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London 1660
The candles often burn low at the end of the working day, but Crowley has a rather remarkable ability to see in the dark, and he often forgets that he isn’t supposed to be able to do that. Not that Milton minds, of course, but one day someone will come in and find Crowley writing in the dark and won’t that be a pain to explain away. They should thank him really. Candle budget has probably gone way down.
Right now, he isn’t writing anything. He’s put his pen down in protest and he’s arguing with Milton over the word ‘goblin’.
“I just wonder if it is the correct term,” Crowley says. “It sounds like a tale for children. The goblins will come and take you away in the night.”
It isn’t that Crowley has any strong feelings about mythological creatures. He does have strong feelings about called one.
Goblin, indeed.
“It stays, Crowley,” Milton yawns, stretching his arms before he clasps his hands firmly on his stomach. “What other term so describes the merry hordes of Hell?”
“Fiends. Occultists. Demons. What, pray, is wrong with demons?”
“There’s no poetry to be found in it. Rogues, perhaps, is a word I will consider but goblins will have its place.”
Crowley mutters under his breath but picks up the pen to resume. Then he immediately puts it down, because it is dark outside. John has keen ears and he smiles at the whisper of the flame as Crowley lights a candle.
“It is late,” Milton observes. “I heard the ringing of the bells anon.”
“Tis.” Crowley pinches out the flame with his fingers. “Are you weary? Do you wish to rest?”
“No.” Milton sits up and searches for the cup of water that is usually always at his side. He fumbles and finds it missing, but doesn’t jump when Crowley puts a hand on his to guide it to the cup.
“Thank you, Crowley. No, I only speak of it for I am sure that evening in November used to come much sooner.”
“I have remarkable eyesight,” Crowley smirks, putting his hand briefly on Milton’s shoulder.
“So remarkable that you can perform your work in the dark. Had I that talent I would need no man to do mine for me.”
Crowley grins. Milton had told him that he could hear the expressions on his face. He doesn’t believe him, of course, but it pays to keep the old man happy.
“If you had no need of me, I would be bereft.”
“Nonsense. Why, I could name a dozen men who would give you work. Even if you would presume to argue with them over their choice of terms.”
“Ah, my dear Milton, perhaps. But none that would be half so interesting as you.”
Milton chuckles, and clings to Crowley’s arm as he helps him to lay back down on his couch.
“Another hour, afore supper?” he asks, as Crowley adjusts the blanket that covers his swollen legs.
“Aye.”
It’s certainly one of Crowley’s easier assignments, to sit in a warm house in a city he is fond of, and to write the words coming from the mouth of a very amusing poet. Hell says this poem will be quite important. Crowley isn’t sure of that – they said once that potatoes would be quite important too – but he sure that if the poem is all that, then Aziraphale will probably turn up soon. And the thought of seeing the angel again is a good one.
He won’t dwell too much on that.
Iceland 1660
In Aziraphale’s opinion, Iceland has always been one of his better projects. No place on Earth took to Heavenly intervention as this frozen island in the north did, so quickly and mostly smoothly too. Whenever he’s feeling a little suffocated, he pops up here. Yes, it is relatively crude compared to some of the places in Europe that he frequents, but he likes the greenery and the chance to dress in big, cosy furs. And it is too cold for Crowley, which makes it a good place to come if the demon has left him feeling nonplussed. Not that he needs to escape, of course.
He’s sat happily in a tavern with his third cup of mead when he senses a presence, someone of his ilk hovering outside. For a minute he thinks that Crowley has followed him after all. Then he realises it is much worse.
“Oh bugger,” he mutters, and downs his mead. He better get outside before his visitor causes his inevitable scene.
Gabriel is inspecting the stables when Aziraphale finds him, standing dangerously close to the wrong end of a horse. His fur is pure white – so inconspicuous – and he’s eying the snow on the ground with distaste.
Aziraphale decides not to warn him about the horse.
“Ah, there you are,” Gabriel grins. “Not one of your usual places. Very natural. Full of nature.”
“I like nature. It reminds me of the Garden.”
It isn’t very angelic of him, but sometimes Aziraphale likes to remind Gabriel he was chosen to guard the gate.
“Yeah, sure,” Gabriel says. “Listen, big trouble going down in Prague – Rome – London. Yeah, London. Need you down there now.”
“Oh?” Aziraphale pulls his fur closer around him. Big trouble that concerns him can usually be traced to one certain occult being.
“Some poet is working on a thing they say, about the war. Our War. And Lu – the guy downstairs. The big guy. And your Garden too. Need you to check it out.”
“Ah,” Aziraphale says. He doesn’t want to make eye contact with Gabriel, so he watches the horse flicker its ear impatiently. It isn’t happy with where Gabriel’s standing. “And – ”
“Make sure he doesn’t write it!”
