Work Text:
The Great North Road, 1731
The carriage rattles over a pothole, making the frame lurch, along with the unfortunate passenger within. Aziraphale lets out a loud sigh of irritation, and bends down to retrieve his book from the floor just as the carriage runs over a stone in the road, and nearly sends him flying.
“Bebother and befog this blasted driver!” he snaps, clambering back into his seat and tapping sharply on the ceiling with his book. The driver, perched up on the roof at the front, ignores his grumbling, and Aziraphale feels a mild twinge of guilt for wishing harm upon a human, even if he is feckless and workshy. He wriggles about in his seat, trying to get comfortable, and when he fails to find relief on the hard wooden bench flicks through the pages of his book, trying to find his place.
The previous driver had been far more diligent, but had alighted at Peterborough when they had stopped at a coaching inn for the night, and returned South in the morning, leaving Aziraphale to the mercy of the new driver. He still has another day of travel ahead of him, and at this rate he’ll be black and blue by the time they reach York.
He finds his page at last, and settles down to read, managing another page and a half before the back wheel catches in a rut and jolts him violently out of his seat. He topples into the empty seat opposite, letting out a sharp little cry.
“Oh, this is simply too much!” Aziraphale snaps, sliding across the cold bench to the door. He grasps the top of the window and pulls it down, poking his head out. For a moment all he can think about is the road speeding past below him, and how much damage he would do to his corporation if he were to fall. He shakes himself off, twisting around until he can see the driver.
“Hoy!” Aziraphale shouts. “Have a care, sir! I was nearly thrown from my seat!”
“Care?” The driver laughs, shaking the reins and urging the horses into a gallop. “There’s cutpurses and ne'er-do-wells abound, sir,” he shouts back. “Wealthy gent like yourself should be tellin’ me to go faster!”
Aziraphale scoffs, pulling his head back into the safety of the carriage and forcing the window shut.
“Stuff and nonsense,” he mutters to himself, returning to his seat and his book.
York, Gabriel had said. He’d said a great many other things, but the crux of the matter was that Aziraphale must go to York. He’d also said that, since Aziraphale was going to be living among them (like he hadn’t already spent a fistful of centuries among the humans) he’d be expected to keep up appearances, blend in and so forth, which meant four days in a horse and carriage being rattled to pieces on the Great North road. It meant three nights in a variety of sparsely appointed coaching inns, where the kitchens culinary expertise was limited to just how many hours you could boil scrag ends of elderly sheep and potatoes.
Aziraphale tries to be a good Angel. He is diligent in his duties, and rigorously thwarts the Demonic wiles of his counterpart. Well. Mostly. That’s something of a morally grey area that he doesn’t study too closely. The point is that he does his best, or at least tries to, under the circumstances, and why couldn’t he stay in London? Why did he have to be sent to York of all places? What does York have? Certainly not the restaurants and theaters of London. Why couldn’t he have been sent to Oxford, with its library and coffee houses. Aziraphale would have gladly whiled away his assignment in one of the penny universities, sharing his wisdom with like-minded scholars, reading periodicals and lending a few choice remarks on the local gossip. Not that he engages in idle gossip, of course.
But he’s not going to Oxford, with its Universities and picturesque river. He’s going to York.
Aziraphale sighs again as the carriage goes over another stone, and tries to concentrate on his book. He counts his blessings, though they are few, that he is alone in the carriage at least. From Hyde Park to St Albans he’d had to share the coach with a sour faced old woman who looked disapprovingly at his book the whole time - Fantomina; or Love in a Maze. Aziraphale tuts to himself, carefully not thinking ill of the old crone, thanks to many centuries of practice. Of all people to disapprove, he could despair of the humans, far too much like crabs in a bucket. One crab in a bucket will try and climb out, and maybe even succeed, but several crabs in the same bucket? They will drag down any of them that try to escape, ensuring their collective demise. Thus, an elderly woman will see a work of literature where a young woman of wealth in a repressed society learns to be cunning, and suck air through her teeth. A bitter, brittle crab.
Aziraphale sighs again, though this time it is because he has reached the end of his book. The cunning lady falls pregnant, and is sent to live in a French monastery. He puts the book on the bench beside him, disappointment making him irritable. The coach jolts as a wheel catches in a rut, and the book falls to the floor. Aziraphale bends down to retrieve it, bracing one hand on the bench opposite, and carefully wipes a smudge of dust off the cover. Poor book, it is not to blame for it’s author.
He stows the book away in his travel case, next to a half dozen other books he has brought with him for the journey, but he doesn’t select another to read, not just yet. He needs a little time to digest first.
Outside the window, the trees that line the road fly past at a blur, and the carriage jolts violently. The driver must have picked up the pace, no doubt in some foolish desire to see the carriage rattle apart and deposit Aziraphale in the middle of the muddy road, wheels spinning off in every direction. Aziraphale hammers his fist on the roof, but all he hears is a loud ‘Yah!’ and the crack of leather as the horses are urged on.
