Chapter Text
Thebes, Egypt 14th Century BCE
Firelight danced off the gleaming gold that adorned Crawley’s neck and fingers. The dazzling specks flickered across the massive bedchamber as though it were the demon’s personal collection of stars. His yellow slitted eyes remained cast out of the large open window at the far side of the room. He itched for any kind of breeze to ease his suffering and brushed aside the damp, auburn strands of hair that clung to his throat and down his back. The sweltering desert air had not ceased despite the late hour.
Crawley sent out a flicker of power, dissipating the sweat for the fourth time already that night, before grabbing his goblet of wine. He glanced around the room. His eyes traced over his golden treasures, his scrolls of wealth, and his lavish furnishings.
The demon let his head loll back, and he stared at the ceiling. He’d hoped being made into a god would’ve been at least a bit more entertaining. He got to glare at people with his serpentine eyes, which was always good for a laugh. They gave him whatever he wanted: food, drinks, company if he really wanted it, but he hadn’t accepted anyone into his bed, yet. More for lack of interest than anything.
“Since when did becoming a god become so utterly boring,” he groaned into the quiet room.
He missed walking through the crowds, unknown and free to partake in any diabolical schemes he wished. He missed watching the humans cause their own mischief and mayhem; palace life didn’t have much of that as any chaos was solved with a good old fashion head cutting. However, if he was being honest with himself, which happened on the rarest of occasions, what he missed the most was an angelic presence around intent on thwarting his nefarious wiles. He liked the challenge. He liked the idea of keeping score to see who bested the other in the end.
Crawley sighed at his own stupid sentimentality. It was better, easier without the angel around. It was easier to ignore the swelling sensations inside his chest when he met those blue eyes. The same blue that dazzled the Earth from the starry sky above. He groaned again and let his head fall forward. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say he was depressed without the wiggling ball of light to annoy him. He shuttered at the very undemonic idea.
Shouts echoed out into the evening air, snagging the demon from his thoughts. Crawley quirked an eyebrow and rose from his seat. He meandered over to the open window, eager for a distraction. Anything to relieve him from his miserable boredom.
“Intruder! Intruder,” shouted one of the guards.
Crawley sneered at the idea of scaring whatever dumb bastard had decided to try and sneak into the palace at night. He couldn’t quite see who they had spotted. His room did face the front path leading to the entrance of the stone palace, but the firelight and the statues surrounding the sandy courtyard obscured his view. Down below, at least a dozen guards hurried into sight, each wielding a gleaming Khopesh and a torch. The scimitar-like swords could decapitate a man with ease.
More shouts echoed out as the palace guards seemed to gather around a lone figure, standing peacefully at the center of the road.
Crawley leaned out the window, trying to get a better look. He didn’t know of any known enemies willing to walk into the palace unarmed, alone, and think they would get themselves anything except killed. He groaned in frustration, unable to see the miserable idiot. They’d probably kill him before even thinking to bring him before one of their gods.
The demon turned from the window but paused as a small worry ebbed into his mind. Something about it all didn’t sit well with him. It made him want to slither down there and get a good look before anything unfortunate happened. Crawley shrugged the notion away. He was too irritated to care about soft feelings, that was for–
“A priest! It’s a priest of the heathen god,” shouted another man.
Crawley lunged out the window before he could think about it. Even if he was mistaken, even if it wasn’t really the bouncing ball of heavenly light, he had to be sure.
His wings of shadowed wrath fanned out, allowing him to glide safely to the dusty ground. The guards hadn’t noticed him yet. However, the so-called priest had and, in fact, despite the late hour, their eyes had locked on to one another before his feet had ever touched the ground. It probably had something to do with the golden glow of his gaze.
“Bring him to my chambers.” Crawley hissed out, possibly instilling a bit of menace into his words. He dissolved his wings, not wishing to cause any more chaos than necessary. Things could get out of hand if he revealed too much of his demonic nature. Not that he’d learned that the hard way, at least too many times.
