Chapter Text
Aziraphale loved the low lighting of the Waddesdon Bequest. He loved the high windows and the dark walls that soaked up any ray of sun that managed to get through. He loved the small display lights that bounced off the gold of the cups and jewels and statues which looked even brighter when placed against the black backdrops.
It reminded him of his bookshop in a way, though this room was suffocatingly tidy. There wasn’t a smudge or speck of dust inside the cases. The only mess he could see was tiny handprints of children who pressed their faces to the glass to get a closer look at the tawny artifacts and sparkling gems. Aziraphale would have loved the gallery if it all looked a little more settled and… loved.
It was the one drawback to museums. You could never see anything in its natural space, which Aziraphale thought was crucial if you really wanted to appreciate something old. His books, for example, were where they were supposed to be. In his bookshop with someone who loved them and took care of them. Crowley called it “hoarding” but Aziraphale disagreed. There was a difference. He put his books to use and cherished them all.
He admired a reliquary. There were little angels around it, playing their horns and admiring Christ. It was all a bit inaccurate, but he appreciated the golden curls the angels had. He touched his own snowy hair. Perhaps it was vanity in the early days that made Aziraphale convince artists that angels had light, coiled locks. He hadn’t expected humans to take it so far. And he was paying the price now whenever he saw diapered cherubs with cartoonish curls. Crowley had teased him for it, but Aziraphale raised his chin and claimed innocence that he had any influence over it. It was pure coincidence.
Aziraphale looked at the inscription, easily reading the Latin etched into the gold. This a thorn from the crown of our Lord Jesus Christ. He scoffed. It most certainly was not. It was an ordinary thorn resting against the pasty depiction of Christ. The true crown had been discarded once the bodies were taken down from the crucifixes. No one had saved a single thorn.
The poor boy deserved better.
Aziraphale moved on to a miniature tabernacle to his right. There wasn’t a word that had been invented yet to describe how beautiful it was. Aziraphale was amazed at what humans could do with a bit of wood and some knives. Aziraphale remembered seeing it for the first time in, if he remembered correctly, the 1520s. Or perhaps the 1530s. Maybe the 1540s? It was in the early 16th century. It was astonishing that it had been so well-preserved. All the tiny windows were still intact. The figurines weren’t even nicked.
Familiar footsteps and the echoing click of heels approached him from behind.
“You’re still here? You haven’t moved an inch.”
Aziraphale smiled as soon as he saw Crowley. He clasped his hands in front of him.
“I moved! I was admiring that cup when you left.” Aziraphale pointed to the painted cup that was only half a foot away. “And now I’m here. Look at this tabernacle, my dear. Isn’t it beautiful? I remember seeing it in the early 1500s in the Netherlands. I believe it was Denmark.”
Crowley hummed. “Always a fan of the Danish.”
“We should visit! It’s been ages since we’ve been out of England.”
Crowley looked to the cup Aziraphale had pointed at a moment ago. It was a painted glass beaker mounted on a gilt foot. Aziraphale followed his gaze and turned towards it. Crowley looked around and, confirming that they were alone, lifted his sunglasses to the top of his head. They pushed his hair back, exposing more of his face so Aziraphale could see his freckled cheeks and strong jaw.
“Where’s this one from?” he asked, leaning closer.
Aziraphale pulled him back when he saw his breath fogging up the glass. He held on to Crowley’s arm though, looping his own through and inching closer. Crowley leaned into Aziraphale’s side until their hips touched.
“The humans don’t know,” Aziraphale whispered. “But it’s from Egypt. The 13th century.”
Crowley wrinkled his nose. “And it’s in the British Museum.”
“Unfortunately. But they seemed to have come across this one honestly. It was taken to France to be completed and then was bought by a British collector in the 19th century.”
“So they say.”
“So they say.”
Crowley walked to the other end of the display case, pulling Aziraphale with him. They stared at them in silence at the collection of gold, glancing down occasionally to read the labels on the case stand. Aziraphale absorbed the glimmering while Crowley’s mouth slowly turned into a sneer.
“Do you ever think about how much of this is stolen?” he asked.
Aziraphale nodded. “I do.”
