Chapter Text
1720, Mousehole, Cornwall
Crowley approved of gin. It was one of the many ways that Cornwall had improved recently in terms of temptation and trouble making opportunities. Besides, it was delicious and potent. Maybe he should slither over to Holland again; it had been a while, and any country that produced this stuff was worth visiting.
Or maybe he just really, in his secret heart, didn’t want to carry out his present assignment. The parchment crackled uncomfortably where it was tucked in his currently curvier than usual bosom, and he tossed his drink down his throat, signalling for more. He wished his contacts would hurry up so he could get out of this damned fishing village, mischief done. It was an awfully pretty place to use to tempt to murder.
He didn’t mind at all encouraging smuggling, but encouraging the natives to run ships aground was a little beyond the pale in his opinion, whatever the effect on the souls of the otherwise innocent fishing folk. It would be a real pity, Crowley thought hard at the universe, if there was a convenient angel around who could miraculously prevent any sailors being drowned or smashed up in the wreck.
That, was, of course, the only motive for wishing the angel around. It wasn’t as if it had been decades since he saw Aziraphale, or that he cared. They had gone centuries without seeing each other in the old days. It was only in the last seven centuries or so, since the Arrangement, that he had become used to seeing him several times a year, to look for him in crowds, reach out his mind and feel the touch of Grace against it. He had stopped thinking about it much, stopped feeling worried or guilty for wanting the presence of the Enemy around him, hoarding in his heart little memories of a pleased lift in a voice at his presence, a smile, anxious pleasure at seeing him.
No one was ever pleased to see a demon, not once they knew what he was. Even humans who summoned them were defensive and terrified, if they had any sense at all, although summoning a demon rather argued against that. Other demons tended to be less than enraptured by Crowley's presence. Only Aziraphale saw him as an equal and still lit up with delight, even if he often then retreated into guilty denial. The denial, too, was sweet.
After all, wasn’t it Crowley's job to tempt?
Come on, angel, my own particular angel. I need you.
An answering touch of Grace pressed against his mind, He grinned, his heart, such as it was, lightened, and he drained his drink. Should’ve known Aziraphale would be close by when he really needed him. He’d given up wondering if it was the Almighty playing games, or Crowley's own powers acting beyond his will, but he always found the angel—or the angel found him. He turned to the door of the tavern, then blinked through his tinted spectacles at the impression of a sudden stream of light into the room.
Aziraphale gleamed in white and gold in a way Crowley hadn’t seen for centuries. He swept his hat off, and Crowley noted that there was no powdered wig for Airaphale, whatever the fashion among the higher-ups. Still, he had grown his silver-blond curls longer than Crowley remembered ever seeing them, and they were tied neatly back from a face burned browner than the demon had seen on him for a long time. A pure white velvet coat, frogged in gold, swept his knees and—oh, Satan below, his shapely calves were encased in the finest silk stockings. His ethereal lustre gleamed in the dark tavern like a moonbeam splitting through thunderclouds
Crowley was completely unprepared. He had become used to seeing Aziraphale as a human-like figure, attractive, certainly—oh, yes, attractive enough to spend far too many idle hours thinking about his rounded arms and inviting soft chest and broad thighs and what Crowley would like to do to them—but no longer impressive, no longer angelic, inhabiting his human body far better than his Adversary really managed his, still stuck too much as a snake and a demon as he was. He hadn’t seen Aziraphale glorious with light like this since the early days when his white wings spread out in the sun. Aziraphale was blazing like the heavens.
It was incredibly irritating.
Crowley was about to go over to him and demand what he thought of turning up in a Cornish fishing village looking like a sugar paste sculpture when the woman at the next table grabbed his arm and pulled him down.
“Be careful of those English ones,” she said in Cornish. “Pirates."
Crowley’s lips quirked. “Pirates? You must be mistaken. Look at that one, pure as the driven snow.” Certainly, the men around Aziraphale looked a little rougher than one might expect, although they deferred to him courteously, but some ideas were ridiculous. He had probably just had an attack of common sense and decided that bodyguards were a good idea if he was dressing like a spoiled aristocrat away from whatever humble manor he lived in now.
“The White Robin Hood of the Sea. Captured thirty ships this year alone, they say."
“Oh, that’s ridic…” Crowley’s voice trailed off. Aziraphale had taken a seat, and his coat fell aside to reveal a pair of duelling pistols and a sword at his side. Crowley could do basic mathematics. The bloody angel was carrying four pistols. Four. Did he intend to hold one in each wing? “Tell me more,” Crowley hissed, turning so that his back was to Aziraphale.
