Chapter Text
Sounds of laughter shades of life are ringing
Through my open ears inciting and inviting me
Limitless undying love which shines around me like a million suns
And calls me on and on across the universe
Lennon–McCartney, Across the Universe
Babylon - 927 BC
Aziraphale sighs, watching the feminine form that saunters through the hot and dusty markets of Babylon. He’s tucked away behind a merchant's rack of silks, on an intelligence-gathering mission of great importance (he justifies in his head, but the truth is that he just can't help himself staring).
Crawley has returned to Babylon.
The demon is dressed to the nines, like some erotic dancer, and he's catching more than eyes as he meanders along from stall to stall. People seem to flock to him, mostly men, but Crawley doesn't seem interested in any of them. If anything he looks tired, shoulders slumped and face flat, and Aziraphale can empathize. It's been a few hundred years since he's last seen Crawley (also in Babylon), and it feels refreshing to be in the presence of another ethereal—no, occult—entity among the mortals (bless their hearts, and their inventive minds, but Aziraphale can hardly keep up with how quickly they come and go).
For his part, he's been stuck in Babylon for what feels like ages now. His dispute with Gabriel over a possible relocation fell on deaf ears. There's a lot happening in Babylon these days, what with the Assyrians. It can't be helped.
Aziraphale sighs again.
He moves like water, doesn't he? That wily demon. Does he know he's doing that?
With a futile attempt at swallowing, his throat suddenly parched, he clips down the line of vendors, keeping just far enough to go unnoticed.
Perhaps it isn't such a good idea to stalk his adversary like this. Stalking is dishonest, dirty work; a demon's job, he tells himself—though it doesn't stop him. He's on thwarting duty, after all, and he can only assume that tracking the forces of Hell is part of his job description… since he’s never actually seen his job description.
Wouldn't it be the greater evil to let the demon go unsupervised?
Of course it would.
Crawley positively slinks through the marketplace, his long curls flowing elegantly into the folds of his shawl, accented with bits of gold. He could easily be mistaken for a succubus in an outfit like that; showing off just a hint of midriff. How dare he dress so… so!
Gosh, he is a thing of pure beauty, isn't he?
Angels aren't supposed to want for things, but Aziraphale wants to watch him move—to learn his methods, of course.
Besides, at a distance it doesn't feel so wrong to appreciate the demon’s aesthetic qualities. Aziraphale was struck by him from that first moment in Eden, but he’s very good at shoving that aside whenever Crawley draws near. It's not like he wants to do anything about this attraction. Crawley is beauty for beauty’s sake, and Aziraphale simply wants to look at him. Like art. God created all things, and Crawley too. Aziraphale is merely appreciating one of Her creations.
It's almost forgivable—almost—that Aziraphale doesn't notice those serpent eyes focus in on him before quickly hopping back to the crowd. The angel does, however, pick up on the way bits of produce start to stray from out of baskets and roll toward the hungry and less fortunate as Crawley passes by, and the way that merchants' golden trinkets fade to bronze as he snickers and picks through them.
None of that seems particularly wicked to Aziraphale, but it must be; Crawley's a demon, after all. Wicked is what he does. He even has the nerve to smile as he does it.
Aha! That must be the evil part! No one should be having fun while on the job.
Aziraphale certainly doesn't have fun like that when he works. He smiles, sure, in that way that makes humans feel comfortable around a stranger, then he does his good deeds and hurries home to his (growing) collection of scrolls. He'd much rather be left alone, if he's honest with himself—which he rarely is.
That must be what separates good and evil. Enjoying work would be like… like… indulging! There is a time for toil and a time for play and ne'er the twain shall meet, for that is the path to certain… buggery.
Aziraphale brushes off his robes and manages to look pleased with himself, quite sure that he has figured out something that will give him a leg up on his arch-nemesis. Unfortunately, his small victory is short-lived as he loses sight of said nemesis around the curving street.
Aziraphale pops out from behind the row clay furnaces he's hidden against, and twists to scan the crowd. No fiery curls in sight, no flowing black silks on pale skin, no golden eyes with knife-slit pupils. No Crawley.
He steps out into the centre of the market, giving courteous nods as he tries not to run into anyone, but there's no sign of the demon anywhere.
Blast it! Where the devil did he go?
He's about to give up and go home, when a voice whispers over his shoulder.
"Hello, angel."
"Good Heavens!" Aziraphale jumps. A chill runs down his spine from the breath that hits his ear.
