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Chapter Text

Artemis watched as her nymphs giggled and splashed around with the intruder to their creekside break. The newcomer, slender, freckled, and on the right side of beautiful made the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

It wasn’t the long, wavy red hair that rolled off her shoulders, though it definitely added to the mystery and explained the attraction of all the huntresses surrounding her - they were silly for exotic things. No. What gave her suspicion was how familiar this newcomer was to her.

At times, Artemis was sure that the tempting curl of her smirk was that of Aphrodite and she wondered if her sister was up to some of her old tricks, trying to tempt one of the gods to adultery, a Huntress to disaster, her to - something.

“You look worried,” a voice to her right said, drawing her attention away from the tableau before her. 

Artemis glanced up and locked eyes with her Lieutenant, the only one of the Huntresses just as suspicious as her, though for different reasons as she could see in the narrowed brown eyes of the young woman.

“My dear, I see that you are displeased with our guest. She doesn’t seem to be dangerous,” Artemis said, testing waters. “What is making you so halted?”

“My lady,” she said, turning her suspicious frown back to the red-haired woman beaming at the other nymphs. “I have a feeling that this intruder is not what they say they are.”

“Why?”

“Something they said, pouted through really, about how they know that certain men don’t deserve good companionship like this.”

Ah, thought Artemis, a spark lighting up her violet eyes. That is what I needed.

“I suppose it’s high time I introduce myself to this intruder,” Artemis said, squaring her shoulders and rolling her curls over them. “Stay here in case we need to make a hasty retreat.”

Artemis had spent enough time with her dear, and promiscuous, sister Aphrodite to know exactly what to do to draw attention to herself. By now, her own Huntresses had gotten over themselves having realized that the heartache of what happened a few years ago had left her unfeeling so their lust, their attraction, had died down. But this newcomer was wet behind the ears, and a little attraction their way couldn’t hurt them.

She kept all her lessons in mind as she dipped into the water to make her way across the creek towards her prey, knowing that the rivets down her tunic would leave her exposed in a way nakedness didn’t but needing that exact situation.

Around her, the Huntresses parted ways, some of them overwhelmed and turning away before they burned with feeling. Her target, Artemis noticed, was reacting strangely - not with lust, but with fear.

She stopped right before the taller woman and looked up to the gold eyes as they dropped into a slashed splashing curtsy. 

“Lady Artemis,” the intruder said, voice wrapped with an accent Artemis struggled to place. “You honor me with your presence. I apologize for intruding on you and your Huntresses. I was just in search of - ”

Artemis could almost hear the word ‘escape’ when they finished, “Sanctuary.”

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, friend, I do not know what to call you.”

The newcomer lifted their gaze, hesitant, “Antonia, Lady Artemis.”

Before Artemis could continue her interrogation, a piercing whistle interrupted the calm and the Lieutenant called out to them, “A man approaches. We must flee.”

“How,” Artemis said, holding the rear of the party as the nymphs all fled, “did he get through the perimeter without us noticing until he got so close?”

Her lieutenant had no answer and Artemis waved her along to keep the calm with the other huntresses. Artemis turned to Antonia, who was looking out towards the forest with a light twitch to her jaw.

“You’d best come with us. You know what people around here think of flame-haired maidens. You’ll be safe with us,” she reached out a hand and gave Antonia a smirk. “Besides, I must find out what is so tantalizing about you.”

Antonia, still hesitant, took the goddess’ extended hand and they were off, away from the creek and its intruder. 

o

Back in the safety of her hall, Artemis let her companions lounge and eat, the excitement of almost being discovered now washing away with each sip of wine. She dismissed her pacing lieutenant and, when the young woman made to argue, Artemis stopped it.

“Peace. I’ve got this.”

The lieutenant glanced over at the taut Antonia sitting not too far away, then back to the goddess, “But - ”

“Dear, if she meant harm, she had the opportunity when we fled,” said Artemis. “No, she’s not a danger. She’s in search of something else and I will make sure I get to the bottom of it. Go. Rest.”

With one final look back at the redhead, her lieutenant left, and Artemis turned to study her guest. Antonia hadn’t touched any of the food presented, though she had looked at the honeyed bread with sad, longing eyes. All she did was take small sips of her wine and nothing more.

“Tell me, Antonia,” Artemis said, getting up and sitting back down next to her. “Why’re you looking for sanctuary? Or rather, what did you escape from? And why to me? I have it on good authority that Medusa’s temples, or even my sister Athena, have more of a monopoly on this market.”

Antonia looked down at the blood-red liquid in her goblet, “I needed - a distraction. Plus, I can’t promise what Athena asks of her followers and Medusa’s - a bit on the nose for me to go to. I’d be found easily.”

“The man that almost came across us in the forest,” said Artemis, taking a sip of her own wine. “He was looking for you, wasn’t he? Has he hurt you? Do you wish for us to hunt him?”

“No,” exclaimed Antonia, turning worried, almost glowing, gold eyes at Artemis. “Please no, he didn’t hurt me - never that. Please don’t hurt him.”

Artemis raised a slim eyebrow, “Then why come to me? You must know what we do to intruding men.”

“I didn’t think he’d come after me,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I needed to come to someone who would understand heartache and the priorities of duty. Someone who knows how loving someone you can’t have, who understands how it might mean the doom of a loved one.”

The goddess cocked her head to the side, “What do you mean, dearest Antonia. If my sister has forcibly taught me anything it is not to fear love. If you love them do what you must and be with them. Just as I did with Endymion.”

“No,” said Antonia, shaking her head and making her curls fly like Medusa’s serpents. “I needed time away. My love was consuming me and it could consume him - them - I...I needed time away. My own people aren’t too friendly, but a group of kick-arse women? That’s the greatest place to be. None like my own love, no one to question my existence, my work, just a place to quietly heal a heart.”

Artemis listened to the soft and sad voice of Antonia and it was like the woman was starting to change under Artemis’ gaze.

Antonia had been alluring since her arrival, the Huntresses had known it from the beginning. She was a tempting siren of a being, but now she glowed like a goddess herself. The freckles on her bare shoulders sparkled of stardust, constellations across her back and, at closer look, across her nose giving her a sun-kissed aura and she almost cursed her brother. Her golden eyes shifted, hidden by the waves of red and Artemis felt her breath catch in her throat. 

“Oh, no,” Antonia said, eyes widening as she took in the expression on Artemis’ face. “No, no, my dear girl. Lady A, don’t you dare. They’ll be no falling for this ol'ssssnake.”

It was the sibilant way she spoke that snapped Artemis out of her daze as Antonia once again seemed to change before her eyes into the reflection of someone she hadn’t seen in a few years and she felt her brow twitch.

“Perhaps,” said the woman, “this is a conversation best had somewhere little nosssy earssss can’t listen in and spread gossssip.”

Artemis looked around where eyes were now turning to them from the curious nymphs, expectant if their pouts said anything.

She narrowed her eyes on her companion and nodded, “Perhaps you’re right, Antonia. Let’s go for a walk. It’s almost time for my shift anyway. Join me.”

Antonia stood alongside her, curtsying, “Of course, my Lady.”

o

The echoing halls of Olympus were still  as Artemis and Antonia walked through, winding down the white and gold corners and taking careful precautions to avoid the pink-perfumed hall where Aphrodite plotted.

“Now, would you like to start with who you truly are?” asked Artemis.

Her companion sighed, clasping her hands before her, “I didn’t lie. I’ve been using the name Antonia - and Antony - for a few years now. I don’t think you’ve ever asked me my name before - none of you have. Most often your pantheon has called me ‘the Serpent’. My name is Crowley.”

“Serpent of Eden,” Artemis breathed, now noticing the slight snake-like slit of those golden eyes. “God...parent of our dear Diana,” she frowned, shoulders squared for a fight, “Why are you - what were you up to?”

At the anger in the goddess’ voice, Crowley winced, “I meant no harm, truly. I needed a change. I’ve been presenting as Antonia since - since Diana’s death. And I needed to get away from him. My - feelings were too much.”

She wouldn't say love again, not now that Artemis knew who she was and to whom she was referring, “I knew that you wouldn’t question greatly, but I didn’t mean to tempt you.”

Artemis chuckled, rubbing her temples, “No, dear, I think I did that to myself. I think I’d forgotten what it was like to be in the presence of love so great and got sucked in. But why now? What has happened that now you chose to escape him?”

“War,” she replied, words sharp. “A great war is arriving on Earth and Heaven and Hell have taken sides. It’ll pit us against each other and he - not after the time we spent with the child. Not after we - ”

The agent of Hell stopped, eyes wide and looking out into the starry sky as if she could see the horrors of war through them - as if she were watching her love fall mid-battle. Artemis clicked her tongue and wrapped her arms around the taller woman’s more slender form.

“My dear Antonia, you’re welcomed among my Huntresses until this war has subsided, until you can rein in the love you hold for your counterpart. However, you have to tell him - at least let him know you are safe. Otherwise he will keep looking for you ‘til he’s driven mad with worry.”

“Ah...he wouldn’t. He has heavenly duties to worry about. He couldn’t possibly worry about his...adversary. We needn’t worry about things like that, Lady A,” Crowley said, ducking her head until her waves hid her face.

Artemis shook her head, “Dearest Antonia, I know that you believe that, but you shouldn’t. He risked coming into my forest looking for you without shifting his form. He would’ve found himself chased and possibly - what do you guys call it - discorporated by my hounds, but he risked it looking for you.”

Crowley looked a little pink and curled her lips in a self-deprecating smile, “I’m afraid that the Lady Aphrodite has led you to believe too many love tales, but this isn’t one, Lady A. However, if it will put your mind at ease, I can let him know I’m safe before - ”

“Before our Roman compatriots and the Celts start their battle,” Artemis said, smiling when she saw the slack-jaw expression on Crowley’s face. “Don’t even wonder, Crowley - or rather Antonia - our people and Danu’s have already discussed the happenings. We know that Heaven and Hell see it as an expansion of their beliefs - of Joshua’s teaching and damnation of nonbelievers. Stay with my girls, Antonia. We’ll keep you safe while the two sides have their war.”

Crowley bowed her head, “Thank you, Lady A. I greatly appreciate it.”

Artemis grabbed the demon’s hands, pressing a light kiss to the knuckles, “Anything for the lovely being that cared so much for my youngest Menae.”

o

Aziraphale had made his way back to the temple, sighing as the small statue of Artemis came into view. Athena, Medusa, Persephone, Hades, even Aphrodite’s temples and sanctuaries had come up empty and he was beginning to grow terribly worried.

As he came closer to the statue, he worried his bottom lip between pearly teeth and pulled out a flower from the folds of his clothes, placing it at the feet of the Huntress.

“I know I shouldn’t, being of Heaven and all that but...if anyone can track her, it’d be you. I’m sure your brother could as well but that might end...differently,” a drop of poison laced his voice and he shook it out with a full-bodied wriggle, glancing back up at the stone face. “Dearest Lady Artemis, I need help finding my friend. I need to know that she’s alright before this war commences. Heaven - Hell - they’ll be looking to us to lead humans and she was never one to fight. Please help me track her and keep her safe.”

Darkness had fallen over the forest and Aziraphale knew if he was caught at Artemis’ temple, its Priestesses wouldn’t take kindly to his kind creeping upon the area. So with a minor miracle pulled from the heavens, Aziraphale changed shapes into something more appropriate for the temple. 

The flower, a moonflower that he’d found at the creekside, a sign, she’d thought, that Artemis would be able to help, fluttered from the statue’s feet and landed at Aziraphale’s in the light breeze.

“Dear, are you lost? In need of help?” a soft woman’s voice asked as the softer sound of sandaled steps approached. “Sweet thing, you look like you’ll fall over in exhaustion. Come within and rest.”

The Head Priestess, Aziraphale imagined, walked towards her, face covered with a gauzy white veil. She reached smooth, sun-browned hands on the paler upper arms of the visitor.

“Thank you, my lady,” Aziraphale said, letting the priestess pull her in, stopping to sweep up the moonflower. “I wouldn’t mind a place to rest tonight...if it’s not too much trouble, of course.”

The priestess laughed, “No trouble at all, dearest heart. What should I call you?”

“I - Azira,” she said, bowing her head. “And, while I know it’s not much of an offering, I brought a flower for - for the Lady Artemis.”

“What is that you need from our lady?”

Aziraphale twirled the flower in her hand, “I was hoping the goddess would help me track down an old friend of mine. I’m...terribly worried about her and I’m afraid she’ll get dragged into trouble. Artemis is a hunter - a tracker. She could find my - I mean, Antonia.”

