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The light was burning low, but Aziraphale didn’t notice as it dimmed and flickered, hunched over the low work table as he was. Before him lay an open scroll filled with faded text, and the unbound pages of a book upon which the angel was writing, transcribing in neat handwriting the contents of the scroll. It was only when his candle guttered and died that he looked up from his writings, blinking into the dark.
Setting his quill pen down beside the inkwell, Aziraphale sat up, straightening his shoulders and flexing his hand with a sigh. Raising his head towards the window, he eyed the low-hanging moon. It would be morning soon, and people would be out and about with the sun, trickling into the streets and raising a gentle clamor.
Getting slowly to his feet, the angel stretched his back and crossed the room to fumble on a tabletop for another candle. Lighting it with a snap of his fingers, he surveyed the small room, from his writing desk before the window, to the dressing table where he’d set out a basin of water the night before. Walking over to the basin, he splashed his face with the tepid water and patted himself dry with a cloth. Then he carried the candle with him toward a small door which he pushed open to descend to the lower level of the house.
The steep wooden stairs creaked underfoot, and he held the thin rail to guide his way to the lower floor, where set his candle on a table and knelt to light the fireplace. Once the flames were crackling, he pushed himself to his feet and made his way to the cabinets. Withdrawing a plate and cup, he went to pour himself some wine from his cask, which he liberally watered down, and then settled himself before the fire with a plate of heavy bread and cheese. For a long, quiet moment, he ate by the flickering light, alternating bites of bread and cheese. Outside the window, the sky began to lighten into feathered gray and gold.
Then, from out in the street, there came the sound of raised, laughing voices, a clatter, and a yelp.
Aziraphale was on his feet and pushing open his front door before he the action had even occurred to him, and when he stepped out into the thin dawn light, he saw a cluster of youths surrounding a limping dog. Almost immediately, he made a move to intervene, but before he could, somebody else arrived there first. Aziraphale allowed his raised hands to drop, and he watched a humbly dressed young man lecture the youths before turning a gentle hand to the dog—only to receive a hard bite for it. At this, Aziraphale finally moved forward—and with more miracle than true ability, he coaxed the dog to release the young man’s hand.
With the youths having fled the scene, there only remained the angel, the young man, and the dog, which had relaxed under Aziraphale’s touch.
“Let me see your hand,” Aziraphale said to the young man. He took his wrist in his hands and tutted. “You’d best come in,” he said, “and let me bandage you up.”
The young man smiled and carefully pulled away.
“There is no need for that,” he said, “but I thank you all the same; I couldn’t impose.”
Aziraphale frowned, straightening up.
“I insist,” he said, “Please let me. It was my own lateness to intervene that led to your injury, after all, and,” and here he glanced down at the docile animal at their feet, “I will be treating the dog in any case; it would not do to leave one or the other of you on your own when I can help.”
“If you are sure,” said the young man slowly, wincing at torn skin on his hand as he straightened up as well. “Though I wouldn’t have you provide assistance without knowing my current status. For I am disinherited by my family and have no means to repay you.”
It was this statement that caused Aziraphale to peer more closely at the young man’s face in the pale dawn light, and an expression of recognition came over him.
“I see you know who I am,” said the young man. “I will not judge you should you turn me away.”
“Nonsense,” said Aziraphale, and he placed a brief, warm hand on the young man’s shoulder, while with the other he gestured to the dog, which came to heel. “I know who you are, young Francis, and I have nothing but respect for your desire to help others, even if they go against your father’s wishes. Come now, and we’ll go inside, and I’ll see if I can set that hand of yours to rights.”
Returning to the angel’s home, the two settled at the small kitchen table, where Aziraphale neatly cleaned and wrapped Francis’ hand.
“There,” he said, tying off the bandage with a small, satisfied smile, and simultaneously discouraging infection with a minor miracle. “Now, as I understand it, you could use a good meal. Here, I have some bread and cheese, still, from breakfast; please help yourself while I examine this creature’s leg.”
Francis, Aziraphale knew, had been living as a beggar for some time, having renounced his family to live in humility; the least Aziraphale could do was offer him some food, especially as the young man had been working to repair one of the small chapels outside of the city all on his own. As an angel, Aziraphale couldn’t simply overlook those sorts of things.
With less resistance this time, Francis accepted Aziraphale’s food, and the angel turned to splinting the dog’s paw as the animal looked up at him with wide, placid, dark eyes.
“You’re good with animals,” commented Francis.
“Oh—oh. Not really,” said Aziraphale with a sheepish sort of shrug, “I’ve just seen this one around before; he knows me.”
Aziraphale had not, in fact, seen the dog before. But it wasn’t like he could say, “Oh, I’m just good with animals because I’m an angel, and I cheat,” now could he?
“Well,” said Francis, “In any case, thank you for your generosity this morning, Brother…?”
“Aziraphale,” said Aziraphale.
“Brother Aziraphale,” said Francis. “You have my thanks.”
Aziraphale smiled, pleased, and walked the young man to the door.
“Any time,” he said. “If you ever find yourself in need of help, please turn my way. I’ve seen you rebuilding the chapel, you know; it’s good work; the community owes you its thanks as well.”
“I do what little I can,” said Francis, and they parted ways. Aziraphale watched him disappear down the now sunlit street, and returned indoors with a spring in his step.