“Do you ever think about… giving it back?”
Aziraphale turned to him a frown. “Crowley.”
“Just thinking about it. It should be your interest, you know? Helping cultures rebuild themselves after centuries of religious wars that were waged in your people’s name.”
“Now really, Crowley. You know we didn’t influence any of that . Not really. Humans just got carried away.”
“But you don’t want to help people a little?”
“You just want to steal something. The humans can right the situation themselves.”
“They haven’t yet.”
Aziraphale lifted his eyebrows and tilted his head in agreement. They stood in silence for a while longer.
Eventually, Aziraphale turned to Crowley who was more pleasing to look at. With how close they were, Aziraphale could make out the faint freckles along his cheekbones and the slight wrinkles around his eyes. He could make out the lowlights and highlights in his hair and the flyaways that stuck out at the bottom of his waves, resting on his shoulders.
He could see his eyes.
For Heaven’s sake. His eyes. They had the devilish gleam in them they always had when Crowley was about to run off and do something wily.
“I know what you’re thinking!”
Crowley smirked. “Think of it, angel. It’s perfect for both of us. You’d be undoing the work of religious imperialists. And I’d be stealing.”
“ Crowley .”
“We’d balance each out. Like we always do. There’s no net gain or loss.”
Aziraphale pursed his lips. He looked at a particularly shiny cup. Crowley did seem to have a point. It would be like raising Warlock. That is if Warlock was the actual antichrist and not just a poor boy who got looped into the incompetency of the two of them. They were two halves of one idiot, that Anathema girl told them when they finally shared their 11-year journey with her.
Crowley said that she wasn’t wrong. Aziraphale had to agree.
“When you put it that way,” Aziraphale mumbled. “I’ll agree to it on certain conditions.”
“Like what?”
“We return the items and nothing more. We don’t interfere with anything else in the museum.”
“Alright.”
“No one gets hurt.”
“ Of course. ”
“And we take a holiday after.”
Crowley threw his head back and smiled. Aziraphale gave him his best scolding look. He wanted Crowley to take him seriously. He didn’t want anyone getting hurt. And he wanted this holiday. He deserved it, and Italy was beautiful this time of year.
“We can holiday after,” Crowley agreed. “Anywhere you heart desires.”
Aziraphale smiled. “Alright! And none of your usual tricks.”
“Angel, you have my word that I’ll control myself. Major art heists are enough for me.”
“What’s a demon’s word good for?”
“Not much if I’m being honest.”
Aziraphale knew that there was a very slim chance that Crowley would stick to whatever plan they made. He was prone to causing trouble, but he could hardly help it. Where Aziraphale made humans feel safe and cared for just by speaking to them, Crowley’s presence had the ability to spill glasses of expensive wine and stain even more expensive clothes. It was controllable to an extent, and Crowley did need to work to cause greater distress. But the daily inconveniences humans faced in London was largely due to him simply thinking, for a split second, that it would be greatly entertaining if the woman in front of him put her designer-clad foot in a muddy puddle or if the man across from him dropped his important (and loud) call as his phone battery suddenly drained.
Fortunately, Aziraphale was always around to spread goodwill when something happened and Crowley muttered a sheepish “sorry.” The woman was surprised to see a public restroom nearby. The man had packed his phone charger that morning even though he didn’t remember doing so. And likewise, when people felt too safe around Aziraphale, they found the barista got their order wrong or a lock of hair slipped out of their ponytail. They balanced each other out to keep everyone just mildly irritated but able to cope.
It would be tricky interacting with so many humans for Crowley’s new plan. But they did do a decent job at executing their plan to stop the apocalypse--well, they did a decent job at the parts they actually influenced. They didn’t really do much in the grand scheme of things. Not anything that necessarily helped.
But they managed to avoid their own executions which was a success Aziraphale would take credit for thank you very much.
“Let’s discuss this over lunch, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “And maybe a bottle of wine.”
Crowley slid his sunglasses down to his nose. He ran his fingers through his roots, shaking his hair out and letting it fall back down around his face. Aziraphale smiled as he did so.
Crowley matched his smile. “Where to, angel?”