With an outstretched hand, the priestess stopped and eyed the flower. Aziraphale handed it over and the woman studied it, running a finger over the petals, “It’s true. It’s certainly no doe or buck, but there’s something to be said about a - woman - such as yourself seeking help from a goddess.”

“I...I beg your pardon?” asked Aziraphale, paling.

With her free hand, the priestess pulled back her veil and revealed a familiar face to Aziraphale, who dropped into a stiff curtsy.

“Lady Artemis, I’m honored.”

“Rise, angel of Heaven, watcher of my Diana. I heard your plea,” Artemis said, violet eyes sparkling with starlight, “and I am here to answer it - to help you find your Antonia.”

Aziraphale blushed, “She’s not my ...I mean, I wasn’t sure what to call her. Friend might not make her too happy to hear and, well, if Heaven or Hell hear what I might refer her as they might - ”

The goddess stopped her mid-rant, tan finger to pink-worried lips, “Azira, if that is the name you prefer to be called at the moment, please call yourself. Neither Heaven nor Hell have ears in our temples. They’ve taken away the power in it and don’t have much interest in us anyway.”

The angel’s shoulders relaxed and she let Artemis draw her down to the stone floor. Then, with the moonflower in their clasped pair of hands, Artemis spoke:

“I heard your plea and though you feared my brother falling for your dearest serpent, perhaps you should’ve been equally as worried about me,” Artemis said, laughing and when she met the confused hazel eyes, she gave another laugh. “You’d been doing a good job of tracking her yourself. Almost had her had you not become aware of the tedious gender of your heaven-issued body. We were there at the creek - with your Antonia. We took her home with us.”

A sigh of relief escaped Aziraphale’s mouth before Artemis continued, “Didn’t expect us all to be stricken by how beautiful your companion is, truly captivating: her tall, slender frame, her flame hair, the constellation of...angel kisses across her shoulders - truly the right being for her job. Worst part was that she wasn’t even trying to be tempting.”

In her grasp, Aziraphale’s hand twitched, “Lady Artemis - ”

“Be assured, Azira,” she said, shaking off the angelic rage settling on her shoulder. “I know a claimed heart when I cross paths with one. Her worry was solely for your well-being. She worried you’d keep looking and draw Heaven’s notice.”

“Is she safe?”

Artemis nodded, “She’ll be with my Huntresses until the war is done. She’ll let Hell know she’s trying to cause chaos in our Pantheon by tempting deities to side with Romans or Celts - another Troy.”

Aziraphale frowned, “Won’t they check when none of you join?”

Artemis shrugged, veil rippling on her shoulder, “Antonia said that they haven’t checked on her since before the crucifixion. But now, you said something that caught my attention and I must ask about it.”

“Yes?”

“You said she wasn’t much of a fighter but, and no offense meant by this, you don’t seem like much of a fighter yourself. Won’t Heaven expect you to lead in their name? Surely Antonia won’t like that.”

For the first time in the night, Aziraphale chuckled, “I used to be quite a formidable trained soldier, but you’re right, I don’t enjoy fighting, especially against humans, but once I fumble through a few battles I’m sure they’ll send me to care for the people and send someone else to lead. Michael or Uriel to fight against Hell’s best rather than a bumbling angel. Plus, they'll find humans a lot more resilient than they believe them to be.”

Artemis beamed, “You’re a right bastard, Azira, and I wish you the best. May we meet again soon.”

“Lady Artemis,” Aziraphale said, tightening his grip on the goddess’ hand before she escaped. “Could I - could I see Antonia, please, just to check on her? Just...one more plea from this ol’ bastard?”

At this, the goddess’ lips twitched up in a soft smile. She pulled Azira’s hands closer and pressed her lips atop her hands, breath cooling the paler hands, “Dearest Azira, that’s something that I cannot fulfill. She is safe, but give her space. She’s still hurting about Diana’s death, about - well - feelings that she cannot help,” then her smile grew, “Much like yourself. You will see your golden-eyed beauty soon, safe and as bright as you remember them. But until the danger has passed for you both I cannot be the one that aids in the potential doom. Good bye, angel of Heaven, may your hearts be reunited soon.”

And she slipped out right through Aziraphale’s fingers, a moonbeam retreating back to her silver chariot. 

Aziraphale sighed, hands dropping to the cold floor and eyes raising heavens-ward, “My dearest Crowley, if you’re with Lady Artemis...just stay safe. We’ll meet once Heaven & Hell grow tired of their battles. We’ll go out for...wine or whatever’s delectable at the time just...stay safe, dearest.”

o

On her chariot, Artemis turned to her companion who was looking at the temple with longing eyes, “Antonia, you heard them: stay safe. Don’t do what your heart wants, not this time. You’ll see them sooner than you think.

“Think so?” she asked, still looking at the shape of the angel as she shifted into a resting position. 

“Course. Both sides will grow bored soon enough and realize they’ll be a bigger battle to fight later on. Come now, friend, get your eye-full of your beloved and let us go - the night waits for no one.”

Chapter Text

If there had been a century to hate it was the 12th century.

So far, in Crowley’s opinion, it was the worst time to be on Earth (though the 11th century had been pretty bad as well) - and yet, she was glad it was her and not someone like Ligur asked to fuel this fire. At least she'd be willing to save those dragged into this unwillingly - caught in the middle of blasphemous wars.

“Blasted crusaders,” mumbled Crowley, pulling back her long hair, “tearing up what they so desperately want.”

She had been around for the first crusade, male then, at first to resist the movement of church inflamed crusaders. Then, by the second crusade, her side had said to aid any side that was bloodier - it was always a tie so Crowley had spent most of their time traveling between Jerusalem and Rome trying to incite something or other. 

It wasn’t her proudest moment and she spent a lot of time simmering with self-loathing.

Now, her orders had been very clear: ‘the English King must be brought to our side.’

So what would a demon in Crowley’s position do? She prettied herself up and made herself available to be swept into the brutish arms of a man parading around playing hero, perfect to whisper into the king’s ears what he could do to destroy his enemies. 

She could see him and his men, decked in red, coming to gather food, drink, and women for their raucous celebration. Along with the red English capes, were the colors of France, of the Holy Roman Empire, each man just as full of bloodlust the next.

What are they even celebrating? Crowley sneered, feeling her nose twitching. They’re a bunch of brainless idiots that think they’re the new Round Table - disgusting pieces of garbage.

Amidst the soldiers, mingled the rest of the working girls, hoping to be rescued from the carnage by making themselves available or at least spared once the takeover began. The soldiers grabbed at the young women, at their waists, their hips, their - the serpent almost struck. These were Crowley’s wards and she’d be damned all over again if something happened to them under her care. 

She spotted her target, the King of England - Richard Cœur de Lion, the Lionheart, at the center of the crowd. He was a sight to behold, still healing from his bout of scurvy if her senses were to be believed, but he still carried himself up with squared shoulders and an impish smile on his face. The king was no looker, not really, but he had Eleanor's sneaky demeanor and it was an alluring look.

Crowley had already told the girls that she would be working the king over and they had been easy to convince, they said he was a little tough to get the attention of - and they preferred easier targets. So she prepared herself as the king and his crowd chose a table to sit around.

Easy does it, she thought, sure it's been a while since you’ve done something like this, but you’ve got it.

Hitching the jug of liquor on her hip, she swaggered over, knowing that heads were turning away from their own conversations and towards her but focusing her energy on Richard who was looking on with a bored look on his face. As she got to the table, she was surprised by the wide smile that split the man’s stoic face as he waved to someone else. 

Crowley looked over and her jaw dropped open, losing her intensity and the jug almost falling out of her hand. With a quick miracle she stopped the liquid from spilling and fixed her expression as the new soldier made his way towards Richard.

White curl halo and the splotchy pink spread on fair cheeks brought a sickening tug to Crowley’s stomach, like the time she’d drank vinegared wine, especially when she saw the colors of the Holy Roman Empire settled on the shoulders of the man. 

“Pull up a seat, Aezra,” the king exclaimed, waving the man to his right away to make room for the newcomer. “The head madame is about to serve us, isn’t that right, lovely?”

Focus, she thought, noticing how the attention of the king had now turned to her and so she flashed a serpentine smile at him, “Of course, handsome, a drink for you and your friends - so long as I get to join you.”

Richard’s eyes were on her as she strode over, pouring everyone a drink before approaching him and Aezra - who was watching her with wide hazel eyes, an almost cornered expression shading his face.

She dipped down low to serve the king, glancing up at him through her eyelashes and for a moment his attention was fully on her. The feathers of her wings ruffled through the plane which they were hidden. Then, with a blink, he turned a roguish smile to his right.

“I don’t suppose you want the woman to stay with us, because I can be persuaded to send her away,” Richard said, his eyes shining at the man. “She can’t possibly be that much fun.”

Crowley tensed and met the hazel eyes of his companion. The two of them frowned at each other before Aezra turned back to Richard, “Dear boy, she already served us all, it wouldn’t be right for us to turn away her good service.”

The men around the table started snickering, and Crowley felt her face burn, moreso when Richard threw his head back and roared out a laugh.

“Never took you for bawdiness, Aezra, but you do always surprise me. Alright then, but she will be yours to care for,” Richard said, “though she may be able to entertain all of us.”

Again, laughter erupted from the men around the table and Crowley felt a hiss at her throat, but it was nothing in comparison to the white heat of ethereal anger that pierced through her gut and loosened her grip on the jug again.

“Richard,” Aezra said, hazel eyes shifting to a dangerous and stormy grey. “There is no reason to be rude. Apologize to the lady. Right. Now.”

The king looked at him, mouth agape, then ducked his head and muttered an apology before reaching a hand up towards Crowley, “Aezra calls you a lady, so we shall treat you as one today. Shall we pull you up a chair, or will one of us suffice as our men do for your girls?”

There was still bile built in Crowley’s throat, and she was fighting to keep her eyes human. Her answer was interrupted by gentle hands that wrapped around her waist and pulled her down into the lap of the very put-out Aezra, “No need, Richard, you’ve already made it very clear that you are being a rogue.”

Crowley’s blush travelled down towards her neck and chest as the arms tightened around her middle. Richard wasn’t in better shape, a blush of his own had begun to spread on his cheeks and then a pout. 

He put his hand down, clenching it around the edge of the table and a familiar pair of eyes flashed angrily at Crowley before the pout turned to the man underneath her.

“Come now, dear Aezra, it was meant in jest,” he said, reaching out towards the arm around Crowley. “I didn’t mean harm to her. Please don’t give me that horrid cold shoulder of yours.”

From around her, she felt the tenseness loosen up, then tighten once again “Richard, please, rouse your story-telling. Your men want to hear of your glorious exploits, don’t you lads?”

Around them, cups were raised and cries of encouragement for the Lionheart echoed and mingled with the giggles of the girls. The pout remained on Richard’s face as he turned to the other men and started riling them up with a story of the time he shot down soldiers whilst lying on a stretcher.

The crowd started their cheering and Richard stood to tell his story with his full body. Crowley followed the movement with her eyes, relaxing in her captivity until a quiet voice tickled Crowley’s ear.

“What in the world are you doing here, Crowley?”

Crowley leaned back, enough to where she couldn’t be overheard by the king at close proximity, “I could ask you the same thing, Aezra. Whose side are you on this time?”

The huff of breath at her neck raised gooseflesh on her skin and a shiver that she fought down, but the angel at her back pushed on, “My dear, I am not on anyone’s orders this time. I wasn’t even supposed to be here at all but, well, Richard wanted me to stay with him...and he’s a hard man to argue with and I found myself dragged along for this fruitless fight.”

She glanced over to the king who met her eyes with a narrowed, angry shift of his own pair. Then, with a tilt of her head over her shoulder she pressed the tip of her nose against Aziraphale’s cheek, “Is that all he is? Is he your target? Swaying him to the side of light?”

“Heavens no,” Aziraphale said, pulling a hand away from around her to reach for the array of nuts. “In my opinion, he’s already too far gone - the anti-semitism alone damned him. And you, dear, is your side making you fight?”

Crowley swatted his hand away from the pile of food, reaching out for a fig herself and raising it to Aziraphale’s mouth. He tensed, then scoped the crowd around him before taking a bite of the offered fruit, pink dusting his cheeks but doing nothing to halt the sound of pleasure as the tang of the fruit hit his taste buds.

A rush of envy crashed against her back, making Crowley recoil against Aziraphale in surprise. His worried eyes looked down at her until she offered the rest of the fruit to him, then she answered him:

“No fighting for me, they thought I’d be best used here - tempting. In fact, your Lionheart is my target. However, it seems like he doesn’t need any of my help,” she said, raising one of her arms to loop it around Aziraphale’s neck and bracing herself against the next wave of envy. “He’s already a lusty, wrathful, envious beast on his own.”