The dog was lying by the fire, content as could be, and though Aziraphale had no great personal affection for animals (it was much the same as the way he felt regarding children; he loved them, of course—he loved all of God’s creatures—but animals and young humans were just so needy and energetic that they put him off) he allowed the creature to stay and warm itself. He would put it out again later, he thought as he cleaned up the breakfast dishes and snuffed the candle out. The dog could have its rest after the torment of the morning, but it would not get used to it, for Aziraphale had standards of living to maintain, and dogs did not factor into them.
The dog did not, in fact, end up back on the street despite Aziraphale’s most sincere intentions. Instead, the old thing spent the day sleeping at the fireside, and then most of the night pressed as a warm weight against the angel’s legs as he read. And looking down at the pathetic creature, Aziraphale hadn’t had it in him to throw it out.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “I’ll put you out tomorrow. When I go into the market in the morning, I’ll put you out and close the door behind me.”
Tomorrow morning came and went, and though Aziraphale did put the dog outside, it was waiting by the door when he came back. And, thinking of its warm and quiet company the night before, and how terribly chilled he got during long, dark nights in the solitude of his home, the angel had let it back inside. Despite himself, as he always seemed to do, he became attached.
Aziraphale would meet the man known as St. Francis of Assisi several more times over the next two decades. He would watch him as he continued with charitable works and established his own Order; he’d keep a keen eye on Francis as his travels took him out of Italy, and greet him upon his return. And with a heavy heart, Aziraphale would even maintain his watch over the man until his death.
There were many humans who used religion as a crutch or an excuse to do as they pleased, but Francis wasn’t like that, and Aziraphale had liked him. Which was why, when presented with the task to oversee the raising of the antichrist, Aziraphale had taken the name of Francis in homage.
It was late at night, or perhaps the early morning, and Warlock Dowling must have been around four or five years old when Crowley asked Aziraphale about it.
The two of them had shed their disguises in the solitude of the gardener’s cottage on the grounds, and they were drinking together by the light of several candles that Aziraphale had arrayed around the room. Most of these had already died, slowly flickering out one by one over the course of the long night.
“Why Francis?” the demon had asked, his heels thrown up on the surface of Aziraphale’s well-worn coffee table, and the angel had smiled pleasantly in remembrance.
“He was a good man,” said Aziraphale. “I met him, you know, when he was alive; long before he was named a saint, and was only a beggar in the streets of Assisi, rescuing dogs from scoundrels.”
“Rescuing dogs?” said Crowley, and raised an eyebrow above his glasses, which had slipped considerably down his nose throughout the night.
“Erm, yes,” said Aziraphale, “That was how we met, you see; I heard a ruckus one morning, and came outside to see him rescue a dog from some young men—only the poor thing was frightened, and bit him, so of course I had to intervene.”
“Oh, of course you did,” said Crowley snidely, “Can’t let a chance to do good slip by.”
“Indeed,” agreed the angel. He took a sip of his wine.
“I bandaged them both up, and fed them, and sent young Francis on his way.”
“Them?” asked Crowley.
“Oh,” said Aziraphale, his smile slipping softly into something fond. “The dog as well, of course.”
“And then you sent the future saint on his way, but not the animal.”
“Well,” said Aziraphale, and then he huffed a breath, avoiding Crowley’s yellow eyes. “Well, yes. I’m afraid I kept the dog. I have a bad habit, you see… I tend to become attached to things even when perhaps I shouldn’t. And the dog was old, and it was good company.”
“Ah,” said Crowley, swallowing. He stared into his wine glass for a moment, before taking a long drink. “I suppose I should have seen that coming; you do like your charity cases, don’t you?”
The angel’s head jerked up to face him, and Aziraphale let out a shaky breath.
“It wasn’t a charity case, my dear,” he said softly, watching the spill of flickering candle light across the demon’s face. “I simply grew to enjoy its presence. It didn’t leave me alone, you see, even when I tried to push it away, and in time...I became ever so grateful that it was there to chase away the cold on quiet nights.” He looked away.
“It was only a dog of course,” he said, “and it didn’t last forever, but I must admit. I don’t regret a minute of it.”
Crowley finally looked up at him then, and opened his mouth as if to speak. But at that moment, the huge, old candle on the table gave a violent flicker and went out, plunging the both of them into darkness.
“Oh,” said Aziraphale, and sighed, putting down his glass of wine and pushing himself to his feet, “Have to relight that.”
Beside him, Crowley shuffled as if to stand as well, and in the dark their fumbling arms caught against each other and then pulled back.
“Bugger this,” said Crowley, and with a snap of his fingers, the candle was lit again.
“Ah,” said Aziraphale, sinking back down onto the sofa, “why didn’t I think of that?”
“You like doing it the human way too much,” muttered Crowley, still standing in front of him, “and for that matter, so do I.” He swayed slightly on his feet, before cracking his jaw into a wide yawn.
“Sit down before you fall down,” said the angel, and Crowley sat. Together, they drank by the low firelight straight through to morning, right up until they had to part ways and once more don disguises.
That day, Nanny Ashtoreth would bring young Warlock into the garden, and Brother Francis would introduce the child cheerfully to Brother Dog, who he’d found scrounging ‘round the back.