What are you doing here?” Crowley demanded, more harshly than he’d intended.
“I could ask you the same question!” the angel huffed. As defenses go, it didn’t make much sense.
“Me? What’s it look like I’m doing? I was sleeping!”
“Oh. Well. Sorry.” Then, Aziraphale thought he wasn't going to back down so easily, and continued “But how was I to know you were sleeping? You don’t need sleep! Unless… Wait, are you drunk?”
Crowley sighed, expressively. “Not yet.” And he stalked past Aziraphale, down the stairs to the inn’s main room. A moment later, the angel followed.
On his way down the stairs, Crowley fixed himself up. It took a small miracle to get his hair and clothes back to stylish and foreboding, if a little out-of-date. Doublet, hoes, and every article of clothing was black. He looked like he was attending a funeral, 75 years previous. The dark glasses were anachronistic too, but those happened to be ahead of their time.
The peasants, the merchants and their whores all fell silent as he entered. The warlock in the last room was something of a mythical figure, as he only appeared down-stairs every few years. Most of the patrons crossed themselves and hastily left the premises. Crowley didn’t appear to notice, but he took a seat at one of the vacated tables. He snapped his fingers at the proprietor and pointed meaningfully at the empty table.
The barman apparently knew the drill, and he ran to fetch the best alcohol he possessed. This time, his Dark Patron had a prim little noble sitting at the table with him. That was new. The man brought several bottles of plum wine and mead, and Aziraphale thanked him warmly. Crowley tucked into the wine immediately, drinking from the bottle.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Aziraphale began.
“Has it?”
“Yes. Longer than usual! One hundred and six years…” Aziraphale heard the edge in his voice and added. “More or less. Give or take a decade or so.” It wouldn’t do to sound like he’d been counting. He expected Crowley to gloat or tease him, but the demon was uncharacteristically still.
“What year is it?” Crowley seemed genuinely curious.
“Why… it’s fourteen hundred and eleven.”
“Well, at least we’re out of the 14th century. Not that this one is shaping up to be much different. Cheers!” Crowley raised his bottle with a sneer. “To a new century!”
Aziraphale filled a cup with mead and toasted a century that was, from his perspective, already well on its way. He took a sip and watched as his companion drained half the bottle.
“So, what have you been doing with yourself?” Aziraphale tried to sound casual.
“Sloth.” The demon replied with relish. “It’s shaping up to be my calling, I think. I’ve spent the last… 100 years is it?... drunk or asleep. Or both.”
“And your superiors?”
“Oh, they’re good with it.” Crowley waved the question away with a flourish. “This place is quite enough of a shithole without my help.” He took another slug of wine.
Aziraphale nodded and sipped the mead. “Yes, well. Civilization has been a bit bleak lately. I’ll give you that. I’ve had my work cut out for me.”
“Staying busy, then?” Crowley finally gave him that appraising look that always made Aziraphale feel so exposed.
“Definitely. One can’t save them all of course. The Black Death and that ridiculous war! Wait, more than one war, I think. I lose track. I could perform miracles morning till night and still not make a dent.” He sighed, “We all just do what we can.”
“You do, anyway.” Crowley said with such sincerity that Aziraphale could feel himself start to blush. When had he stared to want this cynical demon to appreciate his efforts? “So, angel, to what do I owe the honor?”
Aziraphale didn’t answer immediately. He took the bottle out of Crowley’s hand, poured some into the second cup, and handed that back to him. “Drink like a civilized person, for goodness sake!”
Huffing, Crowley took the cup and made an effort to drink a little more slowly, before getting back to his question. “Really, what the Hell are you doing here?”
“I… um…” Couldn’t he feel it? Why did he even need to ask? “I was… well… I was worried about you.” Aziraphale peeked up to judge his friend’s reaction.
“Huh.”
There was no wry grin, no acerbic remark, not even an expressively arched eyebrow. This was even more concerning than Crowley’s absence had been. It was not to be borne. “What in the He- What on earth is wrong with you?”
“Earth.” Crowley answered ominously. “Look around, angel. We’re all fucking miserable. Most of them are dying slowly. Except for the ones running off to war. I guess those lot are dying quickly. And this is the Plan, is it? Because I’m not impressed. Ineffable or not. I’m just bored of all the suffering, and I’d rather sleep, if you don’t mind!” With this speech, Crowley had apparently burned up his reserve of energy, and he went back to slouching over his cup.
Aziraphale’s heart filled up with sympathy and something else. Something inconvenient that he desperately hoped the demon wouldn’t be able to sense.
This always happened when he was around Crowley, and it was so bloody awkward. Not that it was in any way personal, of course. Just one of the hazards of being an angel of love and light. But, if up-there or down-there ever found out, there would be a full inquiry and Lord knew what else. And if Crowley ever found out, well, he’d probably torment him about it, mercilessly. Aziraphale tried to force the feeling down, as he’d done so many times in the past. At the moment though, Crowley didn’t seem to be capable of making fun of anyone. He just seemed sad. The inconvenient feeling grew and grew, till Aziraphale feared it was positively radiating out over the whole space.
“Crowley… Can you sense love?” he asked.
The demon looked up, started by this sudden re-direct. “What’s that got to do with the price of a casket?”
“Well, I was just thinking, how angels can, and I wondered whether you still could.”
“No. Must’ve lost that ability with my halo and stuff.”
Aziraphale was relieved, and then he felt a little guilty for being so relieved. “Then, you might like to know that there’s been a definite upsurge.”
Crowley actually cracked a grin at that. His angel always did have a way with words, be it intentional or not.
Aziraphale ignored the grin and rushed ahead with his point. “Now that the plague seems to have petered out a bit, there’s a whole lot more love. People appreciating life, appreciating each other. Lots more babies being are born. It looks like a lot of them will have a good chance. I’ve been wearing myself out with christening blessings lately. You see, things won’t always be like this.”