“Is that why you’re parading around here as such?” asked Aziraphale, his eyes running over the length of her before meeting her eyes again. “Tempting him to what? He’s already - ”

The ‘a terrible person’ didn’t fall from his lips, but it was heard from the expression on his face and Crowley tipped her head back with a throaty laugh that brought eyes back on the two of them. 

“Oh, angel,” she said, through her laughter. “You flatter me.”

While the rest of the crowd looked over to them, interested in the happenings between the two of them,  Crowley turned her head towards Richard. The boyish features underneath the beard seem to grow sharper as he met her smirk.

Richard shifted his gaze up to meet Aziraphale’s eyes, a sneer curling his mouth, “Well, the vixen met her match in you, angel. Is this the real reason you've no wife waiting for you at home? You’ve been enamouring half of the world?”

A tsk from Aziraphale, as he hefted Crowley closer to his chest, “You had your chance, Lionheart. You didn’t want this gorgeous specimen and missed your chance.”

Crowley leaned into Aziraphale, whispering into his ear, “It isn’t me he wants, angel.”

Richard scoffed, “Oh, please. There’s nothing about her that is in the least bit interesting to me, Aezra. Skinny, sickly, thing - surely nothing more than the discards of a lost harem.”

The anger in Aziraphale’s face was hidden by Crowley’s waves of red. She pressed her nose once more against his skin, now against the side of his neck to hide her voice, “Easy, there. I’ll deal with him soon enough. Don’t let him get to you, besides, this might be a good use of our Arrangement.”

She unwrapped herself from the angel and smoothed out her dress. The jug had been quickly emptied and she hitched it onto her hip, a smirk still on her face as she turned to Richard.

“Oh Mighty King Lionheart,” she said, bowing low while balancing the weight of the jug on the curve of her waist. “I apologize for stealing your angel - after all, is this not what you fight for? For angels and goodness? Esssspecialy this one, right?”

Richard’s blush returned as the attention of the crowd turned to them. Crowley gave him another smile and blew a kiss to Aziraphale before disappearing into the backrooms. As soon as she’d disappeared, Richard turned his still pink-dusted face towards the irritated being at his side.

“You can’t be interested in that - that - ”

“Snake?”

“Exactly.”

Aziraphale shook his head, chuckling. He grabbed the drink off the table, taking a slow sip before addressing the king with a flash of white grace shading the hazel of his eyes, “Richard, I think we have to talk - alone.”

The king gave a quick glance around him, then nodded and gestured for the two to step out and away from the quickly loosening soldiers around them.

o

Once outside, the king crossed his arms and looked at the white-haired being with an almost childish expression on his face. 

“Aezra,” he started, stopped by the hand that was held up towards him.

“Richard,” said Aziraphale. “I’m - awfully flattered that you think so highly of me, but I’m afraid that you’ve been quite horrid to the poor madame tonight. I don’t know what has gotten into you.” 

The arms wrapped around him tightened as Aziraphale’s inquisitive eyes scanned the man, and he shrugged, “I just don’t see what you see in that whore. She was obviously trying to get me tousled until you defended her. There’s nothing special about her - and certainly not worth your time.”

He stopped, wetting his lips, “Aezra, I don’t think you’ve even noticed but, well, there’s just something about you. Ethereal, amazing, just being around you makes me feel closer to God.”

Aziraphale gave a little snort and added under his breath a ‘you have no idea’ before Richard continued:

“Aezra, I know my duty and I know what my mother would say if she’d be here - but she’s not. She’s as far away as can be, as is my wife, as is my duty, so I feel free enough to say that I - I think that I love you,” he took a step towards Aziraphale who in return took a step back. “And I thought you could feel the same.”

“Richard,” Aziraphale said. “I - I don’t know what to say to that. But I know that I do not feel that way for you, I could never.”

“But - ”

“First, I must tell you that it’s because I’m already in love with someone, and it isn’t you.”

The edges of anger and jealousy started creeping up into Richard’s expression, “It’s not that wench, is it? Surely that’s not your type?”

Hazel eyes narrowed, “And why not? She’s lovely, fetching really, but no, it’s not her. Close, but not quite.”

“I am king. I can give you anything - a duchy, a castle, anything you desire,” Richard said, anger rising in his heart as love turned sour. “Don’t do what Philip did to me. Don’t make me your enemy, Aezra, don’t deny me what I deserve.”

A hmph from Aziraphale, “What you deserve is a good switching, your Majesty. I’m sorry, King Richard, but I have already found a love for my heart and soul. And if being enemies is what we’ll be - then you’re sure to find me a formidable opponent.”

“Fine. Who needs you,” snarled Richard, flicking the cape over his shoulder. “But beware Aezra Fell, I’ll be sure to destroy everything in your life - starting with that brazen snake in there.”

And with that he stomped back into the inn, slamming the door behind him. 

“That was chivalrous,” drawled Crowley’s voice from behind Aziraphale. “Such a handsome and honorable man.”

Aziraphale gave another little snort, “I’ll deal with him eventually,” then he turned wide-worried eyes towards her, “Oh, my dear, the girls - ”

“Already heading towards the other end of town, angel,” she said, pushing her mane off her shoulders. “Told them that the king wasn’t in the mood and that he might make it difficult for them, so they hit the road. They’ll be safe.”

“Did you - did you bless them?” asked Aziraphale, beaming, the sparkle in his eyes glowing like the stars behind him. “Oh, Crowley.”

She blushed again, “Shaddup, figured I could since you accidentally tempted my target. Part of the arrangement and all that,” then she extended a hand towards him. “What do you say we get out of here now? Heard the food is great further east.”

The beam softened as Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand, “I’d be honored.”

o

March 1199

A forty-one year old Richard Plantagenet lay dying from the gangrenous wound in his shoulder and awaited the face of the man that had felled the lion. From across the room, he saw the tremulous anger set in the wrinkles of his mother’s face and the hidden glee in his brother’s eyes. 

The door swung open and his men brought in three newcomers, a young boy and two men. The knights of his kingdom dropped the boy at the side of his bed who squared his shoulders as he looked at the dying king.

Richard gave a dry chuckle, “You shot me?” 

The boy set his chin, “Yes, it was me.”

“My boy, you don’t have to,” one of the additional men said.

Again, the boy turned to him, “I won’t deny it. I did it.”

“What is your name?”

“My name is Bertrand,” the boy said. “I don’t regret what I did.”

Another chuckle from Richard as he heard his mother give a warning scoff, “Why did you do it?”

“You killed my father. My brothers. I’m an orphan thanks to you,” said Bertrand. “I’m basically dead already, getting my revenge was the least I could do.”

“You’re not alone though,” Richard said, shifting his gaze to the two men that accompanied him and he felt his breath catch in his throat as he studied them.

A pair of stormy hazel eyes set in a fair face by white curled halo met his gaze, stubborn chin set - a face that he hadn’t ever expected to see again unaged. At his side was a slim man, just as defensive, handsome, with familiar red hair. 

Panic set in Richard’s body, his heart beating faster as the guards asked, “What should we do with him, your majesty?”

“Set him free.”

“What?”

“Richard.”

“He is pardoned. He did what I would’ve done and he felled a lion,” he looked away from the angelic man and looked at Bertrand. “Live on, and by my bounty behold the light of day. Give the boy 100 shillings and let no one stop him. And you two,” he raised his eyes back to the pair of men, “keep him safe as you’ve kept him today.”

The red-head gave a little hiss, but a hand on his arm from the other man - Aezra - calmed him. The white head bowed, “We endeavor to do so.”

“Good,” Richard said, closing his eyes. “Bertrand, good sirs, you’re dismissed.”

The three were roughly deposited from his room as Eleanor swooped down, cheeks flushed with anger as she rattled away with plans of destruction and Richard slipped into sleep. 

o

It only took a few days for his condition to get worse, and, as Eleanor held her son, he started slipping away for good. Before he closed his eyes for the final time, he saw the white fluff and hazel eyes, now with wings to shelter the being.

Aezra, he thought. You won.

The angel pursed his lips, I told you I’d be a formidable opponent. Now your kingdom will fall and the world will soon forget the Lionheart - though never the atrocities of your war. 

Richard nodded, And your lover will make sure that I am punished for it .

Yes. I’m sure they will.

Good. He thought. I can give him a handshake for winning an angel like you.

Chapter Text

December 1478 

Out of the frying pan and into the fire is the saying that will someday summarize Crowley’s experience with humanity, religion, and the commendations that Hell sends him.

He’d gotten quite a few during the crusades - notes of praise that he’d set on fire the minute the delivering demon had disappeared. Remembers the tired look on Aziraphale’s face the last time they’d met up - when the angel had begged him to admit it was Hell’s involvement that caused the attack on the Holy Land - and then the tears that welled when Crowley couldn’t eke it out.

Both Heaven and Hell had counted the Crusades as one of theirs - defense of religion and righteousness or destruction of the Holy Land - and moved on once they got bored. 

So when he got a message, this time sent at the jaws of a scraggly hellhound, while taking a sunny break with the Aztecs for a commendation on his involvement in the ‘Spanish Inquisition and the corruption of religious views’ - his interest was piqued. 

He waved off his new friends - the siblings Xochiquetzal and Xochipili - and warned them that the new settlers on their lands would be up to something if his letter held any truth. Then he had made his way back across the Atlantic.

When Crowley arrived, decked in commoner’s clothes to be conspicuous for once, to the shores of the south of Spain, he was disgusted.

The dragging of Muslim citizens away from the cities they’d built, of the Jewish people that had fled persecution from other countries, the racks and screws and methods of torture that would make Hastur and Ligur wriggle with joy - all of it had Crowley retching behind an inn not a mere hour after his arrival.

And the worst part: Hell thought he’d been responsible. And if Hell thought he was responsible, well - 

After emptying himself of the good fruit and drink, of the joy he’d had with his sunny companions, he hid himself from sight and walked along the streets. He wobbled into the nearest tavern and ordered their strongest drink, an order of ‘keep it coming’ under his breath, and sunk into the muddling process that only liquor could bring. 

That first night back to Europe was muddled, hearing the sounds of laughter from the Inquisitors at one point, then the worried whispers of conversos that converting hadn’t been enough - and of resistance members that wanted to smuggle out people into the African continent.

Crowley, helpless, just memorized the voices of people and hoped he’d still hear them in a few years.

o

May 1480

Crowley had just slipped away from Inquisitors at the latest burning. She didn’t remember the name of the woman, a Jewish conversa that had been found guilty of still reading the Torah - of instilling the lifestyle onto others. The kind woman had given Crowley a roof to sleep under in one of her many escapades in the local taverns and she wondered if the woman had been given a choice before the torture, or if they’d immediately had dunked her into water.

The Inquisitors had caught sight of her, red hair pinned back but catching their eye enough to make her suspicious, and it was enough for her to get the hint that she needed to get out. Sure, it wouldn’t be death, but being discorporated by these barbarians would be a ding in her ego.

There was a tavern, not too far from there, where they liked having her around - she was just enough of a lady, and enough of a wench, that they didn’t mind hiding her from authorities...or from handsy men. All they did when she walked in was give her a quick look, eyebrow raised, until they saw the slender finger pressed against her lip and then went back to their drinks.

Crowley sank into the darkened corner of the tavern, already one of the barmaids handed her the usual in a foaming mug, and she downed half of it in one gulp.

“You went to see the burning, didn’t you?” the owner asked, glancing over from his place at the wooden bar.

She gave a grunt, focusing on the grooves of the table instead of him.

The man just gave a sad tsk before continuing, “Don’t know why you do that to yourself, Toni, it’s just getting harder for you every time you go. Then you come here and get drunk off your arse. Isn’t it time you get out of town?”

“Why Fernando,” she said, sniffing away the stuffiness in her nose. “You seem to not like my patronage. I bring you lots of business, don’t I?”

It was true. Men from around the town, and women as well, flocked to wherever Crowley appeared, full of lust or of curiosity as she recounted everything she’d seen in her travels. Fernando, for his part, just shrugged.

“Alright, Toni, but Berengena won’t want you too drunk today. She gets very worried when you drink so much,” he said, his bushy eyebrows drawn down with his own worry.

Crowley waved his concern to the side, “Bah, s’not like I haven’t got drunk before. Berengena just worries way too much.”

Fernando shook his head and turned to the newest patron of the bar, serving him a tall cup of wine before turning to the rowdy boys at the other corner. The new man, wavy brown hair hiding his face, took a sip from the wine before tilting his head towards Crowley.

“Señora, do you mind if I give you some company?” he asked, a pair of wine-dark eyes twinkling towards her. “You seem to be quite the conversationalist here, while the rest of these drunks seem too busy at the bottom of their cups.”