The guards flinched but lowered their weapons and bowed as soon as they spotted him looming nearby. The bravest of them stepped forward and bowed once more. “You wish us to escort the prisoner to your chambers, my lord?”
Crawley glowered at the man as though he had made a grave error. “My guessst,” he hissed, clicking his tongue after the words.
The man’s eyes widened. “Oh. Guest, of-of course, my lord.” He sheathed his weapon and ordered his men to comply.
Crawley rolled his eyes, then started walking back to his room. He was more annoyed than ever at his new title. Before he could’ve sauntered up without any more than a ‘Hiya,’ and now he had to deal with the bloody formalities. He didn’t need them getting any funny ideas about discorporating him. They were already doing that enough with their own people and their slaves.
He glanced back at the not-so priest, but, in fact, angel. Though he supposed, he could be a priest if he really wanted that responsibility, yet the angel seemed more keen to help from the sidelines like Crawley usually did. Aziraphale had an escort of four guards, leading him in a small procession behind their fake god. They would have to wait until he dismissed the humans before they could speak freely. And, judging by the pensive look etched into the angel’s face, something was troubling him deeply.
Crawley couldn’t remember the last time they had spoken. It had been a few centuries at least. But they never seemed at odds with one another, even if their head offices thought that was exactly what they were supposed to be doing. Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind that Crawley was a demon. It surprised him. Ever since that day on the wall, when Aziraphale had shielded him from the rain, the angel had continued to surprise him over and over again. With kindness.
By the time they had made it back to his room and dismissed everyone, the demon was drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. He had ordered the servants to bring them a bit of fruit and some wine first. He knew Aziraphale would want something to eat, or at least it would help them relax. Crawley realized it was the first time he had invited Aziraphale into his room. Their settings previously had always been more public. Accidentally bumping into one another in shops or at some sort of gathering. This new location, free from prying eyes, free from listening ears, seemed almost intimate.
“So, um, hello.” Aziraphale gave him a small wave. His eyes flitted over the room, eyeing his few golden serpent statues and the assortment of golden weapons displayed on the walls. He appeared to avoid looking over at the massive bed on the far side of the room despite its luxuriousness or inviting pillows.
Crawley smirked, then relaxed back in the lavish throne. “So, what brings you here?”
The angel snapped his gaze back to him. His hands fidgeted at the hem of his clothes. He wore long robes of neutral beiges and browns. They were the earthy tones of a traveler, one seeking knowledge, not riches. “Oh, well. Duty calls as-as it were.”
Crawley raised an eyebrow. Something was definitely bothering him. “Come on. I can tell something’s wrong.”
“It’s, um, well…” He studied his wringing hands as though they’d manifest the answer for him.
The servants arrived then, bearing massive fruit trays and a few bottles of wine. Crawley snarled at them to leave after they had arranged the food on a golden table along one of the walls. He wasn’t usually so hostile with the humans, but he wanted to get to the root of the angel’s anxiety, and he sure as hell wouldn’t say anything with them around. If anything, Aziraphale would let the humans be a distraction. He’d probably try to bless them or ease their suffering, which was fine; he was an angel after all, but Aziraphale tended to forget his own troubles at the appearance of another’s misfortune.
The angel scurried over to the table, eager for wine and a platter of grapes. Crawley let out a heavy sigh and strolled over next to him. He grabbed his own cup. Aziraphale seemed unwilling to spill his worries without Crawley dragging it out of him. He decided to try the sympathy card. “You know, I can’t help if you don’t say anything. I assume that’s why you’re here? Something gone all pear-shaped? Or did you just miss me?” He winked as Aziraphale pursued his lips.
The angel huffed out a breath before taking a sip of his wine. “The day I miss you, or your sarcastic remarks, is the day the world ends.”
“So, in a few thousand years, then? I can wait.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes and took another long swig of wine. “How have you been?”
Bloody formalities. Crawley groaned but poured his own cup of wine in defeat. “Bored out of mind, that’s how I’ve been. You can’t believe how bloody awful it’s been pretending to be a god. I can’t do a damn thing without someone kneeling or bowing or wanting to slaughter a whole bunch of innocent people in my honor. Quite frankly, it’s annoying, and I’m getting tired of it.”