Aziraphale peers out the window, stomach lurching at the blur of trees, ready to give the driver a few sharp words that will not be dismissed this time, when he spies a shape on the road behind them. A horse and rider, galloping along the road at breakneck speed after them. The carriage swerves to the right as the horse and rider pull up alongside them, the frame shuddering as the horses vast bulk connects with the carriage, almost knocking it over completely.
“Stand and deliver!” the horseman shouts, and Aziraphale’s heart trips and kicks like a marching drum. A Highwayman.
There is a muffled shout from the driver, and the horseman draws a pistol. Aziraphale braces himself for the crack of gunpowder, but the carriage slows to a halt, the driver dropping the reins and holding his hands up. With a twitch of his pistol, the Highwayman gives him a chance to flee, and the man does not waste it, scrambling down from his seat and haring down the road back to Peterborough.
Foul hearted wretch, abandoning his post! Aziraphale sinks back into his seat, searching vainly for a shadow to hide in. All hope is lost, it would seem.
After far too long a wait, the door is unlatched and pulled open, and there stands the Highwayman, pistol trained on Aziraphale.
He is very dashing, the brigand. Tall and slim, and wearing tight fitting breeches and knee high boots in some kind of fine black leather embossed with a diamond pattern. A white shirt, open at the throat, is just visible beneath a back waistcoat studded with silver buttons, and the flowing black cape he wears is lined with red silk. His portwine hair, half-hidden under his tricorn hat, is tied in a black ribbon. The final flourish is a domino mask that obscures his features.
Aziraphale lets out a quiet sound, hand clasped to his chest. The man is obviously quite the rogue and a complete scoundrel, but he is very dashing, and here sits Aziraphale, all alone in a perilous sea; a merchant ship in danger of being plundered.
“Your money or your life!” the brigand says, lips curled in a wicked smile, and Aziraphale frowns, all thoughts of ravishment and plunder evaporating.
“Crowley?” he says abruptly. “Is that you?”
The Highwayman stares into the shadowed interior of the carriage, then lets out a weary sigh, holstering his pistol and pulling off his mask to reveal yellow eyes.
“What the Heaven are you doing here?” he asks, tucking the mask into a pocket. “I thought you were in London.”
“What am I doing here?” Aziraphale says, sitting up straight. “What are you doing here, playing at some common footpad?”
“Footpad?” Crowley scoffs. “I’m a Highwayman. Look, I’ve got a horse and everything.” He points to the great black beast beside him, pawing at the ground with hooves that strike up sparks that smell faintly of brimstone. It’s a very impressive beast, black and broad and fearsome. “Her name’s Bess.”
The horse snorts, Hellfire curling from her nostrils.
“That’s no more a horse than I am,” Aziraphale mutters, and Crowley’s grin sharpens.
“Well, I could get a saddle and ride-”
“Stop that at once!” Aziraphale shrieks. He is fine with the teasing, and there is certainly no ill-will on the Demon’s part, but sometimes he strays into… uncomfortable territory. The kind of things said in jest that linger in Aziraphale’s thoughts long after they have parted ways, because what if they weren’t just in poor taste?
“Alright, Angel,” Crowley says gently, pulling out a pair of glasses with smoked lenses and putting them on.
Aziraphale clears his throat, adjusting the lace ruffles of his cuffs. “Well, what are you doing here?” he asks.
“Being a rapscallion of course.” The grin is back, the Demon on familiar teasing ground. “Stealing from the rich and-”
“Giving to the poor?”
Crowley wrinkles his nose. “Not really. Mostly giving it to publicans in exchange for wine.”
“Oh, Crowley.”
“Oh, Crowley what? Besides, what are you doing here?”
Aziraphale slides across the bench towards him, peering over his shoulder to check there’s no one watching them before answering. “I’ve been sent to York.”
“Oh, no,” Crowley grimaces. “You don’t want to go to York, it’s full of Yorkshire people.”
“I know,” Aziraphale whines. “But it can’t be helped. I’m to oversee repairs to the Minster, apparently they’re going to relay the entire floor in patterned marble now that the whole business with Cromwell has been dealt with.”
“Oh, yeah.” Crowley scratches his ear. “Didn’t much like him. Charles was a laugh, though.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale says, in that drawn out, disapproving way that means quite the opposite.
“Why can’t you just stay in London?” Crowley asks. “Plenty of Blessings to be done in London, lots of sinners and whatnot. You could open a cafe.” He looks at the open bag of books on the floor of the carriage. “Or a bookshop.”
“Gabriel says I must go to York,” Aziraphale replies, feeling nettled. Why can’t he stay in London? “I can’t not do as I am told.”
Crowley looks ready to argue, then shrugs. “Alright then.” He looks at the empty driver’s seat, the occupant long gone, then back at Aziraphale. “Need a lift?”