She raised an eyebrow at the request. It was not the first time that she had caught the eye of a patron, but it was the first time that someone had asked to join her instead of drunkenly swaggering over and interrupting her peace.

“I suppose so, Señor,” she said, gesturing to the seat across from her. “Not like you can do much more damage here than what I’ve already wrought.”

The man chuckled and made his way over, holding his drink aloft as he wiggled through the seats between them. He wasn’t much to look at at first, but once he got closer, Crowley saw the smattering of freckles on his cheeks, the youthful softness of the expression, and of course, the sparkle of mischief in his eye.

Handsome...in a boyish way.

“What do I call you, Señor?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I am not here, just as you are not here.”

She felt her lips twitch, “Clever. Are you traveling then? This isn’t a country to take a vacation to nowadays. Surely wherever you’re from has to be better - at least friendlier than this shithole.”

“It’s not about the setting,” he said, raising his glass. “I’ve been searching for the right type of wine - and of course, the right companionship. Shrewd, fun-loving, and the right kind of mad. Is this not the kind of companion you’d be?”

Crowley looked him over, the slant of his smile wasn’t the lecherous one she’d gotten used to in places like these, but open and warm. It turned her stomach and made her think of bright, angelic, beams.

“I’d say it’s close to the truth,” she said, slow and still studying his expression. “But I’m afraid that I’m much too busy causing chaos here to go anywhere beyond the end of this street.”

The man sighed, leaning back against his chair, “Such a pity. A beauty such as yourself, alone and in so much risk here. I’d love to take you away and keep you safe along like-minded individuals.”

“Sounds like a cult,” said Crowley. “And I’m not interested in joining something that might strip me of my individuality. Thanks, cutie, but I’m not the one to try and - tempt into that life. Nice try.”

Again the man shot her a wide, sincere smile, “Not a cult, dearest. But you’re right, I should’ve known better than to try to invite someone like you along with me. No matter, my wine search continues - it wasn’t quite what I was looking for. Adios, belleza, may we meet again.”

He stood, bowed, and disappeared out of the tavern amongst the incoming wave of people until she could no longer see him. He’d left his glass sitting across from her, the dark violet of the wine darker in this corner of the tavern. She pulled it closer and dipped her pinkie in, bringing the drop onto the hidden forked tongue. 

Crowley frowned as she tasted it. A far cry from Fernando’s usual wine - something more foreign than what was even allowed in - and she looked at the empty seat, wondering.

o

December 1480

By the end of the year, Crowley had managed to avoid most of the Inquisitors and their methods of questioning, but of course, it would be in Castille of all places that she’d get cornered by Isabella’s elite officers. 

She’d ducked them so far, from the doors of the tavern they’d found her at to the edges of town. But now she was getting close to being captured because there were only two places left to hide at - the church, or the somewhat curious looking hacienda-esque home of this count or another. 

“Quick, in here,” a voice beckoned her, away from the church and into the iron-wrought gate of the house.

Guess it’s the lesser of two pains, thought Crowley and followed the hand waving her over. 

The gate closed with a loud groan behind her and Crowley turned around to thank her surprise savior. A young woman that had called her over beamed at him and she gestured towards the house with her head. 

“Come with me, my Lady will make sure that you are safe until the inquisitors leave the area,” she said. “They won’t dare come in here and my lady will make sure that you’re well taken care of until you can leave.”

“Er, thanks,” Crowley said following the slight woman up the walkway and through the door. “Is there something I should call you? Or do you at least want to know who I am?” 

A giggle, then a shake of the dark brown hair, “It’s not for me to know. The lady will tell me if I need to know. Just know that you are safe. But if you need to call me something, call me Iambe, and I will simply call you Señora.”

Crowley’s frown remained as Iambe walked her through the front hall and towards the sunny garden at the back of the house. Vines grew up from the walls and there was a tempered tame to the wildness of the growth, like a full mane of well-kept hair. At its center sat a woman, smooth muscles and a crown of brown waves that fell over her shoulders.

“My lady, the guest is here,” Iambe said with a curtsy.

“Thank you, my sweet,” the woman said. “You can go. I’ll entertain our guest.”

Iambe nodded and sent Crowley another smile before going back in the house. Crowley crossed her arms tight against her chest hoping to shield herself from the strangeness of the situation, or to hold herself back from striking.

“Look,” she said. “I’m grateful for the save, or whatever, but I’d like to know what you’re playing at bringing me in here.”

The woman turned around and Crowley took a step back from the familiar beam of a smile and the wine-dark eyes that met his shielded pair. At the note of recognition on the demon’s face, the woman’s already wide smile widened impossibly, hands fluttering up in a clap. 

“Belleza, you do remember me,” she said, “I’m so happy you’re safe from those hunters out there. Come, join me. Something tells me you have something of a green thumb.”

Without waiting for Crowley’s answer, the woman continued forward in the garden, a glass of wine held loosely in her hands as she walked on. Not knowing what to do, Crowley followed her through the low hanging fruit trees that bowed down towards her.

“I - you - what - ” 

“You have a lot of questions,” the woman said. “I can understand that but, before you get any of those questions out, tell me -  do you think that these orange trees seem like they’re not bearing enough fruit? I tried to get my aunt to help but - to no avail. What do you suggest?”

Crowley followed her gaze up to the orange trees arching above them and noticed that, indeed, they had little to no fruit.

“I think you’ve been too lax with them, tell them to shape up and tell them who’s boss,” she said, sliding the glasses down enough to send a petrifying look at the trees. “Shape up if you know what’s good for you - be a shame if you went up in smoke.”

Leaving the tree with shaking foliage, Crowley looked back over to the woman who was chuckling around her glass.

“I think that’s just what they needed, belleza,” she said. “Come, let's get a glass of the good stuff in you. I have a feeling you’ll need it for the conversation we’re about to have.”

Again, Crowley found herself following the woman through the garden and now the spark of confusion lit into anger, “Why don’t you tell me who the hell you are first? And how you found me again and what you want from me, because you’ll find that I am not one to mess with.”

A laugh, “Oh, no, my hermosa. I am not going to hurt you - nor do I want anything from you. Well, maybe just your help around certain things - my trees, the wine, and, well, maybe a little madness.” She turned around, eyes twinkling, “And it's not something I think is too far from your alley, is it Serpent of Eden?”

Crowley froze, her fingers poised to snap as the woman poured a new glass of wine and handed it to her.

“Belleza, I’m surprised you haven’t sensed who I am yet,” she said, waiting until the glass was securely in Crowley’s hand before she picked up the unoccupied hand and pressed a kiss against the knuckle. “You can call me, Dionysus.”

o

January 1481

Crowley had been hiding out at Dionysus’ Spanish villa for the past month, both tending to her fruit trees and getting properly smashed by the greatest wines that had ever been produced both on an Earthly or Unearthly plane. 

The god had been coming in and out with different Maeneds and even her wife, Ariadne, at one point. All of them greeting Crowley like he’d always been a part of the festivities and bringing him along in the celebrations while they came up with their plan.

“The thing is,” Dionysus said one night as she and Crowley watched Ariadne lead her children in a dance. “I’m not just looking to perfect wine tastes - I want to stop what’s happening in Spain because it's really stopping the levels of Bacchanalia that’s happening in the area - and my overseas counterparts are really suffering.”

“But what do you want with me?” asked Crowley, waving at the smile that Ariadne sent his way. “I get the garden - they needed a stronger hand - but when it comes to your plan, it seems like you’ve got it under control. Plus, you’re happy with your girls around, you don’t need a snake involved.”

She laughed, her dark curls tumbling over her shoulders, “Belleza, you are the most stunning specimen on this side of the world - aside from my sister and wife of course - and you are the only one that matches my shifting step-by-step. And - you can do things I can’t.”

“Such as, oh great god of the vine?” Crowley asked, though his cheeks were burning from the complements.

Dionysus leaned in, wrapping her arm around his, “Madness of my kind only goes so far, it’s an instant and then it disappears. But with your help we can make a madness that stews and grows and breaks a mother’s heart.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow and glanced down his nose at the god, “You’re not thinking of doing something to one of Isabella’s kids, are you?”

A shrug pressed against him, “Why not? It’s not like she spares a second thought for the children of all those people she sends to be killed. I’m doing justice the old fashioned way - the way of my era and of your dear ol’ Mom.”

So that’s how Crowley and Dionysus started their planning, making their way from town to town dazzling people as Lord and Lady Crowley until they could get nearer to the royal family and gain Ferdinand and Isabella’s trust. 

“Alright, honey,” Crowley said, leaning in towards Dionysus. “We’re here, the children are being paraded around like fresh meat, choose your target so we can get out of here. The religious righteousness is starting to make me sneeze.”

“What do you think of the third child,” said Dionysus, tilting her head towards the baby in the arms of her nursing maid. “She’ll have her whole life ahead and we’ll have a perfect example to see if our plan worked or not.”

Crowley scrunched up his nose, “I’m not quite of the stomach to curse children, much less babies, Dionysus.”

Dionysus laughed, hiding it behind her hand, “Ah, but that’s the best part, querido belleza - she won’t be driven mad in the us way. She’ll just be independent - like you - and that’s basically madness in the eyes of old Isabella.”

“A free-thinking Catholic daughter,” Crowley mused, lips twitching up in a smile. “Such a scandal. Very well, la infanta sera, wife dear. Pero calladita, eh? I don’t want you to go up in flames, amada.”

The blush that spread on Dionysus’ cheeks brought a proud puff to Crowley’s chest, if only for a moment. It was quickly deflated by the feeling of ozone settling over the crowd, a zap of angelic power that he swallowed in fear.

“Mierda,” said Crowley, maneuvering the woman on his arm away. “I sense an angel.”

Dionysus just blinked up at him through the curled lashes she retained from her masculine form, “I thought you wouldn’t mind, belleza, after all, they are your friend. I sensed him the moment we arrived - and he’s sensed you since just about the beginning. Mi querido, you were distracted.”

Panic bubbled in Crowley’s stomach as he noticed the edges of a cream and tan colored suit at a distance, giving an excusing bow to the royal couple before heading towards them - a steady crinkle between the trim white-blond brows.

“Dionysus,” he started to say, but was cut short by the woman’s quick swat of his arm.

“None of that, belleza,” said Dionysus. “I am the Lady Dionisia Crowley, aren’t I?”

Crowley shook his head, “Death of me, you’ll be - just watch.”

Before he could think of a plan, the angel had approached, a storm darkening his usually light eyes and the painful stretch of a smile on his face.

“Lord Crowley,” he said, hiding the unhappy twitch of an upturned nose with a bow. “I’d heard rumors that you were getting along swimmingly with the big names of Spain - and even more of your beautiful wife. Won’t you introduce us, old chap?”

Crowley winced at the crispness in Aziraphale’s voice, “I, um, angel look, it’s not what you think. I’m not - we’re not - it’s not - ”

Dionysus laughed again, “We aren’t nearly drunk enough for this. Let me find us a couple of drinks while the two of you catch up. Angelito, mi belleza, I’ll be right back.”

Now alone, Crowley found himself in the terrifying situation of being under the full attention of a furious angel sparking ethereal magic from his fingertips. As subtle as he could, he took in the angel, the tired circles around his eyes, the defeated spark still visible despite the stormy anger.

“Are you alright, angel?” he asked. “I know you’re angry but you don’t seem to be yourself.”

His tense shoulders slumped for a second, before squaring them again, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I have been trying to convince Isabella and Ferdinand to pull back on the nastiness that’s going out there with the Inquisition - foiling your plans, I’m sure.”

Crowley gave a little snort, “Believe me, this wasn’t my plan. Those two thought it up all by themselves. In fact, I’m working on something to end the pain myself - er, I mean, to cause chaos in the royal household.”

“With your wife?” asked Aziraphale, petulant pout souring his lips. “Honestly, Crowley, to use humans like that is just - just wrong you know.”

“Believe me,” Crowley said, watching as said wife strode over. “You’ll be in for a surprise.”

Dionysus returned with three glasses of wine that she handed over to each man, “Hermoso, will you introduce me to your angelito celoso?” 

Crowley blushed, “Erm, this is Aziraphale, an old friend and...colleague of mine. Aziraphale this is - ”

“The Lady Dionisia Crowley,” he said, taking her hand to place a kiss on its knuckles. “Yes, I’ve heard so much about you, my lady, except from my old friend here.”

Even upset he’s still the perfect gentleman, thought Crowley as Aziraphale straightened his spine.

She laughed, hiding the blush that had risen on her cheeks with her hand, “You haven’t heard enough, my dear, if you don’t know to call me by real name. Aziraphale, I think you can call me Dionysus like your dear snake does.”