It’s not like Aziraphale was actually looking for him or knew that he was there. It wasn't like he would reach out looking for Crowley's aura the way Crowley habitually reached for his. Why would an angel seek out a demon, anyway? He seemed perfectly content with his role as—whatever he was. A folktale hero pirate. Oh, Crowley was going to get him for this.
His mission could wait.
It really wasn’t hard to sneak onboard a ship, not when you could turn into a snake. Crowley waited some hours curled behind a chest, waiting for the most embarrassing moment to reveal himself. The ship moved out to sea. Aziraphale was below deck, and Crowley was bored. Hours—days. He wasn’t sure. Maybe he had been discorporating from boredom for years. He went to sleep, waiting until he could feel the aura of Grace move closer and rouse him from the nap, like a celestial bell ringer.
A shout from the crow’s nest roused him at last, and he felt Aziraphale moving closer. He lifted his head and watched Aziraphale, urging his men to battle, all pretty words that they hung onto like he was a general or prophet. He really was a pirate captain. It was absurd. That was the kind of thing a demon should do, not an angel. It wasn’t like Crowley had asked Aziraphale to be a pirate as part of the Arrangement.
Stupid angel. If he was planning to Fall, he should have had the common courtesy to ask Crowley's help in arranging it. He could think of plenty of better ways to sin than piracy.
Crowley waited until Aziraphale stepped close, back to him. As soon as he was close enough Crowley reared up into human shape, leaned seductively against his back, put his hands over Aziraphale's eyes and breathed “Guess who, angel?"
Stinging spread through Crowley's palms and fingers, and he gasped in pain. Hands took his shoulders, and he turned, hissing weakly, but his consciousness was already fading, knocked out by the agony in his hands.
When Crowley struggled back from his faint, pain still flickering up his arm, he was conscious of Aziraphale’s voice raised in some distress. For a moment he fantasised his head was cradled on solid thighs, hands stroking his long hair, a worried voice begging him to be alive, apologising desperately for having hurt him. Maybe a few declarations of love. That would be pleasant. He would tease Aziraphale, of course, but then he would condescend to offer a forgiving kiss, and...
No. Crowley's head was flat against wood, and the angelic voice was querulous, not sympathetic. When Crowley reluctantly abandoned the fantasy and opened his eyes, all he could see was feet, Aziraphale’s beautiful white leather shoes turned away from him. There was an iron manacle around one silk stockinged ankle and a chain, and now Crowley was fully conscious he was aware that there was cold iron around one of his own ankles. No sunshine, no wind.
Oh, Satan. They were chained together in the brig.
“Charlie, is this really necessary?” Aziraphale was demanding.
“Sorry, Captain. But she seems to know you and think you expected her to be on board."
“I have positively no idea who this strange woman is."
Right, Crowley thought. It’s on. First Aziraphale blessed his damned hand, then denied him.
“You know it’s against the Ship's Articles to sneak a lady or boy on board. All rules applied fairly regardless of rank, you said. They apply to you as much as to anyone, you said. We’ll have a trial of sorts, and I really hope we don’t have to dismember or kill you, because on my oath you’ve been a wonderful Captain."
“Thank you, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said kindly. “It’s an honour to have you as First Mate. Don’t distress yourself unduly, I’m sure this little misunderstanding will be cleared up soon."
“That’s very kind of you, Captain. I hope you don’t mind being here in the meantime."
“Oh, I do hope the attack and boarding go well without me,” Aziraphale fretted. "Sorry to cause such inconvenience."
“That’s quite all right, Captain. Two men more or less won’t make any difference. Think of last time, they had three times as many men as we and they barely waved their weapons around a bit before surrendering."
Crowley had enough. He pushed himself to a sitting position. “What the fuck is going on here? Have I lost my mind?"
“Madam!” the young pirate gasped, shocked. “Such language!"
“Really, young woman.” Aziraphale frowned at Crowley. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble today without adding obscenity to your sins?"
Crowley cradled his stinging hand and glared at him. “Why was I assaulted?"
“Ship's Articles, Madam,” Charlie said helpfully. He was a muscular boy of twenty or so, long dark hair in curls over his shoulders, darker skin. “Pirate’s code. No man is to seduce a woman or boy and carry them off to sea."
“Then why am I locked up? Aren’t I the innocent victim here?"
“To protect your virtue, Madam. I’ve been nominated to stand sentinel to see that you’re not molested by anyone,” he said proudly.
“You’ve chained me to my vile and immoral seducer to protect me?” Crowley fluttered a sideways glance at Aziraphale who huffed, clearly offended.
“I’ve got a pistol, Madam,” Charlie said reassuringly. "Besides, Captain would do you no wrong against your will. He’s always very respectful to the ladies."
Crowley made a decision. “I’m no lady, boy.” He rose fairly unsteadily to his feet, pushing himself up on Aziraphale’s shoulder, feeling the silk velvet of his clothes under his touch, the warmth under it. Flatten the bosom, narrow the hips, change configuration down there. Done.