Aziraphale nods unhappily. He can’t allow the fact that a horse is about to ruin Gabriel’s shoes distract him. Because – well, for a start, Heaven might start poking around in the records and find out that he was meant to have a flaming sword. That wouldn’t do at all. As for the rest of it…it doesn’t bear thinking about.
“Is he – the poet – having help?”
“Well, yeah. Otherwise where would he be getting his information?”
Aziraphale turns his hands over and over, not even cheered by the sight of the horse finally raising its tail and makings its opinion known.
“Son of a –” Gabriel growls, and disappears. Aziraphale pats the horse absently, and sighs. Well, back to London. He can only hope it is Crowley at the poet’s side. That will make the whole thing very much easier to deal with.
London 1660
It is pouring with rain as Crowley makes his daily way to Milton’s lair. He doesn’t really mind the rain. It always reminds him of Aziraphale and, besides, he can miracle himself dry. It also means fewer humans on the streets, so he has less work to do. Can hardly go around tempting when there’s no one about to tempt.
A little way from Milton’s humble lodgings, Crowley grins as a familiar feeling washes over him. Well, that didn’t take very long at all.
The housekeeper answers the door, her usual sour look replaced with a smile. As though Crowley needed any more evidence that Aziraphale is around.
He can hear voices coming from Milton’s rooms, John’s strong and carrying, and the quieter tones of the angel underneath. Crowley tries to make his face behave as he walks down the hall, to not look too pleased at Aziraphale’s presence. Keeping up appearances and all.
“I see I have only to be tardy one morning before I am replaced in your affections, Milton!”
“Jealousy sits unwell on you, Crowley,” Milton says, turning his head to the door. “Besides, Master Fell tells me he is here on your invitation.”
“Indeed he is,” Crowley says, his eyes on Aziraphale. The angel always seems to know when he is being looked at, despite Crowley’s glasses, and he’s blushing now under the scrutiny. “I am only surprised he is here so soon. Master Fell is not known for his keeping time.”
Aziraphale splutters as Milton laughs, and Crowley crosses to his usual seat by Milton’s head. He pats the old man’s shoulder in greeting and receives a hand clasp in return. When he glances up, Aziraphale is watching him curiously. Crowley flexes his fingers.
“So tell me, Milton, what terrible untruths has Fell been filling you with in my absence?”
“Only that you tasked me with coming to assist Master Milton in his work,” Aziraphale says carefully. “I am as accomplished an amanuensis as you, dear boy.”
“Oh yes.” Crowley picks up his coffee cup from where the housekeeper has left it. Cold already, the witch. He warms it with a click of his fingers. “Did I tell you this, Milton?”
“You did not, but I am certain there is work enough for two. We are in need of a copyist, are we not?”
“Precisely why I engaged Master Fell. I have never known one better. Why, he writes as though he learned his craft in the greatest scriptoriums of the past.”
“I write like any other who has done so for a long time,” Aziraphale says, kicking Crowley’s shin in a delightful show of petulance. Oh, Crowley has missed him so much.
“Like the greatest monks taught him, Milton. You will be pleased with his work.”
“If you are pleased, Crowley, I am pleased. Pass me my coffee, if you would.”
Crowley hands him the cup, Aziraphale’s eyes on him once more.
“Master Crowley is very kind to an old man,” Milton says, as though he saw the questioning look. Crowley rolls his eyes until he remembers Aziraphale can’t see behind the glasses, so he bites.
“You do pay such excellent wages, Milton.”
“Hush. I am too tired today for your sporting. Please, take Master Fell to share a cup of wine, and tell him more about the work. We shall begin again tomorrow.”
“Of course. Rest up well, Milton, we have much to do,” Crowley says gravely, as though he had not been gently influencing the man into making that request since almost the moment he walked in the room.
Aziraphale follows him from the room. Crowley hasn’t seen him for a while and he’s looking positively up to date, fashionably speaking. It’s unusual for him to be keeping up, and Crowley wonders if he has been away for a while. That would explain the quiet decade too.
“Really, my dear!” Aziraphale says, as soon as the housekeeper has closed the door. “Trained in a scriptorium. You may as well have told him.”
“Ah, don’t worry, angel. Milton’s alright. He likes a joke.”
Aziraphale grumbles all the way to a tavern a few streets over, and sits himself down with a pout. Looks like the drinks are on Crowley then. He gets a jug of wine. Stops to think. Gets another one. Two are always better for them.
“So,” he says, setting them down. “What’s Heaven think about all this then?”
“Well, they are hardly thrilled about it,” Aziraphale grouses, pulling at his tight sleeves. “And I can’t really say that I am either.”
“Don’t see what the problem is,” Crowley shrugs, pouring the wine. “Bound to be stories about it all eventually. This isn’t really even the first one.”
“The problem!” Aziraphale raises his voice, then notices the humans around them side eying him. “The problem is that this poem in the wrong hands could be very bad. For the humans.”