The fish-mouth routine that Aziraphale gave them was enough to send them both into stifled giggles. And he raised the wine glass up to his mouth, eyes widening when he took a sip.

With the wine glass held away from him, he shot the woman a nervous smile, “Erm, Lord Dionysus, I should apologize for my actions and - thank you for such a robust wine. I’m sorry if I made anything - difficult for you but I have to ask...what are you two up to?”

Dionysus beamed, “Oh, angelito, it’s best you’re not involved. But let me say, you are the luckiest being in the room,” she turned her smile up to Crowley before turning back to him, “After all, you have won the attention of the most beautiful creature in this half of the world.”

When the angel frowned at her, she laughed again, threading her arm around his, “Come Aziraphale, tell me what you’ve learned from the reales, I need to know as much as I can for my infant plan to work.”

And she led him away. Crowley downed the wine-god infused drink in his hand and, muttering under his breath, followed them into the crowd.

o

February 1483

Crowley watched as the little four-year-old ran through the garden, her wild strawberry-blonde hair trailing behind her in the wind. Joanna was a smart little girl, smarter than her brother who would be king someday and more rebellious than Isabella would like.

“You’re staring too hard, belleza, they’ll think you’re up to something,” a voice from behind him said and he could feel the smile almost against his back.

“And you, o great tutor, what have you been teaching our sweet girl there? Demonic scripture?”

A laugh, “I think that’s more of your area...but something tells me that you’re about to leave the kingdom, aren’t you?”

Crowley turned to face the wine-eyed man behind him, “Maybe we should have this conversation elsewhere - and maybe with a cup of something nice and refreshing?”

Dionysus sighed, and beckoned him away from the playing children, “Alright, belleza, let’s go.”

Far enough away, in the alcove of the garden, the two of them sat around the table with a sweet pink wine to share between them. They were quiet, swirling the mixture of the fruit-infused drink - the tastes of Crowley’s hard-work along with it. 

“I knew it would be soon that you’d leave once we saw your angelito around,” said Dionysus, then gave a long, dramatic sigh. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that the reason I could never get you to join my Bacchanalia was because you love such a heavenly being?”

Crowley’s blush outset the freckles on his nose and Dionysus’ smile softened, “Oh, belleza, you don’t have to say anything - but I will say that you had your heart not belonged to someone else I would’ve romanced you and whisked you away, Ariadne willing, of course.”

“I’m,” said Crowly, dropping his gaze to his glass, “awfully flattered, Dionysus. I have to say that you’ve made being around during this wretched time a lot better. But - is what you told me the real reason you brought me into your plan?”

Dionysus hummed around his glass, “Darling, I wanted to sweep you off your feet and take you far away from whatever it was that was bringing you so much pain - now I realize that it would’ve been someone else’s job to do that - so the next best thing was to get your help in my plot to hit Isabella where it hurts.”

“You also said I could match your shifting step-by-step,” said Crowley, a smile curling up. “I guess you were right, wife, though as you said - I think my time here in Spain is coming to an end.”

“Mine too,” admitted Dionysus. “The seed has been planted. Joanna will carry what she needs to be what she must to drive her mother mad. But promise me something, belleza.”

A slim red eyebrow raised, “Yes?”

Dionysus grabbed Crowley’s hand, squeezing it lightly, “Tell your angelito celoso how you feel. If I’ve been around my dearest sister enough to know anything it’s that you can’t waste your life living in fear when you could live in love. Trust me, friend, I know.”

Crowley winced, “Okay. I promise...if you promise me something.”

“Anything, belleza.”

“When we do get together...Heaven, if we get married,” said Crowley with a laugh, “you make us a one-of-a-kind wine and come to celebrate with us. Deal?”

Dionysus threw his head back, laughing, “Deal.”

o

In the Fall of 2019, Crowley would find a bottle of wine wrapped in cellophane on the desk in his office. A note on burgundy paper read as follows:

Belleza,

When the two of you get married. Let this be your first toast. 
Congratulations on saving the world and getting that angel of yours!

Yours,
Dionysus

Chapter Text

Florence was a hubbub of inspiration and artistry, the Renaissance frenzying into a mix of beauty and innovation and Aziraphale absolutely loved being at its center.

Though most of the inspiration was being awarded by Muses and other, more hidden beings, Aziraphale had been given note of a young artist that would need to be inspired by Heaven and he’d been glad to sink into the warmth of Florence while influencing the young man on his side’s radar. 

The twenty-five year old was wide-eyed and saw the beauty in everything, inspired by just the colors and shapes of everything around him and he’d run to Aziraphale every afternoon to show him the sketches. He was passionate and talented, blessed even before they’d made contact.

It was a far cry from the last place that he’d found himself in had been difficult and without guidance, he had made it his duty to talk sense into the royals killing opposing mentalities - that is until he found that he’d been beaten to the punch.

Oh, how he’d seen red at the sight of the beautiful woman on the arm of an even more beautiful man, and the un-angelic flame of envy bubbled in his stomach. He had been glad to be given the order from Heaven to return to Italy and begin the blessings of those who would at some point lead the Renaissance of ideas.

Of course, he’d been thrilled to be chosen as the spark to the innovation of knowledge and the new era in history.

Now, sitting in the middle of it all, in this tiny cafe at Florence’s center and awaiting his plate of food, Aziraphale couldn’t think of a finer time to exist in.

A cry from down the road brought his head turning and he saw his target, his pupil, barreling down with his wide smile and the stack of paper under his arms which meant that he’d been people watching through town again.

Michelangelo plopped down on the bench across from Aziraphale and laid down the sheets of paper, dismissing Aziraphale’s offer of food and drink, and started going on about the different people he’d seen throughout the day. Then, in the middle of his complements, the angel was interrupted by the sight of the artist sliding down in his seat.

“What’s wrong, Michelangelo?”

“Signore Fell, I am afraid that I will never create something as great as what I have done in Roma,” sighed the man as he showed Aziraphale his sketches. “What if I was mistaken in coming back to Florence?”

“Dear boy, don’t fret, I have a good feeling about you being here. Just watch,” he said, hazel eyes sparkling, “you’ll find your greatest work being done here.”

The man’s smile widened, “Surely with an angel like you to inspire me I will find the right thing. Ciao, mio angelo, I will see you again tomorrow.”

“Ciao,” Aziraphale said and waved the man away.

A sound from the young man brought Aziraphale’s full attention back, “Oh, Signore. I forgot to share the news - there are rumors that the great Maestro Leonardo has arrived in town. Wouldn’t it be great to be in his presence?” 

Aziraphale smiled, “I wish the best for you Michelangelo, for you to be invited to work with the Maestro.”

Another beaming smile on Michelangelo’s face before he left and disappeared around the corner. Aziraphale wriggled in his seat as his plate of cheeses and olives were brought out to him, thanking the young woman with a bright, angelic beam of his own.

“Well, well, well, look who’s caught himself a sculptor in his angelic trap,” a familiar voice drawled from his left.

“Crowley,” exclaimed Aziraphale, turning his wide smile up at the perching demon. “Please, join me. Oh, it’s been quite a while that we’ve seen each other. What have you been up to?”

The demon slid into the nearest seat, swiping a sip of Aziraphale’s drink before sharing a serpentine smirk, “Ah, I’ve been nipping in and out of Rome - the Medici don’t really need me, but it’s nice to keep my finger on the pulse, but now I come and find out you’ve been canoodling with the artists.”

Aziraphale’s mouth gaped and he sputtered at Crowley’s accusation, “Excuse me , I don’t know if you’re implying what I believe you’re implying but it is not like that at all. Michelangelo is my target, my student.”

Crowley snickered, “Oh, come now, I was only teasing, Aziraphale. But you can’t tell me you haven’t noticed the punch-drunk look he gets when he looks at you. He looks at you like you hung the stars - which I know you didn’t because I would’ve remembered you, angel.”

“That’s preposterous, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, fighting down the heat in his face. “He’s just a - a sweet young man who likes to share his work with someone who appreciates it. And I’m grateful for the company, of course.”

“Uh huh,” Crowley said. “So explain to me why all those young ladies that approach him to ask him to even glimpse upon the sketches get turned away like they’re steamed garbage, huh?” He noticed the return of the pink dotting Aziraphale’s cheeks and his smile softened. “But why don’t we talk about something else, is this where you’ve been since - Spain?”

Aziraphale tensed, then unwound the tension from his body, “Yes. My superiors noticed I’d been - idle - for a few years so they sent me to Rome to start inspiring great thinkers and artists. I tried to convince them to send someone to stop the atrocities but - ”

“But?”

“But they said that Hell had already corrupted them farther than they could help...that it was all part of the Great Plan,” Aziraphale said, the bitterness dripping from his words. “But tell me, how long are you in Florence for, dear boy? Can I at least invite you to dinner to - to catch up of course - see if there’s any thwarting I must do.”

Crowley glanced down at the plate before the angel and smirked, “Aziraphale, you can’t possibly be thinking of dinner when you haven’t even finished this lovely array.”

“Oh, you - ” said Aziraphale, his fingers played with the seam of his tunic, running up and down the length before returning his sparkling eyes back at Crowley, “No, I was kind of hoping you’d - stick around long enough for dinner. I could - I could show you all my favorite places in town - or something like that while we wait.”

Crowley’s expression softened, “I’d love that, angel.”

With a happy wriggle in his seat, Aziraphale turned his attention back to the food, taking a bite of a date with an appreciative little sigh that had Crowley squirming as well. The two of them enjoyed a long talk about how the Infanta Joanna was growing, how Rome had been doing, and what Heaven and Hell had been calling dibs on in the past five years.

Their rendez-vous took them away from the little cafe and around the town, taking in the sights - in a different way for Aziraphale - and walked through until the sky had turned into swirls of peaches, oranges, and lilacs overhead.

It was late into the night, when Aziraphale shyly asked Crowley over to his for a nightcap, that Crowley turned down. He rubbed the back of his neck, upsetting the waves of red, and shifted under the pout that Aziraphale shot at him.

“I’m really sorry, angel,” he said. “I have to meet up for a - ”

“Temptation?” asked Aziraphale, huffing and crossing his arms.

The red hair flailed as he shook his head, “Nothing like that. Promised I’d check up on a friend before the night is over. But I’ll see you later, alright?”

Still postured like a scorned maiden, Aziraphale acknowledged him with another hmph, and an exasperated, “Mind how you go.”

o

The next morning, Michelangelo found Aziraphale reading in the sunny corner of his temporary abode.

“Signore,” said Michelangelo, smiling wide as the angel turned bleary word-heavy eyes at the young man. “Please, join me today on my daily walk. I would enjoy some company - especially of someone so knowledgeable like you.”

Rubbing the weariness out of his eyes, Aziraphale returned the smile, “Of course, dear boy. Let me put this book away and I’ll join you shortly.”

The two of them walked around the populated areas of Florence, giggling young women peeking out of their windows and waving at the artist, though he’d only acknowledge them half-heartedly before turning the full-force of his attention on Aziraphale. And Aziraphale, not knowing much about art himself, would just smile in encouragement and wave Michelangelo to his work.

It wasn’t until midday, when Michelangelo had wound them into an area unfamiliar to them both, that they realized they’d wandered farther than intended. 

“Michelangelo, dear,” said Aziraphale, “Are you sure you know where you’re going?” 

The man gave him a sheepish smile, “To be honest, Signore Fell, I wanted to drag you far enough away towards somewhere where there is good lighting,” he shifted on his feet, “I wanted to be able to draw you.”

Aziraphale blushed, Crowley’s words ringing in his ears, “Young man, you shouldn’t have lied to me about this. I would’ve loved to model for you - but not if you lie to me.”

Michelangelo let his head drop, “I’m sorry, Signore.”

Before Aziraphale could accept the artist’s apology, or even accept the offer to be immortalized in charcoal, a whistle from behind them interrupted their conversation.

“Mio demone, I think we have found your match,” a man’s voice laughed. “Un angelo con un alone bianco and the giovane whose heart he’s struck.”

The two of them turned and saw the person that interrupted their conversation and they reacted almost immediately - one with a slack-jaw that broke into a wide grin and the other with wide-eyes that scrunched up into a frown. 

“I - I can’t believe it,” said Michelangelo, tripping over himself as he bowed. “Maestro Leonardo... this is an honor to breathe the same air as you. I - ”

The man smirked, “Please, giovane, stand up straight - if that’s even possible. I am a man, just like you. But something tells me you and I have a lot more alike than it seems. You wouldn’t happen to be the artista known as Michelangelo, no? I have heard great things about you through the grapevines. The honor is mine, maestro.”

Michelangelo blushed and when he ducked his head, he noticed the man at his side and remembered that he was not alone.

