Work Text:
1973
The moon had set, and the omnipresent London fog had rolled in off the Thames, curling around the edges of buildings and peeking through the dusty glass windows of A. Z. Fell and Co. Inside, Crowley drained what remained of the wine in his glass and peeled himself off of the couch in the back room, moving into a more or less vertical position slowly and with great reluctance.
"Well, I've got to be going," he said, setting the glass down. "Things to do, places to be, wiles to…wile. Thanks for the wine, angel."
"At this hour? You're welcome to stay here as long as you like, you know," said Aziraphale from his armchair. He gestured at the bottle of wine on the table between them. "We've still got half a bottle to go, and I should hate to have to drink it alone. Besides, it's not a pleasant night to be out and about. One can barely see to the end of the road in this fog, and it's certain to be damp out there."
"Sorry, angel. 'S that big roadway project I was telling you about. Gotta go make some last minute adjustments up near Slough. And of course it has to be in the middle of a great big muddy field in the middle of bloody nowhere."
It occurred to Crowley, belatedly, that perhaps he should not be drunkenly disclosing all his demonic plans to his adversary, but then again, it would not be the first time, nor the last. In any case, Aziraphale did not seem inclined to thwart this particular enterprise.
"Oh, is that the new ring road? I have to say, I don't see what's so evil about a highway."
"Prayer wheel. Low-grade irritation. Traffic. Angry motorists," said Crowley, punctuating each statement with a wave of his hand. "We've been over this before, Aziraphale."
"If you say so, dear," said Aziraphale indulgently and a little drunkenly. "I thought you were doing that with the… the computer chops. Not trudging about in muddy fields in the middle of the night."
"Hacks, angel. Not chops. And no. This is too delicate for that, and the markers have already been set out. 'S just a matter of moving them a few meters to one side. If I want it done right, I've gotta do it myself."
"Does it really need to be that accurate?"
"Afraid so. Let's just say that, right now, it doesn't say "hail the great beast, devourer of worlds, but something a good deal more… scatological."
"Oh, dear," said Aziraphale, pinching his lips together tightly. "How tasteless."
"I suspect it's someone's idea of a practical joke downstairs. But guess who they'll blame if it isn't fixed?"
"Couldn't you just miracle the markers where you want them?"
"I need to be able to see them to make sure they're in the right place, and in this fog… well, the only option is up close and personal."
"Ah, well, I suppose needs must. It's a shame you have to go out into this damp and cold though," sighed Aziraphale. "But wait just a moment, please."
Aziraphale was already halfway up the stairs to the flat above, his footfalls echoing in the dark stairwell and then over Crowley's head. There was a sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor and the squeaking protest of long-shut drawers being opened. He reappeared a few minutes later, with a bulky black and orange garment draped over his arm, which he held out to Crowley. Upon inspection, it turned out to be a jacket of some sort of synthetic, scratchy material, decorated across the back and around each shoulder with large, reflective placards of eye-searing fluorescent orange striped with bright white. Even in the dim yellow light of the bookshop and through the filter of his dark glasses, it was impossible not to notice the blaze of color, which was quite offensively bright and inexcusably orange.
"This is hideous even for you," said Crowley distastefully, making a face. "Why do you even have this, Angel? It's not exactly your style."
"Safety first, dear," replied Aziraphale, a little sanctimoniously.
"People will see me from a mile off."
"That's exactly the point."
"I don't want anyone to see me. I've better things to do than to be caught trespassing in a bloody field in bloody Slough."
"The thing about high-visibility clothing, dear boy," said Aziraphale with an air of infinite, smug patience, "is that everyone sees the jacket but nobody sees you. No frivolous miracles required."
"Ohhhh," said Crowley, realization slowly dawning. "'S like hiding in plain sight. Very devious of you, angel."
"The humans see what looks like an official uniform and they assume you're meant to be there. Directing traffic. Repairing roads. Keeping the peace."
"Have you used it then?"
"Once or twice," admitted Aziraphale. "The last time was in the spring of 1968. Trafalgar Square."
Crowley had spent the better part of 1968 sulking in his flat, staring moodily at the safe in his wall and pondering the inherent mysteries of relative speed. He had only been peripherally aware at the time of the anti-war protests that had taken place that spring, including the one that had been mere blocks away from his front door. He'd only really learned about it later, when Downstairs had assumed, due to the location of the fracas, that he had been the one responsible.
Despite the fact that the protesters had been demanding peace, the tension had nevertheless exploded into a violent and discordant battle with the police, who had ultimately arrested some two hundred of the protesters, although there had been many times that number in the crowds. He wondered, now, how many more had been spirited away past the police barricades by an anonymous and quietly authoritative London city worker in an official, high-visibility uniform, whether anyone had taken the time to look past the dark jacket with its distinctive orange and white stripes and see the angel underneath. He wondered if anyone had remarked upon the strange pockets of calm where the tear gas and the projectiles could not seem to reach.
Once a guardian, always a guardian, whether in white linen robes or a hideously orange jacket.
He was jolted out of his reverie by Aziraphale, who was clearing his throat and looking at him expectantly.
"Would you just take it, please? I shouldn't like it at all if you were to get discorporated by a passing lorry."
There was a hint of a fretful tremor in Aziraphale's voice, something that recalled "don't go unscrewing the cap now" from six years prior. It was enough to make Crowley acquiesce. He shrugged on the jacket, which was clearly sized for Aziraphale and was rather too large for him, a fact that was emphasized by the stiff fabric and broad, bright patches across the shoulders. His wrists looked thin and birdlike in the gaping sleeves, although at least they were more or less the right length.
"Clashes with my hair," he muttered. And it did, but it also smelled like the bookshop, like dusty pages and printer's ink, and it also smelled a bit like Aziraphale, like lavender shaving soap and Earl Grey tea and that very slight, lingering fragrance of holiness that was both stinging and pleasurable at the back of his throat. He fastened the buttons, one after another, all the way down, and felt as if he was wrapping himself in an oddly comforting, black-and-orange cocoon.
"Could come in handy, though, I suppose," he conceded.
Aziraphale stepped forward, and smoothed the lapels of the jacket down, both of his hands pressed flat against the orange placards on Crowley's upper chest. Even through the thick fabric of the jacket and the additional plasticky, reflective layer, he thought he could feel the heat radiating from the angel's broad, steady palms. Aziraphale's right hand was directly over his heart (his useless, thumping, demon heart.) He felt, suddenly, inexplicably, seen.
"Mind how you go," said Aziraphale, softly, putting his hands on Crowley's shoulders and steering him toward the door.