"That's debatable," Crawley says in a jovial manner, "but let's not talk about work." As he stalks around into view, Aziraphale notices that all hint of slouch has left the demon's shoulders.
"How's life treating you?"
"Life?" Aziraphale parrots back, perplexed by the question. What an oddly human thing to ask. "Life is work, Crawley. I am a servant of God,” he asserts, quite dignified and… assertive.
Crawley looks as though he's trying to bite back a laugh, which would be insulting if it didn't make his eyes crinkle in a most delightful way. "So what, you haven't been finding things to occupy your free time?"
"Well, maybe…" Aziraphale has to consider this. Should a demon be allowed to know his Earthly hobbies? What if Crawley told someone? He could get in trouble for enjoying himself. Couldn’t he? "But it counts as research. For work."
"Oh?” The expression on Crawley’s wide-eyed face can only be described as provocative. “And what have you been ‘researching’, angel?"
"Everything." Aziraphale gestures around them, suddenly energetic for no reason at all. "Text; the written word; is an outstanding invention! Like peering into their minds. I could spend hours reading all the stories they’ve come up with… I do spend hours, that is. Studying. It's quite rigorous."
"Is that so?" Crawley grins, all sly and irksome. "I was wondering when you'd make the switch to papyrus."
"It is. And I'll have you know that cuneiform tablets have many advantages when it comes to longevity." Aziraphale puffs out his chest, seeking to re-establish their boundaries. He is an angel, and Crawley is a demon; demons have no business striking up friendly conversation with angels. "Now, what do you want with me, foul fiend?"
"Want? From you?" Crawley motions to himself, brows arched shockingly high. A child runs by them and a plum flies from a nearby table and lands in her hands. "What could a demon possibly want from an angel?"
Aziraphale isn't sure why, but that hurts. Crawley, the handsome tart, doesn't want anything from him? He came all the way back to Babylon and hadn't even thought to look Aziraphale up? Is he not making enough of an effort to challenge his rival?
"Oh, don't give me that look, angel," Crawley groans, rolling his eyes. “I didn't mean it that way. Look… you alright?"
Aziraphale frets over a wrinkle he's just noticed in his white linens. His nails are perfectly immaculate and don’t catch on the fabric one bit.
"No. Yes. I mean. I am—alright. It's just… do you ever want for… company?" He finds himself asking, and immediately feels guilty for it.
"Alcohol, angel." Crawley pats him on the shoulder. "Give it a try."
"Alcohol?"
"Mhm. Humans are blessing the stuff left and right, offering it to their 'gods'. I figured there must be something in it that's got them so worked up."
"Blessing food?" Aziraphale reflects with a hint of wonder. Oh, there are possibilities in that! "I'd never considered… that wouldn’t be much of a sin, would it?"
Crawley smiles, and drifts forward through the street.
As if on cue, Aziraphale catches a whiff of something lightly spiced and savory; roast lamb. It's a scent that's been taunting him over the years. Many of the humans' culinary inventions seemed so… appetising, for lack of a better word. Gross matter, the other angels call it, but there's nothing gross about the smell of fresh-baked flatbread and pork, or leek and onion stew.
He's about to ask Crawley if they should try some food together—maybe he could even introduce Aziraphale to a drink of this ‘alcohol' substance—but by the time he focuses back on the conversation, Crawley has wandered ahead of him, hips swaying gently in the direction of the city's western gate.
"Wait! Where are you going?" Aziraphale calls after him, shuffling his sandals along to catch up.
"Sorry, wish I could stay and chat,” Crawley turns on his heels to wave at him through the crowd, “but I've got a temptation to get on with in Jerusalem."
"Already? You've only just—" Aziraphale holds his tongue. He's not longing for the demon's company. He's not.
Crawley raises a brow at him, so prominently that Aziraphale can make it out from the distance. "'s for some Solomon guy. I've got to go meet up with a lady from Sheba. Getting late!"
He turns away and then he's gone, and Aziraphale is left in a sea of mortals who will never know the things he does for them. Humble folks (and not so humble, but it’s not for Aziraphale to judge them… that’s all upper management) that he can’t even have one honest conversation with.
But Crawley seems honest, doesn't he? It's such a shame he can't be trusted. The thought leaves an awful taste in Aziraphale’s mouth as he returns home to pick through his scrolls, and he tries very hard not to think about it, or any of the other implications it might have.