“Maestro, this is my friend Signore Fell, he is - ”

“A muse apparently,” Leonardo said with a laugh as he and his companion approached. “I should’ve known that with your work I’d expect an angelo on your shoulder. Whereas for me - ”

He outstretched a hand towards the frozen statue of Aziraphale who regarded the limb as if it were a coiled snake. Then, relaxing a fraction, took the offered hand and gave it a shake.

“A pleasure to meet you, Maestro Leonardo,” said Aziraphale, then cut his eyes towards his companion. “And your companion?”

“Mio demone e la mia musa ispiratrice, Signore Crowley,” Leonardo said, waving the man over and pushing him at Aziraphale. “Though something tells me that you two have already made each other’s acquaintances.”

Michelangelo glanced at his friend with a frown, which deepened when he saw the pink that bloomed in those full cheeks. He moved between them, giving the red-head a slant of a smile and an outstretched hand of his own which Crowley was quick to take.

“Why does the Maestro call you a demone, Signore?” asked Michelangelo. “Is it because of that old story about those with rose-colored hair?”

Crowley chuckled, looking between Leonardo’s amused face and Aziraphale’s red one, “Not exactly. It’s because Leonardo thinks we get into more trouble when I’m around - though he’s the troublemaker.”

“If I’m the troublemaker then you’re my favorite accomplice, Crowley,” Leonardo said and turned his mischievous smile towards Michelangelo. “Little artista, how would you and your friend like to join us in my workshop? I will share some of my work with you - that is, if I can pull you away from the bella specimen you were about to have modeling for you.”

Michelangelo’s eyes shone as he turned towards Aziraphale, “Signore Fell, you wouldn’t mind, right?”

At first, Aziraphale tensed, looking at Crowley and Leonardo, but at the second glimpse at the young artist’s hopeful expression he simply sighed and nodded, “Not at all, I will be happy to accompany you.”

Leonardo clapped his hands together, “Excellent, come little artista, share with me your latest project.”

So the two artists walked ahead, the two of them sharing stories of their past and of their inspirations while their companions, ignored by the furor of the artists' passions, shared a more sullen walk a ways behind them. 

It was Crowley that broke the silence, “I know what you’re thinking, angel, and it’s not like that at all.”

“No? So I just imagined seeing you parading around with one of the most influential and well-known artists that this side of the world has seen? Please, Crowley, I know your temptation style when I see it.”

“Then you’ve been studying someone else’s style because I didn’t tempt him.”

Aziraphale let out an incredulous snort, “Right, so he just calls you his demon and muse all on his own.”

Crowley turned an opened-mouth, spluttering expression at him, “Yes. He’s incredibly intuitive and, trust me, he gets himself into enough trouble without me interfering. If anything, I get him out of trouble - which is gonna cost me - but I saved him from those charges a few years ago.”

“Out of the kindness of your heart, I’m sure,” said Aziraphale. “And now you just travel with him for the fun of it, right?”

“I don’t think you get to judge, angel. You’re gonna model for this poor boy who is farther gone on you than any spouse for their lover,” then in a quieter voice, Crowley added. “I didn’t think heavenly ecstasy was your modus operandus.”

“You would think that’s where this is going - ”

“Amichi,” interrupted Leonardo, glancing between them with a shifting look. “Please, we have arrived.”

Aziraphale thanked him and brushed past to catch up with Michelangelo who had gone ahead and started looking through the works-in-process scattered around. Leonardo turned his wiggling eyebrow look at his own friend.

“Mio demone, cosa hai fatto al tuo angelo?” asked Leonardo, grabbing Crowley by the elbow. “You always made it seem like you had things under control - this is not that.”

Crowley scowled, “His righteousness is overwhelming right now. C’mon Leo can we just move this along?”

Leonardo gave him a long look before shrugging and catching up with his guests, “Well, Michelangelo, what do you think of my work? Truly, I know you are a sculptor - but you have an eye for beauty, I can tell that,” he winked at Aziraphale who crossed his arms.

“They’re beautiful, Maestro,” the younger man said, trailing his fingers along the edges of the canvases. “And truly your friend is an apt muse, beautiful in every angle.”

He gestured around to where a sketch stood on an easel. Attention now drawn to it, Aziraphale moved towards it in hesitant strides. There were the beginnings of Crowley’s face etched onto the surface and on the surrounding sheets of references: Crowley smirking, Crowley laughing with his head tilted back, Crowley pitched forward with his head in his hands, glasses hanging off his fingertips. He couldn't help but reach out, wanting nothing more than to trace the sharpness of the lines, but tucked his hand against his chest.

Aziraphale turned to the subject, nose flaring, then he tampered it down with a sigh - eyes squeezed shut - and he smiled a tight pull around his cheeks.

“I believe I need to return to my duties, Signores, pleased to join you today,” he turned to his young friend. “Michelangelo, I’ll see you tomorrow - ”

“I’ll accompany you back,” he said, taking a step forward that was paused by Aziraphale’s head shake.

“Nonsense,” said Aziraphale. “Stay and let the Maestro show you some more of his work. Like I said, I’ll see you tomorrow. Maestro Leonardo - Signore Crowley.”

And without another word, he exited the workshop leaving behind two confused men - and one steaming with unusual anger. 

o

For the next few months, the situation went as follows:

Michelangelo would meet up with Leonardo for little consultations about this or that, exchanging stories about their experiences working for the most well-known families in the city-states. Crowley was always there, reclining in the corner and just watching the artists do their thing.

Michelangelo would also meet up with Aziraphale for either breakfast or a late lunch, regaling the angel with stories of what he’d learnt and being worried that the association with the Maestro would be too much for his reputation. And Aziraphale, lips pulled in a sour moue, would reassure him that this was to better his mastery of his talent.

And every now and then, a conversation like this would occur:

“You know, Signore Fell,” Michelangelo would say, around a bite of olives or around his cup. “Signore Crowley is there, too.” And this specific time, “Quiet man he is, and a good friend to the Maestro. The Maestro says that he’s saved him from some sticky situations.

Aziraphale snorted, and under his breath added ‘Sticky situation, I’m sure’, before turning his smile up a few watts and shining it onto the young artist, “Is that right? Well, I’m glad that they’ve found each other, then. Now, show me some of those new sketches.”

And Michelangelo, suspicion knitting his brow together, would let Aziraphale distract him pouring over the new sketches.

On the other side of the town, in Leonardo’s workshop, a similarly bullheaded conversation would occur:

“Antonio,” would come the mischievous chime of Leonardo’s voice, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you pout so much in all our time knowing each other. Come, demone, tell your old friend Leo what’s bothering you.”

And Crowley, grouchy and arms crossed tight against his slender frame, would just turn away from Leonardo’s intuitive gaze and grumble something under his breath. So Leonardo would continue:

“Michelangelo is quite an artist. I won’t be surprised if he outshines me eventually - I’m an old man after all,” Leonardo sighed, “Not that he minds. He seems to be into older men...do you think I can turn his head away from that bell’angelo? Or at least get that angel looking my way?”

Crowley hissed, coiled like a snake waiting to strike, and Leonardo simply laughed, shaking with the peals that racked his body.

“Oh, amico, you are so much like a book. Let me look at your broken heart, mio demone, and let me sketch you the most beautiful star you’ve seen.”

And while they were together, alone even from Crowley’s perching presence, Leonardo and Michelangelo would compare notes:

“Signore Fell never told me anything about his past,” Michelangelo said. “Especially not a lover - or whatever it is that Signore Crowley is to him.”

Leonardo hummed, “And mio amico has always talked about an angelo - his angelo though he’d never call it that himself. Hair the color of starlight, eyes the color of an ever-changing opal, and a sparkling that rivals the sun.”

Michelangelo sighed, “Sure sounds like Signore Fell.”

Laughter spilled through the older man’s mouth, “Povero caro, the angel has taken your heart too.”

“And the demon, yours.”

The laughter in Leonardo’s face tampered down as he met the wry smile on his younger companion, “Si, giovano, that’s very true. But it’s not about us now, this is about something more than the two of us.”

o

This part of Rome was warm under Crowley’s feet, not exactly holy enough yet to burn but enough to keep him moving. He was supposed to meet Leonardo near the Belvedere Courtyard but had been distracted by the construction near the soon to be completed Sistine Chapel. 

The artists were running around with sketches and measurements, or yelling at their students to bring things over and the chaos was almost enough to make him forget the itchiness of his feet. And then he saw him - years later, and still looking just the same as he had in Florence - Michelangelo, pulling at his hair in desperation.

Crowley took his distraction to sneak up behind the artist who was now lying on his back and staring at the building with hatred in his bloodshot eyes. Then he scanned the papers scattered around him and felt his heart drop.

Sketches upon sketches of a strong, thick-skinned back, rolls of fat and seams of stretch-marks on the planes of that skin. Angelic curls, twinkling eyes, and supple muscle of arms that look too soft to be as strong as they are.

The sick coils of jealousy wrapped around Crowley’s stomach and only tightened as Michelangelo met his gaze. Unfocused from lack of sleep and hunger, the man narrowed his gaze and laughed.

“Il demone has come to take me to Hell where I rightfully belong,” said Michelangelo. “I truly don’t deserve to touch the ceiling of the most holy location in Rome. Take me, Signore Crowley, flay the flesh from my body as punishment.”

Though the jealousy still sat within him, he couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the man and squatting down next to him, “That’s a bit drastic, don’t you think. I’m sure you’ll do great and it’ll be a great work of art once it’s done. Just look - look at these wonderful sketches.”

Michelangelo gave a dry laugh, “I’m sure that you hate me this moment, use that hatred and send me straight to Hell.”

Crowley scoffed, “Well, not straight to Hell, and yes, I - I will admit that I’m not happy to see the nude drawings of my old friend scattered around Rome, but it’s not something to kill you over.”

“You should,” said Michelangelo, spitting it out with anger. “I took your amato, I laid him bare and sketched him, used him for my own selfishness and now everyone will see his proportions, every inch of him, when they come in here.”

“Good,” said Crowley, lips curled in a smile. “Now everyone will appreciate just how beautiful he is. You did good, Michelangelo.”

“I loved him - or I thought I did,” the man said, dazed and words slurred. “I wanted him to be my muse forever but - but he said he needed to move on not too long after I sketched him - after you left. I knew what it meant, that no matter how my heart beat his would never be mine.”

Crowley swept his hand across Michelangelo’s forehead, brushing his hair away and setting a bit of a blessing on the man, “Sleep, rest. Tomorrow, come down and you’ll see that your artistry will bloom. Regardless of our desires towards that angel you’ll find that we’re not enemies - we are friends in this longing.”

Michelangelo, wrapped in demonic blessing, took his words and carried himself away where he would rest for the first time in days. From across the courtyard a familiar, if dryer laugh echoed and drew Crowley’s attention.

“Mio demone, I didn’t know you had a soft heart after all,” said Leonardo, walking towards the demon with arms outstretched and embracing him.

Crowley hissed, blush highlighting his freckles, “Don’t ssssay that. I’m not ssssoft.”

Leonardo poked at the freckles until Crowley ducked away, then he grabbed him by the arm to lead him away, “Come with me, old friend. I have a gift for you - it’s the reason I called you here anyway - not to see the exhibition of your bell’angelo all over the ceilings and walls of the Sistine.”

“And what would be that gift? Is it that portrait that you’ve been promising me since we met and still haven’t given me?”

“Si amico, that’s it exactly, in here,” Leonardo said, and ushered Crowley into his newest workshop, smaller than his usual and filled to the brim with scattered artwork. “And there is more.”

Crowley urged him to continue with a flourish of his hand as Leonardo walked him through the workshop towards the back where two covered portraits sat. The man, now older and tired around the eyes, turned to face him.

“I’m going to die soon, amico...before we’ll be able to meet again at least,” said Leonardo, smile sad. “So I want to tell you: thank you - for being a great friend, for getting me out of so much trouble and I will make sure that I correct the error that I’ve made for you.”

“Leo,” Crowley said, voice cracking, “don’t - ”

Leonardo quieted him, “Here, mio demone - my dearest friend and stealer of my heart - a present for you,” he said, unveiling one of the portraits and presenting it to him. “Keep this close to your heart - you’ll see that someday you’ll find an equal match for it.”

Crowley shut his eyes tight behind his glasses, fighting the tightness there, “Please, Leonardo, don’t - ”

“Antonio, take care. And find your angelo, tuo amore e cuore, tell him - before it’s too late.”

o

Aziraphale found himself in Rome, visiting an exhausted and self-flagellant Michelangelo and trying to soothe the man into rest while working on his years-long project. After a few days of trying to stuff him with food that he wouldn’t eat, Aziraphale was able to tuck the man away and take to looking through the city.