“Well, I’m sure you’re a nice woman, even if you’ve made some mistakes in your life.” The First Mate blushed.
“No, no, I don’t claim to virtue. I mean, I’m not a lady.” Crowley pulled his shirt out from his skirt.
“You can’t tempt me like that, vixen!” yelped the pirate, squeezing his eyes shut.
“For heaven's sake, dear boy, just look,” Aziraphale said, sounding amused. “Captain’s order. It’s not anything you haven’t seen before."
The pirate risked a peek, and then relaxed. “Oh. You’re not—Captain, did you sneak a boy on board?"
“Certainly not!"
“Do I look like a boy, kid?” Crowley tucked his shirt in again.
“N—no. You look old enough to be my father. But why were you dressed like that?"
“I was escaping prison, and I disguised myself as a woman to evade detection."
“Oh!” Charlie cheered up. “I can see that, happens all the time. You weren’t very convincing, now I come to think about it. Too plain and ginger and flat-chested. If the Captain did have a lady friend, she’d be a lot younger and more comely than you. With fewer freckles."
Crowley tried not to catch Aziraphale’s eye. It took a moment to steady his voice before he said, “I’m sure Robin Hood here is quite a catch, but I’m just an old friend. Although you wouldn’t know it.” He cradled his scalded hand against his chest and pouted reproachfully.
“I’m truly sorry, dear fellow, it’s just that I wasn’t prepared for being attacked by a strange demoness—I mean, I didn’t recognise you."
“Didn’t have to bless me,” he muttered.
“I am sorry,” said Aziraphale, looking so agonised that Crowley—well, didn’t forgive him. Forgiveness was more what the Other Side did. He just felt that he wanted to ease the deep lines been the surprisingly dark brows, because it was undignified for an immortal being, especially such a beautiful one, to look like that in front of a mere human.
“Captain, you shouldn’t call a lady a demoness. You always tell us courtesy is important for pirates,” frowned Charlie, who looked like he could crack an oaken ale barrel with his knuckles.
“I’m not a lady. Can we stop going in circles? Look, lad, any idiot could see my virtue is in no danger from your Captain.” He repressed a scowl at the thought. "Will you let us out? I’m sure I could help you in the attack.”
“Certainly not,” snapped Aziraphale. “I don’t trust you to behave yourself in a boarding."
“Captain’s right. You haven’t been sworn in. Can’t risk you betraying us."
“Sworn in? Crowley stiffened. “Look, you don’t know what you’re asking, making a contract with me. You won't like the consequences at all."
“Really? Why?"
Crowley desperately sought for inspiration. “I’m a Friend. You know, a Quaker. No vows. You will just have to trust me."
Charlie looked pointedly at the lace at Crowley’s wrists and the ribbons on his bodice and apron and laughed scornfully. “Don’t worry, puppy. We’ll hold a pistol to your head if you like, and then you can say you signed under duress and never wanted to be a pirate if you come to trial. We do it all the time, don’t we, Captain?"
“I can’t sign anything."
“Make a mark, then,” Charlie said kindly. “There’s no shame in not being able to write."
“Pay attention, you ssstupid man. I’m not agreeing to your ridiculousss articlesss.” He moved threateningly towards the door, putting all the slinking menace he could into his movement, skirts rustling around him like the wings of some nocturnal creature. Aziraphale yelped as the chain yanked him forward as well. “Unlock the manacles, and let us out."
“I already told you, I have a pistol."
Crowley had finally had enough. It was time to break his chains, blast the door open, blast this stubborn man with it, spread his wings and fly away, leaving Aziraphale to enjoy whatever mad Harlequinade he was playing and get back to his job. He turned to hiss something to that account at the angel and met storm grey eyes, wide and round.
Crowley froze, helpless in the face of that gaze. Aziraphale’s lips formed a soft pout, golden lashes fluttering over those pleading eyes. Those trusting eyes. Aziraphale was clearly not having the time of his life at all as a pirate king, he was in some kind of trouble, trapped and helpless and needing a saviour, and bless it Crowley was going to have to stay on this stupid pirate ship after all.
Notes in the main text so they won’t appear under every sodding chapter:
1) A much-delayed gift for Just_Lola. I have fallen down a rabbit hole of reading about surprisingly nice, chivalrous and merciful pirates. Aziraphale's persona is loosely based on Black Sam Bellamy, of the exquisite clothes and exquisite manners.
2) Yes, Mousehole, as well as being super pretty, is near Penzance. Yes, I was tempted to put Aziraphale in purple pants shut up shut up shut up. I'm just taking all the titles from a certain piratical operetta instead.