He doesn't know this now, but many years will pass before he sees Crawley again, and every one of them will suck.
Somewhat South-west of Damascus - 814 BC
It is on the eastern shore of the Sea of Galilee, trapped in a bottle, that Crawley perfects the art of sleeping. What else does one have but dreams while stuck inside a FUCKING bottle?
Solomon will pay for it, once Crawley figures out how the Heaven he's supposed to get out. He'll pay for it if Crawley has to drag him to Hell personally. Wrath isn't his style, really, but there’s a time for everything, and being enslaved by a human justifies many things in the mind of a demon. Hell, it justifies many things, full-stop.
When he sleeps, he mostly dreams of the things he'll do to Solomon once he's free… and, sometimes, of Aziraphale's smile following him through Babylon. That stopover on the way to Sheba was worth it just to see the look on the angel’s face.
It's so lonely in the desert. No faces here. Just Crawley and a glass wall.
Many years pass, who knows how long exactly, but then something happens. Crawley wakes one day to a great wind outside his prison, and noise like something lapping and slurping on the walls. The bottle tumbles around, swirling the vaporous essence that is Crawley inside of it, and then he's released into the burning sun, half sick and very put off. He’s about to rain down all his pent-up wrath on whoever's responsible, but then he notices two things: one is that he's free, which is very nice, actually; and the other is that there's a shaggy creature sitting in front of him, staring with big eyes and a lolling tongue.
A dog? A bloody stray dog? The thing looks like it's expecting something from him, so Crawley summons up a bone for it and pats it on the head.
“There you are,” Crawley says, awkwardly. What else do you say to a dog? “Good boy.”
He drops the bone on the ground and turns away, ready to stalk off toward Jerusalem, when—
"You're a jinn, aren't you?" A boy’s voice pops into his head, all bright and full of mischief.
Crawley's eyes go wide.
What the Heav—just, what?!
He pivots back to look the little beast over, and it winks at him in a way that a dog shouldn’t wink.
A telepathic dog? Yes, of course a bloody telepathic dog! Of course! Because the universe makes so much fucking sense.
"No, I'm your fairy godmother," Crawley grumbles, crossing his arms at it.
The dog wags its tail in the sand. "Will you grant me wishes, jinn?"
"Why the Heaven would I do that?"
"I freed you," the dog reasons. "I am entitled to three wishes, am I not?"
Crawley sinks down into the sand—he's not about to have this conversation standing on his bare feet—and gives the wretched thing his most convincing glower.
"It's not really a rule, no. Solomon was a bit of a dick, so I didn't have much choice there, but you're a dog," Crawley huffs. "My lot owes nothing to you."
The dog puts his head in Crawley's lap. It looks fluffy and soft and just a little bit sad, so Crawley scratches it behind the ears.
"Will you hear my story then?" The dog asks, eyes pleading up at him. "It's not every day that a dog tells stories."
Well, the scruffy thing has a point. In the three-thousand years after Eden, Crawley can't say he's had a chat with a dog before.
"Alright. Fine. If it'll make you happy, get on with it."
"Wonderful!" the dog barks. "My name is Abu. What might I call you, master jinn?"
The dog may be clever, but Crawley's not stupid enough to give his name away to a mortal again. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice… Solomon's going to pay so badly.
"Crowley," Crawley says. Oddly, it sounds better than the truth—there's some food for thought.
"Master Crowley!" The dog barks again, his tail wagging furiously. "Odd name for a jinn."
"Says a dog named Abu."
"Oh, but I'm no dog—I am a person,” Abu whines. “A thief!"
Crawley has seen some ridiculous things in his long life. Technically, he is a ridiculous thing. So it's not a stretch to believe that a telepathic dog named Abu is really a person, who’s also a thief.
"And I was handmaiden to the Queen of Sheba. Strange world, isn't it?"
Abu huffs, seeming to misinterpret Crawley's honesty (he’ll learn later that he has some catching up to do when it comes to popular idioms). "I wouldn't lie to you! I really am a man, but I've been cursed into this shape by a powerful sorcerer in Baghdad."
"Aside from the fact that sorcerers are huge arseholes, what'd you do to deserve that?"
Abu's tail stops wagging. He seems to sink into Crawley's lap. "I fell in love with a man who was imprisoned with me. I didn't know that the man was a sultan… but that's not important—not to me.
"I stood by the man's side when he confronted the sorcerer who had usurped his throne, but he was made blind and I was transformed into his eyes."