The town was bustling with busybodies and artists, rich and poor coming together to worship in what would soon be a holy site. He was distracted helping an old woman get across the plaza, so he missed the man following him - that is, until he placed a hand on his arm.

“Wha - ” Aziraphale was ready to tell someone off, til he saw the face of who’d stop him. “Oh, my, Leonardo?”

“Angelo, such a long time. I’m glad I found you before my time came,” said Leonardo, smiling. “Otherwise it would’ve been hard to get your present to you.”

“Present?”

“If you don’t mind coming with me, I’d love to give it to,” he said, then his smile turned into a smirk. “Unless you still hold a grudge against me because of my dear demone?”

Aziraphale blushed, “Er, no, of course not Leonardo. I’d be honored to join you. Can I buy you dinner?”

“Maybe after the present - if you still want to,” said Leonardo, dragging Aziraphale forward. “But tell me, how is little Michelangelo? Did you get him to sleep - or eat, at least? I know that he’s stubborn as a young bull when he’s stuck on something.”

“Er, yes, I was.”

“Good, good, we’ll need someone to continue working when my time is up - even young Raphael will do great things.”

Aziraphale placed his hand atop Leonardo’s, “Don’t speak like that, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of years ahead of you.”

“Maybe, but if not, will you make me a promise?”

“Of course.”

“Be there at my deathbed, try and save this old sinner’s soul in his final moments,” Leonardo said, wry smile. “Here we are, my workshop.”

The artist showed Aziraphale a covered portrait and revealed his face underneath. Etched in brown-red lines and hand placed over a book, Aziraphale looked at himself in awe. He noticed that the drawing stood by itself, but that the lines continued off the edges. He didn't dare ask what it was attached to. If he was to know - he'd be told.

“My dear, this is beautiful.”

Leonardo tsked, “The proportions aren’t completely on par. Michelangelo kept his sketches hoarded, and I wasn’t even able to capture that sparkle in your beautiful eyes that stole mi demone’s affections. But I hope that you enjoy it regardless.”

Aziraphale beamed, “Of course I will. Thank you, Leonardo. Now, dinner?”

A smile in return, “It’d be an honor, angelo and you can share with me all the tales of you and our demone.”

“And in return, you’ll share with me all the trouble you and Crowley have gotten into throughout the years.”

Leonardo laughed, “Deal.”

So arm in arm, Leonardo and Aziraphale left the workshop and headed for a dinner that would be etched in the angel’s memory for years to come.

Chapter Text

Crowley had made a promise to his angel and he’d be damned all over again if he was gonna let that sparkle in those hazel eyes dim. So the demon found himself going in and out of the theatre and helping the show get running.

He’d gotten a burning look from the main actor, Burbage, that he pointedly ignored by shoving one of his co-stars at him - the young man playing Ophelia that seemed to have a starry-eyed crush on his leading man much like his character. Besides, this wasn’t a temptation - this was a courting gift - and he wasn’t going to screw it up.

Burbage was one thing - an easily persuaded thing - but the Bard himself was quite another.

Though the man was always curious, always wondering where this new patron came from and “Where did you say that you’ve acted before?”, Crowley’s biggest concern was not about the questions about his accreditation. No, it was definitely a few days into the ordeal when William Shakespeare’s attention became more - intense.

“Mister Crowley,” asked Shakespeare, sidling up to him one day while giving Rosencrantz a couple of pointers. “What would I have to do to get you to be on my stage, o wondrous muse?”

Crowley winced, nothing ever came out of being called a muse, “William, you could bring down the moon and build me a newer theatre and I still wouldn’t perform. I told you, this is more my style - now, Rosencrantz - ”

As he turned to the actor and gave him his notes, he saw that Shakespeare was still studying him, eyes running up and down the length of his body. He cursed whoever decided that hosiery was the new fashion trend because he’d never felt so exposed.

“Oh, Mister Crowley,” sighed Shakespeare, and Crowley rolled his eyes. “How red your hair, like crimson roses under moonlight, the mysterious look of those eyes cloaked - hiding your soul from the rest of the world. Oh star-maker, what would I give to have you grace my stage.”

Tension wove into the slender frame of the demon at his final stanza and he turned on the playwright,, “Don’t call me that - and don’t write me any more odes, Mister Playwright. What would Mrs. Anne say of your promiscuity?”

Shakespeare sighed, “She knows that I admire beauty and it wouldn’t be fair - I am just looking, sampling the scenery. You can’t blame me, good sir, when you’ve been turning the heads of every single one of my actors with your charm and silver-tongue. Do forgive me for being so blunt, so open with my admiration.”

“Admiration my ass,” said Crowley under his breath, then he took a deep breath and turned to the man. “Look, I think we need to get things out in the open. I am - flattered by your admiration, but I’m afraid that I don’t share the same opinion. And frankly, good sir, my heart is spoken for.”

The playwright raised an eyebrow, a sly smile quirking his lips, “Ah, Mister Crowley, how lucky the being that won your heart could be. May she give you the stars in the skies to match those in your heart.”

Crowley gave a sigh of his own, “Wish they would. Now, William, can we please get some work done? Hamlet won’t be a hit without you putting forth any effort. Now,” he said, dragging the man out of the theatre, “we need to work on word of mouth.”

o

When Aziraphale returned from Edinburgh, sore and wanting nothing more than a long soak in a bath, he found a pair of tickets on his bed wrapped in black silk. There was a note along with it in the sharp handwriting of Crowley.

Come and see your gift. I’ll be the best looking lady in the house waiting for her date.

Aziraphale broke out into a wide smile, halo almost peeking out from the dimension it was hidden, and held the tickets close to his chest. The ribbon he brought to his nose, taking in the smell of smoke and cinnamon, before carefully placing it at his bedside table.

Tonight, he’d soak in warm water and ease the riding tension from his body - tomorrow, he’ll be the envy of London with the most beautiful woman on his arm and the best gift an angel could ask for.

o

Crowley wasn’t nervous - she certainly wasn’t. But she found her long, spindly fingers smoothing down the edges of her red-trimmed dress as she waited outside the theatre for her long awaited date.

She had sensed when Aziraphale had arrived back into London and had left the tickets for them to come see the show together. There was a hope deep in her grace-hollowed heart that he wouldn’t be too tired from his traveling - or too consumed with a book - to come join her and see the gift she’d work so hard to build for him.

As she waited, watching the crowds of people - rich and poor - pouring into the theatre, her treacherous heart rose up towards her throat...and then she heard him.

“What a stunning beauty, myriads of poetry written about every strand of flame on her head - of that slender flame that speaks of royalty in her shoulders, the firebird in human form,” came the dreamy voice from behind Crowley that brought her eyes heavens-ward in a prayer she would never send.

Crowley turned, a tight smile on her face as she met the gaze of the Bard, “Lord Bard, the infamous William Shakespeare himself, you honor me with your presence.”

And I’ll be even more honored if you leave, she thought.

Shakespeare bowed, “It’s you who honors us with your presence here tonight. Your beauty is as stunning as the sun cresting over the horizon. Are you in a bit of trouble? Waiting for a ticket in? I’d be happy to bring you in as a special guest.”

“No, thank you, Sir Bard. I am waiting for someone tonight.”

Shakespeare clicked his tongue, “Who makes such a beauty wait all by herself where any man can sweep her up? For I know many a gent has glanced upon your beauty as I have.”

“So sorry to keep you waiting, my dear,” came an over-sweet estimation of an angelic voice. “Something tardied my arrival, but it seems that you were well taken care of, weren’t you?”
Crowley turned, smiling wide before catching herself and fixing her features, “Angel.”

There was a thunderous look on his face which, she was glad to discover, wasn’t for her, as he kept his eyes trained on the bard, “Thank you Lord Bard, for watching over my dear wife until I arrived.”

Cowering a step at the intensity thrown at him, Shakespeare sent a shaky smile at the newcomer, “Good sir, it’s been a while since we’ve seen you around. Why, we were certain you’d grown tired of my Hamlet.”

Aziraphale pinned him with a cold look, “I was away on business and came to treat my lovely wife with a good show. Seems you’ve done well for yourself.”

“All with the help of that not-a-friend of yours,” said Shakespeare. “He made sure to give us a leg up in the world.”

A soft smile shifted the expression on Aziraphale’s face as he turned it onto Crowley, “I’m glad. Now,” he offered his arm to Crowley who immediately twined his hand around it, “I think the two of us should get to our places - wouldn’t want to miss the show.”

“Er, no of course not,” Shakespeare said, bowing to a side. “Hope you and your lovely wife enjoy it.”

Another smile as he placed his hand atop the slender one at his elbow, “I’m sure we will. Come now, love, let’s find a good spot to see the show.”

Blushing, Crowley leaned into the angel at her side, “O-of course, dove.”

William Shakespeare watched the two of them enter the theatre, the contrast of red and black against white, the adoring look the couple had shared, and something sparked in his mind, “A quill. I need something to write with.”

Once inside and away from the flirtatious bard, Crowley made to pull away from Aziraphale only to find herself pinned by the extraordinary soft strength of the hand atop hers. She looked at him and found the heat in her cheeks burn hotter at the soft expression on his face.

“What?” she asked, shifting under his gaze.

“My sweet Crowley,” Aziraphale said, ignoring the muttered ‘’M not sweet’ by grabbing the unoccupied hand and pressing a soft kiss on the knuckles, “this is so far beyond what I could’ve imagined and you did this for - for William.”

“I - I did this for completely selfish reasons,” said Crowley, eyes honing on her hand in Aziraphale’s, “someday this play will torture hundreds of youths, I can ssseee it now.”

Aziraphale gave a low chuckle, pressing another kiss to her fingers. “Of course, love. Let's see the fruits of your labor.”

As the two of them made their way through the crowds, the humans split in the middle to let them go through and they found a spot where they could see the stage from every angle and they found themselves squished together by the crowds.

“Um, angel,” Crowley said, fiddling with the frames of his glasses. “Why did you - I mean - since when am I your wife?”

He saw the blush rising from Aziraphale’s neck up to his cheeks, “Well, um, William was coming on a little too strong, and, well, there’s no stopping him when he gets his sights on something - especially on something so beautiful. I figured - if you mind we could - ”

“No,” interrupted Crowley, then bit her lip when the angel looked down at her. “I - I mean, it’ssss not that bad - to be fake married to you. Beatssss the Bard’s flirtations as long as there’s an angel to protect me.”

Aziraphale tugged her closer, “I’m glad you think so. Now, let’s see how beautifully your present has come along.”

o

Shakespeare followed the couple with his gaze the entire time. The richness of their clothes stuck-out even from the riches of the others around him, as did the unmistakable love that they seemed to be enveloped in. A quill and parchment had found its home in his hands as he observed.

There was something about the two of them, from the unabashed look that the man gave his wife to the way that she orbited him like his gravity was far too much to pull away from.

The beauty of the Missus with her crushed-rose hair and the elegance in her lithe frame, the temptation that curled her lips. And just as much, the good Sir and his sparkling eyes and the wide sunshine smile, the starlight halo of feathery curls, and the thickness of his form.

Separate they’re gorgeous - together they were almost ethereal.

And the perfect inspiration.

o

For the following weeks, Shakespeare found himself constantly in the presence of the starlight-haired man who introduced himself as Mister Fell. And just like with his friend before, the beauty of the man had stricken him almost sick with admiration.

“Good sir, please, don’t turn your radiant sun upon this unworthy man,” exclaimed Shakespeare, turning away from Aziraphale. “Please, good sir, have pity on us mere mortals.”

Aziraphale, blushing to the roots, scoffed, “Honestly, William, you’re being ridiculous. I’m not that - ”

“Gorgeous? Stunning? Ethereal?” asked Shakespeare with a smile. “Dearest angel, you come to grace the actors with your brightness, but it is I that is blinded by such a stunning smile? Mister Fell, how does that gorgeous woman live with being in the presence of opulence such as yours?”

“Ah, that is the catch, good Bard,” Aziraphale said, a smile softening his embarrassment. “It is I that is lucky to be in the presence of a radiant star such as my wife. And you, William, stop being such a flirt. My wife will not be pleased to hear that you are trying to sweep her husband away.”

The bard raised an eyebrow, playful smile on his lips, “And what if the three of us came to some sort of arrangement? After all, your wife is just as heavenly as you, Mister Fell.”

Aziraphale hid his chuckle behind his hand, “She’d hate to hear that, dear boy, but no, William, I love her too much to share.”

A hand clutched against his chest, Shakespeare broke into another bout of poetry until the actor playing Laertes interrupted and asked Aziraphale for help that the angel was happy to give.

“Thank you, dear boy, I was afraid that he was going to talk my ear off,” admitted Aziraphale and the man chuckled.