“Oh, really?” Aziraphale set down his plate, which was Crawley’s next clue that something was wrong. “Well, I do say there has been a lot going on in Asia recently. I heard the Chinese have invented a new drink. It’s a process where one boils tea leaves. We could go and try it; it would only be a few months of travel.”
Crawley studied his wine, processing the angel’s words. He swirled the cup, then gulped down a large mouthful of the dark liquid. “You want us to go on a trip together?”
Aziraphale nodded with an all-too-obvious smile plastered on his face.
“Why?”
“Well, I just told–”
“You told me an excuse, Aziraphale. I want the truth.”
Aziraphale set down his glass and adjusted his robes. “Odd thing for a demon to want.”
Crawley rolled his eyes, then set down his own cup. He’d have to corner him to get specifics apparently. “Quit deflecting and just answer me.”
“Very well. I, um, well.” He puffed out another breath, appearing to gain some resolve. “Things are afoot and well, while I can’t say outright what it is, I can say that Southeast Asia is quite lovely this time of year and I think you should go there, or anywhere really, just not… anywhere in Egypt.”
Crawley drummed his fingers on the tables. “So, you want me to leave, and you can’t tell me why?”
Aziraphale nodded, looking a bit more grim.
“And why exactly would I do that?”
“Because I,” the angel paused. He seemed unsure himself, but it didn’t seem to stop his resolve. “Please, it really is frightfully important that you leave. I really do wish I could say what is going on, but if word got out that I’d warned you, well, let’s just say it would mean a lot of trouble, possibly for us both.”
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the pharaoh’s second son, would it?”
Aziraphale tensed, snapping his gaze to Crawley’s hard stare. “Please, I really shouldn’t be talking about it. I beg you, just listen to me.”
“Oh, begging me now, are you? Fine, if you can’t tell me what’s going on, then tell me why?”
Aziraphale blinked at him. His eyes had softened with a concerning worry. “Why?”
“Why are you telling me to leave?”
Aziraphale swallowed and glanced at the floor. His shoulders had sagged and appeared almost to tremble under the weight of Crawley’s gaze. “I…I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Crawley stiffened at that oozing warmth, the kindness that seeped from him like tree sap. It clung to everything, no matter how hard he tried to free himself from its sappy grip. “So, let me see if I have this right, you want me to leave Egypt for a reason which you cannot say so that I will be, what? Safe?”
Aziraphale nodded, then picked up his goblet once more and downed the contents.
Crawley blew out a deep breath. It was a lot to process. Over the last couple of millennia, they had been civil with one another, possibly something close to friendly, but they had stayed out of each other’s way respectfully. They hadn’t drawn swords or wrath against the other, but it seemed more like a civil understanding than anything else. It didn’t seem like a trick; he doubted the angel would do something like that. However, the whole idea of the warning, if that’s what it was, and leaving for unknown reasons didn’t sit well with him.
“Look,” Crawley said. “Not that I don’t appreciate the, er, warning if that’s what it is. But, for starters, I’m not running and hiding like some dog with my tail between my legs just because it might be dangerous. And two, I was ordered to stay here, which may or may not have to do with the pharaoh and one of his sons, so whether I wanted to or not, which I don’t, I can’t just up and leave.”
Aziraphale stilled as he continued to stare at his empty glass. The tremble in his shoulders increased. “Even after I begged you… you still refuse.”
“Why? It’s not like, like we’re friends or something, are we? It’s just, you know, a mutual understanding.”
Aziraphale turned away from him, the stomped for the door. “Fine, have your way, fiend. Get yourself killed for all I care.”
“Just discorporated at worst.” Crawley rolled his shoulders at the melodramatic angel.
“Not this time.” Aziraphale glanced at him once more. The fear storming behind his eyes made Crawley shudder. He slammed the door behind him, leaving Crawley alone in silence once again. Maybe, he should’ve listened to the angel after all.