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Rome, 43 A.D.
Crowley was a little mad, because he was the one that was supposed to do the tempting, not the other way around. But the way this man’s skin shone in the daylight, his tightly curled brown hair, his face slicked with sweat-
“Oi, you makin’ eyes at my dad?” A literal child interrupted. Crowley loved kids, he really did, but not this one at this particular moment.
He looked down at the child. He was scrawny and pale and sickly, with sunken in eyes and horrible eyebrows and he barely came up to Crowley’s hip. “There is no way you two are related.” He said, looking back at the hot built warrior laughing and shining where he stood in the street.
“Well,” The kid stopped to think, “No, not really. But a little while ago he picked me up and said that he was gonna be my dad now, and that’s basically the same thing.”
“No,” Crowley said, concerned. “No, it isn’t. Do you have a mother?”
The child pointed at a woman of equal beauty to the man, standing a few feet away from him, watching. She was broad and tall, with long brown hair cascading down her back. She did, unfortunately, have the same horrible eyebrows as the boy. “I’ve also got two brothers and a sister, but we don’t get along very well. And my sister doesn’t live with us anymore.” The child added, trying to be helpful.
Crowley was just relieved that this child hadn’t been abducted. At this moment, the olive-skinned warrior seemed to notice that his child had left his sight, and ran over to them.
“Has little Arthur here been causing you trouble?” He said to Crowley, and Crowley wanted to make out with him. He’s married, you git, he thought to himself.
“Arthur? Not a very Roman name.” He said curiously. He only asked because the Father seemed to be the epitome of all things Roman.
“No,” The father explained, “He’s from Britain. So’s his mom.” He gestured to the hot lady again, she smiled at them.
Crowley had never been to Britain before. “Is it nice there?” He asked.
“Well, it is now, now that it’s part of the empire.” The father said in the tone of someone who thought that what they thought was one hundred per cent correct at all times.
Arthur scowled at his father silently, apparently having taken offence to that. “It’s very, very nice. All the time.”
Crowley thought for a moment. “I think I’m going to go there,” He said. “I’m a traveller. I like to go to nice places.” He said, mostly just talking to the child.
“You should go to Britain then!” Arthur continued proudly.
Crowley nodded, and he went on his way.
***
Valley Forge, Pennsylvania. Winter, 1777.
Crowley tended to follow revolution. You might say it’s in his nature, but really it’s because it made him very happy to see humans sticking up for themselves and he wanted to help.
Although, Crowley was, unlike other demons, really quite adverse to trenches. Mud. War. That kind of thing. He tended to stay out of that side of it.
Right now, he was leaning against a tent in camp, watching the soldiers and their wives go about their daily chores. It was quite glum here, in America, he thought. He would have to come back after this was all sorted out and see if it was any better.
Crowley had chosen to present as male for this go around, for convenience. His dark ginger hair was in its natural state, unpowdered and just in a loose ponytail. He wore the uniform of the continental army. He didn’t actually do any fighting, though, as previously mentioned.
He spent most of his time in different tents scrutinizing maps, hashing out battle strategies, and discussing secret intelligence with other officers. They were an odd group.
(Don’t tell anyone, but Crowley definitely saw two of the aide-de-camps fucking in the woods behind camp a couple times. He wasn’t one to judge.)
Crowley was suddenly dragged out of his thoughts when a young man bumped into him.
“Pardon!” He said, not looking up from the letter he was reading- the reason he bumped into him. He couldn’t have been older than thirteen or fourteen. He had tan skin and the blondest hair Crowley had ever seen. He seemed very upset.
“Are you alright?” Crowley said, because he was partial to children.
The boy crumpled the parchment between his fingers. “It’s nothing. Just that my arsehole excuse for a brother is too much of a mama's boy to get down here and help me.” He said, seething. His accent was very proper English. This made Crowley wonder.
“Where’re you from?” Crowley asked.
The boy looked up at him. His eyes were very, very blue. He then gestured to everything around him. “Here.” He said, then walked away.
***
What would become A.Z. Fell & Co’s, London. Winter, 1793.
Aziraphale wiped imaginary sweat from his brow (he was an angel, he didn’t sweat. But he felt like he should) and sighed. He was sifting through manuscript after manuscript, trying to get a feel for how his bookshop was going to be organized. His current session was approaching a week, and he had had many, many sessions before that. And he was only about ten per cent through his entire collection.
At these times, he was very grateful for his status as a Principality. If he was any lower in his choir, this would be his every day. All angels and lowercase-archangels did was paperwork these days. He felt bad for them.
And at that, there was a knock at the door. Damn bookstore wasn’t even open yet and he was already getting unsolicited customers. But, seeing as there was no sign over the door or really anything to suggest that the building was in fact a bookstore, Aziraphale decided that there would be no harm in letting whomever was knocking in.
He got up, stretched (he had been sitting in the same position with his back hunched over books for a week) and went to open the door. When he did, he was met by a sobbing yet oddly still attractive young man. He had tied back wavy dirty blonde hair, and his hands were locked in a pleading fist. Aziraphale noticed a glimmering wedding ring.
“Oh, thank the Lord,” He said dramatically between sobs. He was French. “You see, kind man, I had to flee my land, because… you know.” He gestured to his attire, which was gaudy even by Aziraphale’s standards. He was an aristocrat fleeing persecution.