So it's about love then? How tragic, Crawley thinks. A starstruck love, doomed to fate. It's the type of thing that gets written into constellations.
Mundane human drivel.
"You say you love this man, and he's relying on you. What're you doing out here then? Get cold feet?" Crawley isn't bitter, but it probably sounds like he is as he pokes at Abu’s wounds.
"My master is brave," Abu says, with little stars in his eyes. "He found the sorcerer again, aboard a ship. The villain planned to steal away my master's beloved princess, and so he tried to stop him. I was thrown overboard."
"How do you get thrown overboard a ship in Baghdad and wind up on the shore of Galilee?" Crawley withdraws his hand and leans away. The dog on his lap feels heavy with misfortune. It's getting uncomfortable.
"You're the one who performs miracles." Abu gets to his feet and yelps. "You tell me!"
Crawley could imagine several methods available to a sorcerer in possession of a strong enough demon. All of them made his skin crawl.
"Doesn't matter, I suppose. What're you planning on doing about it?" Crawley asks, standing and brushing off his robes.
A dog's not about to live long crossing the desert on its own, Crawley’s mind offers up. Poor thing.
"The only plan is the one that God has written for us. I've been placed on this shore, and so have you, jinn. It's not a coincidence."
Crawley doesn’t hide his sneer. Fuck God’s plan. He has half a mind to leave the poor sod right then and there. But… then again… Here’s this defenseless creature, lost and alone in a blistering desert. A victim. If God planned any of this, it’s just another one of Her cruelties, and working to right God’s cruel plans; undermine Her authority… that’s demons’ work.
"As you've said, I'm a jinn—a demon—are you sure you want to make a deal with me, doggy?"
Abu bounces in circles, and stands up eagerly on his hind legs. "You seem like a nice enough demon to deal with."
Crawley flinches. Abu’s really pushing his luck with the language there. "How would you know?"
"As you've said, I'm a dog. Dogs have a sixth sense for the heart of a man."
"Sorry to disappoint you, but demons don't have hearts."
Abu falls back onto his front legs and sits, head tilted to the side. "You do,” he says, very matter-of-factly. “Yours isn't in your chest right now, but I can feel it."
Crawley doesn’t know what to say to that. He stares in silence and considers, just for a moment, lighting the mutt on hellfire.
"I'll make a deal with you, demon. I'll lend you my human heart until you find your own, I have no use for it when my master loves another. In exchange you must bring me back to him in Baghdad."
“You realize you’ll damn yourself to Hell, right? I mean, it’s not like it bothers me any, but I don't have much use for a human heart, either.”
Abu snorts and shakes his head. “I don’t think either of those things are true, and it’s all I have to offer.”
You know, Crawley thinks, having a human heart for a while might be fun. He’s never tried that before. And when would he have the opportunity to try again?
"I’ve only just gotten free of that bloody bottle.” He puts on a show of resistance, waving his hands out to the side like he’s just received an insult. He doesn’t want to seem too curious over Abu’s offer. “And you want me to fly you back over to Babylon?"
“Baghdad.” The dog’s puppy eyes seem to fill with too-human tears.
"Fine. Alright. Stop making that face, will you?”
“Yes! Whatever you say, Master Crowley.” Abu jumps up at his chest, and Crawley barely manages to catch him with one arm.
Hmm. That name does have a ring to it. Much better than the image ‘Crawley’ conjures; all slithering-at-your-feet like. Maybe he'll try it out for a bit.
“We best be off then. I have some unfinished business in Jerusalem, but I wouldn't mind a detour through Babylon."
They fly over the dunes on Crawley’s black wings, and on the way Abu tells him all about life on the streets of Baghdad, and of stealing bread and escaping prison cells. Crawley finds that the company isn't half bad. The pup has a knack for causing trouble, and Crawley even picks up a thing or two. (Pasting coins to roads while picking the pockets of distracted passersby? He could work something out of that.) When they arrive in Baghdad, he turns the dog back into a young man, and gives him a bow and an arrow that will strike the sorcerer without fail—and without the possibility of hitting innocent bystanders should he miss (which he probably will).
Crawley wishes him well, and his new human heart beats wildly in his chest.
The desert is a lonely place when you're a demon, but it's best not to get invested in humans, Crawley thinks to himself as he secretly moves the fates. Abu might still, miraculously, find love someday… before his short life runs out.
Love is a sort of temptation, isn't it?