Aziraphale makes a few token spluttering sounds, but the Demon ignores him, uncoupling the lead horse from the reins and whispering in its ear. The horse whinnies, turning tail and cantering down the road back to Peterborough. Maybe it’ll find the driver en route, and trample him.
Crowley puts Bess in the horses place, the other beasts wild-eyed and skittish in the presence of the unearthly creature. Crowley climbs up into the driver's seat and takes the reins, bunching them up in one hand and patting the bench beside him with a sly look.
“C’mon, Angel. Up you come.”
“Absolutely not!” Aziraphale insists, staying right where he is.
“Oh, come on!” Crowley coaxes. “See the world a little.”
“I’ve been here nearly six thousand years, Crowley. I’ve seen plenty.”
“Angel, there are more things in Heaven and earth than in your books.” Crowley pats the bench again, Aziraphale can feel the thump-thump-thump on the roof. “You can keep me company.”
That is much harder to say no to, and Aziraphale closes his bag of books, hauling it out the carriage with him and shutting the door. There is an iron spur sticking out the front edge of the carriage, and a single handhold, and with a little bit of struggling and an absence of dignity Aziraphale hauls himself up to the bench. Crowley stows the bag away before giving the reins a shake, and the carriage lurches into motion.
Aziraphale flails wildly as the carriage bounces along the road, frantically grasping at the nearest handhold as the horses skim the trees, branches snapping.
“Watch the road!” Aziraphale yells, ducking out of the way of a rogue branch and nearly ending up sprawled in Crowley’s lap. He gets a face full of prickles and pine needles in his hair instead.
“Well, I can hardly miss it,” Crowley calls cheerfully, giving the reins another shake.
“I mean be careful!” Aziraphale brushes his hands through his hair, shaking out the needles. “You’ll get us killed.”
“We can’t be killed by falling off a carriage, Angel.”
“Well,” Aziraphale spits out a fragment of pine cone. Painfully discorporated then.”
Crowley snorts, but eases up on the reins a little, letting the horses settle into a trot as they continue North.
***
London, Soho, now
“Come on, Angel!” Crowley shouts, leaning against the roof of the Bentley. “We’ll miss the first act at this rate.”
Aziraphale ignores him, it’s a two hour drive to Stratford-upon-Avon, and the way Crowley drives they’ll probably be there in less than an hour. Plenty of time to take a walk by the river and feed the ducks before the play starts.
He takes the time to lock the bookshop, ignoring the gnashing of teeth coming from the impatient Demon. The tin of Scottish shortbread tucked in his armpit threatens to slip, but he clamps down his elbow just in time, giving the door handle a quick rattle to make sure it really is locked. Satisfied, he trots over to the car, opening the passenger door and putting the biscuits on the back seat. Crowley hates the red tartan tin, but he likes the Scottie dog shaped biscuits inside, mostly because Aziraphale gets distressed at the enthusiasm with which he bites off the little baked heads. Honestly, he’s just as bad with Jelly Babies, which is why Aziraphale had to switch to Wine Gums.
The Demon in question hasn’t gotten in the car yet, he’s looking at the bookshop with an odd kind of fondness. It stands to reason, watching it burn down apparently gave him quite the turn, though he hasn’t really spoken about it. That’s how Aziraphale knows how much it affected him.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale says softly. “Shouldn’t we be getting on?”
“‘S’good,” Crowley says suddenly. “The shop, I mean. Good that you kept it up.”
“Well, “ Aziraphale says slowly. “I wouldn’t know what to do with myself otherwise.” He hesitates, watching as Crowley drops into the driver’s seat. “It’s been a part of my life so long, I can’t imagine not having. It.” He clears his throat, feeling self conscious. Crowley gives him one of those wide open smiles that have been making an appearance of late, the kind that make him look like a village idiot, and causes Aziraphale’s throat to dry up.
Soon, he tells himself. He has it all planned out, a walk along the river and a carefully worded speech that he has winnowed down to three simple words, starting with I and ending with you.
“I’m glad you kept her too,” Aziraphale says, it is a day for boldness after all. When Crowley looks confused, Aziraphale nods to the dashboard. “Bess.”
Crowley’s grin softens, and he gives the steering wheel a gentle pat. “Wouldn’t be without. Uh. Her.” He nods to the glove box. “Put some music on, would you?”
Aziraphale obliges, picking out a CD with the words A Night at the Opera emblazoned across the front in looping, curling script. He covers the CD with fingerprints getting it out of the case and into the player, but music is already filtering out of the speakers before he’s finished.
Crowley hums along, swerving around the other traffic and onto Regent’s Street, and Aziraphale clings to his seat, eyes tightly closed until they are out of the city. Beneath the sound of Crowley singing along and the noise of London traffic, he could swear he hears the sound of hooves.
You will remember
When this is blown over
And everything's all by the way
When I grow older
I will be there at your side to remind you
How I still love you - I still love you
Queen - Love of my Life