“I came here, to London, because this is where my husband lives, but he is really a very big bastard, and turned me away.” He explained.
Aziraphale wanted to question why he was married to someone that wouldn’t house them, but decided that he didn’t want to know. He invited the man in and handed him his handkerchief.
“Do you want wine?” Is what Aziraphale said instead. The pathetic frenchman nodded. Aziraphale traipsed over his piles of books and got a few bottles from the back room. When he returned, the man seemed to be returning to normal.
Aziraphale popped open one of the bottles and poured a glass.
“Francis.” The man said.
“What?”
“My name. Thought you should know, since you offered me wine. S’Francis.”
The Frenchman's name was Francis. “It’s very on the nose.” Aziraphale said, pouring a glass for himself.
“Yes,” Francis agreed, “I never was very imaginative.”
Aziraphale just shrugged and drank his wine.
Francis handed Aziraphale’s handkerchief back when he was completely over his fit. Their hands brushed, and Aziraphale’s thoughts returned to the wedding ring.
“You were quite willing to tell me you had a husband,” Aziraphale said, “I… appreciate your bravery.” He took a moment to decide on the wording. It still sounded awkward.
“When you’ve lived as long as me, mon cheri, it all becomes the same,” Francis reckons. “It doesn’t matter if they decriminalize it, because my love will always be forbidden.” He says, as if he’s a character in a romance novel doing a monologue. He stares wistfully at the wedding ring. There is a small rose carved into it.
Aziraphale could relate to the sentiment. He did wonder what this human could possibly mean by that, though.
They didn’t mention it the rest of the night. Eventually, Francis fell asleep. Aziraphale watched over him like the guardian angel he was.
In the morning, Francis woke. “I’m going to go pester my husband again,” he said.
He looked thoughtfully at nothing in particular. “Ask and ye shall receive, you know? If I knock enough times, he’ll let me in eventually.”
“Matthew, chapter seven verse seven.” Aziraphale said automatically.
Francis nodded, a little out of it. “My son’s name is Matthew.” He said softly.
There was a moment of silence when Aziraphale didn’t reply. “Well, bye.” Francis said, and left.
***
Aziraphale’s bookshop, the Fourteenth of July, 1999.
Aziraphale hated actually having his bookshop open, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made to keep up appearances. Crowley had recently started to help scare off customers by assuming his snake form and hissing baring his teeth at them and such, which Aziraphale was grateful for.
For some reason, it didn’t work on this current customer.
Crowley was wrapped tight around Aziraphale’s torso, head poking out from over his shoulder. He hissed violently at the customer, a guy who could be described as very medium all around, with his wavy blonde hair and his wire-rim glasses. He looked like a rejected member of Hippo Campus.
Somehow, he didn’t budge. “Um, I was hoping to get something for my dad? It’s his birthday today and I put off getting a gift, but I know that he likes literature so… yeah.” He said. His accent was decidedly French-Canadian.
Aziraphale sighed. Apparently the snake thing wasn’t going to work. “Does he like anything in particular? We have a very broad selection.”
The customer didn’t need to think about it. “He rather likes Shakespeare.” He said. Aziraphale nodded, and led him to a nook in the back of the store where all his Shakespeare stuff was. There were modern books, collections of all of Shakespeare’s works, and also priceless folios and the such.
The customer went to pick up one of the books, a battered compilation of Shakespeare’s work. It was from the 19th century, if Aziraphale remembered correctly. He wasn’t as attached to it as some of the scripts that had actually been signed and/or penned by Shakespeare, but it had still been in his shop for a while. He started thinking of different ways to get the Customer to leave.
“This’ll do.” The customer said, deciding on it. “My dad likes vintage stuff, he’ll love this.”
“That’ll be,” He swallowed, “Ninety thousand pounds.”
“Damn,” The customer said, phishing out his wallet. “Welp, it’s the government’s money, not mine.”
As he pulled out his credit card, Aziraphale stopped him. “Nonono. We only take cash.”
The customer stared blankly at Aziraphale, and then pulled out another wallet. It had maple leaves on it. He counted out the bills and handed them over.
Aziraphale scowled. He succumbed to the fact that he was going to have to sell a book today.
***
St. James’ Park, London, Present Day.
As supernatural entities, Crowley and Aziraphale’s memories were simply better than humans. They never forgot a face, or a voice, or a person. Even if two thousand years have passed.
When they saw some familiar faces leaning over the fences to the pond, they had separate curiosities about the four men(-shaped creatures).
“I met him once,” Crowley said. “The one with the eyebrows. He was smaller, then.”
“Oh?” Aziraphale said. “When was this?”
“Rome. Couple years after the Crucifixion.”
Aziraphale nodded. “I met the one with the long wavy hair. Nice fellow. Poetic.”
Crowley just hummed in agreement.
“D’you think they’re like us?” Aziraphale said.
“No,” Crowley reckoned, “They’re much closer to humanity. I can feel it.” Crowley didn’t say it, but it was the way they all huddled together, like a unit. Angels and demons simply didn’t do that. They had no family, only a Mother (and an estranged one at that, if you were a demon.)
Aziraphale looked on. “That’s good for them.”
“Yes, very.” Crowley agreed, and they resumed feeding the ducks.