Crowley shrugged, noncommittally. “You know, it’s funny. You’re being able to sense love probably helps with your job performance. Demons don’t need that talent. But I’ll tell you one thing we are really good at sensing...”
“Well?”
“Suffering.” Crowley began working at the cork of the next bottle of wine, but he was already a little too drunk for any dexterity.
“You mean you can feel it when people are hurting?”
“Job performance.” Crowley agreed darkly and switched to gripping the cork with his teeth.
“Oh.” Aziraphale was stunned. The pieces fell into place. Suffering was supposed to be a demon’s ultimate motivation. Although in Crowley’s case, he’d always thought the serpent had been more motivated by humor than anything else. But if Crowley couldn’t help but sense all that human suffering, then the 14th century had just overwhelmed him.
“Sometimes, I can’t even tell where its coming from anymore. Whether it’s me or them.”
“You?” the angel asked.
“Residual pain, you know. From the fall. It’s usually them, though, nowadays anyway. It just kind of brings it all back.”
“I can see why you’re depressed.”
Crowley stopped struggling with the cork. “Whatever gave you that stupid idea? I’m perfecting Sloth, like I said.”
“Right.” Aziraphale regarded Crowley thoughtfully, as he went back to his battle with the blasted cork, in mounting frustration. A tiny miracle loosened it for him, eventually.
“Thanks, angel.” He muttered without looking up and poured them both another glass.
Now that he understood what was going on, Aziraphale was content to offer some quiet company. They sat in companionable silence. And because he knew now that Crowley would be none the wiser, Aziraphale allowed his love to surround them both.
After a long time, the angel asked, “Do you plan to stay here long?”
“It’s a dump, but I’m their patron, and they’ve been so accommodating. ‘Cept for the fleas, of course. I’ll do like usual; stay till they come with torches and pitchforks.”
While this didn’t sound like a very good plan to Aziraphale, all he said was, “Well, I’m simply not willing to search all over the city for you again. So, next time, you’d better just tell me where you end up.”
Crowley nodded and accepted this reprimand as soberly as one could, given that he was not sober.
“I’ve brought you something.” Aziraphale reached into the satchel beside him.
“Huh?”
“A present,” he said proudly and produced a big floppy manuscript covered in calligraphy. “It’s a book! More and more of them are reading and writing, and it’s done wonders for their imaginations.”
“The Canterbury Tales.” Crowley read from the cover.
“It’s a satire. Almost as sarcastic as you, dear. Of course, I’m not supporting the irreverent bits about the Church.” He hoped that would peak Crowley’s interest.
“Certainly not,” Crowley conceded.
“But it’s a good read.”
“You know,” Crowley hesitated, “I’m not much of a reader.”
“Of course, I know how terribly busy you are!” The angel said, with a surprising note of sass. “But if you can fit it into your schedule… maybe just some light reading before you go to bed... again. Oh, and I’ve written my address right here on the back, and you must tell me what you thought of it.”
Crowley’s eyebrows shot up above his glasses. “Oh, I must, must I?”
“Yes, well, it’s the thing to do with books, you see," the angel prattled. "It’s a new thing, actually, as books are, altogether, rather new. Not surprised you don’t know. But anyway, when someone gives their… a- acquaintance a book, the polite thing to do is to… well, read it. And then, you know, circle back and be sure to tell them what they think. Over lunch. Your treat. And you shouldn’t take too long about it. It’s like a thank you note that way. Not something to be put off.”
Finally, for the first time that evening, Crowley laughed. “You think I can’t tell when you’re making things up?” There was that honest, pleasant chuckle that Aziraphale found he’d so deeply missed.
“It’s true!” Aziraphale objected. “Besides,” he shook a reproving finger, “you don’t need me to check up on you. You’re not depressed!”
“Touché.” And they both smiled. A wave of invisible love surged around them, but the source was a little difficult to pinpoint.
“Hey, angel…” Crowley leaned over the table and whispered loudly. “It hadn’t really been that long, really. I mean… we’ve gone longer. Why’d you come looking?”
Aziraphale bit his lip. “I don’t know, exactly. I just got a sense that…” he trailed off and then raised his hands in a helpless shrug.
“Hm. Maybe angels are actually sensitive to other feelings besides love.” Crowley suggested.
Aziraphale brightened. “Maybe that’s it. Maybe I can sense suffering, too. A little bit, anyway, or in some… cases.” He seemed genuinely proud of a new skill that he hadn’t known he possessed.
Crowley felt proud, too. He was pleased that he was, once again, a few steps ahead of his angel. In spite of the effects of alcohol, he could see the next few moves. Looking over the top of his glasses, with a knowing little gleam in his eye, Crowley made a prompting gesture.
Aziraphale knew that look but couldn’t guess the meaning. “What?”
“Well…” Crowley led him patiently to the next thought. “If an angel might have some limited ability to sense suffering in someone they know really well, then maybe a demon like me could… not be a complete fool.”
Aziraphale suddenly sat up very straight, his blue eyes round with panic. “Ah, actually. It really has been lovely. Quite. You know, strange, as always. But well.” Crowley took a familiar, guilty pleasure in watching Aziraphale flail around. “As much as I like, the um, thwarting each other and all. But dear boy, I better… uh-”
“Be off?” Crowley suggested.
“Just so.” Aziraphale was putting on his cloak and fumbling with the clasp.
“I figured.”
The angel paused momentarily in his exit, put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and said, “Take care of yourself.”
“Yeah. I’ll work on my book report.”
Aziraphale hurried away before he could show any more incriminating emotion. Crowley picked up the over-sized book, held it gently to his chest, and thought that perhaps there was some Good in this God-forsaken world after all.