“Bad for the human your lot have put in charge, you mean. Don’t see why some truth would be bad for the masses.”
Aziraphale groans and drops his head, gazing into his wine as though he’s never tried looking into a cup for answers before and coming up short. There’s something else bothering him, much more than a stupid poem upsetting some mortals. Crowley drinks. He can wait. He’s the world champion of waiting.
Eventually, Aziraphale mutters.
“Please don’t make me say it.”
Crowley takes pity. He always does.
“Your concern is that if this thing dredges up some memories and someone goes poking around, they might suddenly remember that you were meant to have a flaming sword. And now you don’t.”
Aziraphale is so red in the face that Crowley wonders if there’s any blood in his form doing any actual work. Or maybe it is the angel’s very fetching off-white collar that is making him look redder then he really is. Whatever the cause, Crowley knows his own weakness and that is the fact that he will do absolutely anything to make Aziraphale smile. And that includes telling the truth.
“In that case, I don’t think you need to worry. Milton’s only making it up. No divine Knowledge. And so far, Heaven is coming out pretty well. So you can tell Gabriel you’ve done your bit, and it’s all plain sailing.”
“But –” Aziraphale abandons his empty cup and picks up the jug. Much more efficient. “But you’re helping him.”
“And?”
“So what are you telling him?”
“Nothing. I like people who ask questions, you know that.”
Aziraphale takes another desperate drink. Crowley can see the tightness going from his shoulders, how he half slumps in his seat. Wow, the angel really had been worried.
“The only thing Hell wants from this poem is for it to exist,” Crowley says, tightening his hands around his cup so he doesn’t reach over to ease the tension from Aziraphale with his fingers. “I have strict instructions to oversee but not interfere. They want to be subtle about it all, as usual.”
“Oh. Oh my dear, that is such a relief,” Aziraphale says weakly, resting his face in his hands. “And here I was thinking it was going to be the most awful bother.”
“Nah. Now what do you say to another jug or two?”
Ah, there it was. The smile.
London 1667
“I must say, my dear, it looks very handsome.”
Aziraphale gently turns the pages of Paradise Lost, as it eventually ended up being called, despite a great many arguments between the poet and his primary scribe.
“Yeah, turned out well.”
Crowley is trying very hard not to look too pleased with himself, and mostly failing. Aziraphale can hardly blame him. He’s worked hard with Milton and the sin of the pride is hardly the worst one that a demon can indulge in. Aziraphale is fully prepared to allow it, in fact, especially as said demon has come to present him with a set of the books like a cat bringing a dead mouse to its owner. He half expects Crowley would purr if he were to scratch him behind the ears.
As that thought crosses his mind, Aziraphale is prepared to admit that perhaps he’s had too much to drink.
“If Heaven wants to have a look at ‘em, don’t show them this one,” Crowley says. “This is a nice one. Send ‘em a rubbish one.”
“I highly doubt that they will ask,” Aziraphale eyes his jug of wine and decides it would be a shame to waste what is left. “Once I promised them it won’t cause any revolutions, they lost interest.”
Crowley chuckles. He’s had just as much to drink this evening as Aziraphale has but he seems oddly in control of himself.
“Worth a read though, angel, when you’re sobered up. Milton’s got a good imagination, lots to get your teeth into.”
“Oh, I’m sure. He mentions the archangels, I suppose? The humans know them by name after all.”
“Well, Gabriel is in it,” Crowley scowls. “Although not the one we know.”
“Naturally.”
“And I did do one thing. Raphael comes out of it looking like a pretty stand up angel. Of course.”
There’s a small smile on Crowley’s face that seems to light him up, and Aziraphale has to take a desperate gulp of his drink to stop himself from mooning too much about it in return.
“I never met Raphael,” he says, casting about for anything to distract him from how delicious Crowley looks. “I suppose the truth is that they fell. No one up there ever talks about them.”
Crowley makes a strangled little noise and Aziraphale looks up curiously to find that the demon has half slid under the table. Maybe he is drunker than he’s letting on, because when he comes back up, his glasses have fallen halfway down his face and he’s so red that his hair looks dulls in comparison.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Crowley says. “Just another fallen one. Wouldn’t be able to pick ‘em out of a line up these days.”
If Aziraphale was more sober, he might have asked a real question here, such as the reason why Crowley might be so inclined to make sure Milton presents Raphael as a very good angel, or why Crowley is blushing so hard that it actually looks like his face might explode. But he isn’t sober. He is in fact very, very (very) drunk and very, very (very) in love, and trying very, very (very) hard not to let that show.
So he doesn’t ask any real questions and Crowley doesn’t offer any real information, and instead they drink until they are both literally under the table and the landlord kicks them out, tossing the book out after them.
And in the morning, once he has sobered up, Aziraphale turns the pages gently and settles down to read the masterpiece Crowley had a hand in creating, and he forgets that he might ever have had a real question to ask.