“The Bard has been taken by you and your wife since he saw you two at the performance,” the actor said, shaking his head. “He’s been on a writing spree since then - talking about birds of all things. But when inspiration strikes I guess you can’t fight it.”

“Still,” said Aziraphale. “I can’t wait until that wandering eye of his catches on something - or someone - else,” then a mischievous glint shone in his eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.”

o

Crowley held the leaflet given to her by a passerby close to her chest, breaths coming in shallowly as the heat bloomed up her neck.

Part of her hoped that the angel hadn’t seen the printing - but knowing how close he and the bard had become there was no way that there wasn’t a signed copy of it lying somewhere in Aziraphale’s rooms.

Everyone was reading this poem of love and she was stunned in place. She’d heard it first from Marlowe, of course, who was talking about how William was dabbling in Eros’ quiver ever since he caught a glimpse of an ethereal couple in the theatre.

Now there was proof. Proof of her marriage, albeit short, with Aziraphale in the eyes of everyone at Shakespeare’s theatre and in the eyes of the bard himself.

Her heart soared, dropped, and soared again. She needed to see if Aziraphale knew who it was about.

o

Aziraphale had just left the company of Shakespeare, the volume of poetry clutched close to his chest and his heart a drumbeat against the collection.

William had told him that he’d been inspired by ‘you and you lovely wife, the two beings that showed more love in their gaze than any other I’ve ever seen’ and handed him a signed copy of the verse for him to share with his wife.

He hadn’t seen Crowley in a few months and part of him hoped that the demon wasn’t around to see what their posturing had done.

Not that he was ashamed. Never. Being amidst the humans that night and watching the play had been one of the most beautiful in his life, pressed against Crowley, hands together and the infernal heat within her burning a brand against his side - he wouldn’t trade that for the world.

But he was afraid. Afraid that Hell would lay their hands on this verse and find something suspicious in the imagery - if they had the imagination for it. Or that Uriel herself would find it and use her God-given gifts to decipher the meaning and the inspirations behind it.

Aziraphale pressed the papers closer to his chest. He needed to see Crowley.

o

The two beings met in a public place, falling into the respective positions of husband and wife with ease and without question and they walked the shores of the Thames without talking for a long while.

“Angel,” said Crowley. “I heard your favorite bard turned poet. Seems to have moved many a heart with a tale of powerful love.”

Aziraphale hummed, “Yes, my dear. I happened to read it - quite beautiful. But I’m afraid it will be hidden under the plays he pens. Hopefully someone remembers it and preserves it.”

Crowley turned her glasses-hidden eyes towards him, “You really think it’ll be forgotten?”

“He’s a playwright, not a poet, people won’t notice it unfortunately,” said Aziraphale, running his hands over hers. “I got a copy for myself, of course, and I will treasure it. Have - um - have you read it, my dear.”

“Ngk, nope, no angel,” Crowley said. “Reading - s’not really my style.”

“Pity,” Aziraphale said, though his shoulders slumped in relief. “Glorious work.”

“Erm, I’ll be gone in a few days, have a new job to do away from London,” she said, her hand squeezing his elbow. “Just - just thought I’d tell you in case anyone asks about your wife.”

Aziraphale glanced at her, “Already? I thought we’d have a little more time together.”

Crowley blushed, “Unfortunately. You know how it is - Hell never rests and chaos needs to be spread. I’m sure we’ll catch up eventually…our work usually does.”

“Of course, love,” said Aziraphale, distractedly looking out at the river. Then he sighed, “Truth is, oh, I’m going to miss you, my dear.”

Her brows softened and behind those shaded glasses, her eyes were just as soft, “I’ll miss you, too, dove - I mean, angel. But don’t worry, we’ll meet again soon.”

They pulled away, Aziraphale bowing low to place a kiss upon her knuckles, “Sooner than soon, I hope. Be safe out there, I hope to find you in one piece.”

“You too,” said Crowley with a small smile. “Stay out of trouble.”

Chapter Text

Christina watched, enraptured by the figures on the stage as they played their parts flawlessly and without a spare-glance at the girl-king. It had been such an honor to be visited by the troupe currently at her kingdom. 

These actors, hailing from every corner of the mainland fell at ease with one another, capturing in the scene just as they captured her heart. There was something, though, about one of the actresses that moved more like a dancer than the straight-legged stride of the rest of the actors - and it drew her attention.

The leader of this troupe had animatedly come down and bowed before her, giving a long and, quite painful, speech about how honored he was that she had accepted them into her home and that they’ll make sure to do better than ever in the presence of Her Majesty. 

Christina had smiled, demure and sweet, thanking him and complementing the actors, all while keeping her eyes on the captivating actress who had floated across to join another one of the actresses off-stage.

“I’d like to get to know the talented members of your troupe,” said Christina, turning her wide smile onto the man. “I think it’ll give them a burst of encouragement - don’t you think?”

Of course, the man didn’t argue - who would want to argue with royalty? So he beckoned the actors back to him and introduced them one by one.

There were some lecherous looks from the younger men, hoping to bag themselves a King to bed, and they bowed low, pressing their slimy lips against her fingers. Then there was judgement from the few women, eyes flickering from the bird’s nest of her hair to map out every blemish on her skin.

“Here,” the troupe leader said, “we have our most secretive member, Mademoiselle Crowley. Dearest mystery in the wind, the King Christina.”

The woman, Crowley, curtsied low, giving Christina a glimpse of gold eyes before she straightened back up, “You honor us, Your Majesty. We hope to please you with our performances.”

The heat began to travel up her chest and towards her face, not for the first time cursing the fairness of her skin, “My good Mademoiselle, I am sure that you will do nothing more than please my eyes.”

A slim red eyebrow raised and the woman’s lips twitched up, “I certainly hope so.”

The troupe leader continued down the line, all the while Christina felt the heat of gold wings on her back and a thrill in her veins.

o

King or not, her lessons continued. Languages, history, all of the little things that she has to do to make sure that the surrounding kingdoms don’t see her as weak - as easily manipulated. But those lessons were completed for the day - it was now time for something more fun: philosophy and religion.

Christina heard the loud argument around the corner of the hall before she was even close to turning towards it. One voice was very familiar, though she’d never heard it so enraged - her teacher Johannes seemed to be going on a philosophical rant about something or other, his words running together. And every now and then a quieter voice must’ve interrupted him because he’d stop only to come back louder than before.

“Tutor Johannes, what seems to be the matter,” said Christina, hurrying to turn down the hallway and catch up to the argument.

She was surprised to see the indignant red-face of her tutor - and the pinned red waves and sharp smile of Mademoiselle Crowley. 

“Your majesty,” Johannes said, turning his furious attention towards her. “Your guest has no manners, no sense of propriety, a woman of her status trying to tell me about religion - about morality - when she does what she does.”

Crowley chuckled, “I’m an actress, sir, not a harlot. And I know a lot more about religion and morality than you could ever comprehend.”

Johannes opened his mouth to answer, something harsh if the line of his mouth was any indication, but he was stopped by the small hand of the king raising.

“That’s enough, Johannes,” Christina said, smiling up at the man. “Why don’t we postpone our lesson until tomorrow - you’re obviously upset so go and rest. I will deal with my visitor. Go. We’ll see each other tomorrow.”

The man seemed poised to argue, but one final look at the young woman’s face and he bowed, “Of course, your majesty. Until tomorrow.”

Once the man was out of sight, Christina turned her attention on the actress, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so agitated. It must’ve been some debate.”

Crowley curtsied low, as if remembering her place, “Your majesty, it was simply a matter of damnation and forgiveness - of whether humanity is vexed into doing good or bad by outside forces or whether it’s the innate desire of the human themself.”

Christina felt her heart stutter in her chest as the woman shrugged and continued, “It seems like we didn’t agree on some things.” 

“I - I wouldn’t mind hearing your mind on the subject,” Christina said, blushing to her roots. “Seems like my good tutor didn’t know how to handle you.”

“Oh, and you do?” asked Crowley, the smirk playing on her face again.

Again, her heart stuttered, “I’d like to see if I can.”

o

And so her pattern of life changed. She found herself seeking out the older woman for talks about life in general - philosophy, death and the afterlife, love.

Christina felt her heart swooping at every laugh she was able to eke out of the lovely woman - a satisfaction at seeing those sharper than normal canines cresting her lips or getting the woman’s glasses to almost slip off her nose and catch a glimpse of those molten-golden eyes.

“Mademoiselle Crowley,” Christina started one day while the two were walking through the royal gardens. “What do you know about love?”

“In the philosophical way, or the real emotional way?” 

“Surprise me.”

“Falling in love, aren’t you sweet?”

“Just answer, please.”

Crowley gave a little hum, chin raised towards the sky as she thought. Christina looked forward as to not follow the line of her throat down. 

“Philosophically, love has the ability to turn any human into a monster or saint. The ability to love doesn’t define you, but those that feel love too strongly might be manipulated through it,” said Crowley. “Of course, those are rare cases. In most cases love is another itch to scratch and in other cases love - romantic love - isn’t a necessity.”

“So - it’s okay if you don’t feel romantic love for someone,” asked Christina.

Crowley nodded, “Completely okay. But now, you also wanted to know about emotions, right?”

Christina blushed and gave a little nod so Crowley took a steadying breath before continuing, “As a feeling - love can be overwhelming. It can feel like everything in the world is revolving around that whom you love and that making them happy, giving them whatever they want.”

“But?”

“But sometimes it feels so impossible, a galaxy away because there are so many obstacles in the way and they’re just - so far out of your league,” Crowley trailed off, a little chuckle building in her chest, “and yet you can’t let it go because it’s Love and how could you turn it away.”

The king had been watching as the sharp lines on the redhead’s face softened, and she felt her heart do a different type of swoop - more of a drop before returning to its usual beating up her throat.

“Dearest Mademoiselle,” asked Christina, ducking her head. “Are you in love now?”

It was Crowley whose face grew red now and Christina noticed for the first time that the woman had freckles across her nose. The actress cleared her throat and turned towards Christina, a wry smile on her face.

“Yes, my dear king, I am utterly and embarrassedly in love,” said Crowley. “Christina - do you know the difference between love and attraction?”

Christina frowned, “I know that love is what you described - heartbeat quickening, imagining a life together - marriage and…well, you’d find something to find attractive about them, right?”

The woman clicked her tongue, “Christina. If you love someone that’s one thing, but finding someone aesthetically attractive that’s another thing - and my dear, you don’t love me - you just find me attractive.”

“How - ”

Crowley gave a little laugh, “Dearest, I’m used to it - never from someone so young before, though.” 

“I’m eighteen,” said Christina, puffed out, indignant.

“And still too young for me,” said Crowley, still laughing. “You’ll find someone you have a lot in common with, who you confide in and who you love in mind, heart, and soul and then that’s actual love - not what you feel for me.”

Christina kept quiet while the two of them continued walking, then, as they turned a corner of the garden she asked in a quiet voice, “You’re leaving soon, right?”

“Soon-ish, though I can be convinced to stay a little longer if a little king needs some company. But I think Ebba has that covered, right?”

Again, the red bloomed on Christina’s fair skin and she gaped at the older woman whose smile had sharpened into a smirk. The woman just gave a thoughtful hum and curtsied. 

“I study people for a living, cherie,” she said. “It’s not hard for me to notice things. If you’ll excuse me, your majesty, I need to get to rehearsal. I’ll see you after the show?”

Still red and stunned in place, Christina nodded and the woman disappeared.

o

The show had gone miraculously well, even though there were times where Christina had seen the facade of disbelief veer into reality when something slipped or was missed. But other than that there hadn’t been a lot of mistakes and the audience had been captivated from beginning to end.

Now, as the other nobles mingled with the actors and gave their complements, the girl-king searched for her friend.

“Christina,” the young woman at her side. “I’m sure she’ll find you when she can. Let’s talk with some of the others.”

She turned, smiling at her companion, “Belle, I’ll find her sooner than later, you’ll see - she’s hard to miss with hair like hers.”

And as if summoned, the pinned red curls appeared through the crowd, black lace dress brushing against the crowd as she breezed past them. Christina smiled, grabbing her companion’s hand.

“Come, Belle, come and meet my friend,” she said and dragged her towards the actress. “Brava, Mademoiselle Crowley, brava.” 

Crowley smiled and curtsied, “You honor me, your highness, considering my very small part in this play. Are you going to introduce me to your friend, King Christina?”

A dusting of pink on her cheeks was hidden by the turn of her head towards her friend, “This is Edda, ma belle and closest companion.”

A smirk as Crowley curtsied again, “A pleasure, Lady Edda. I'm glad that our king has good companionship. We’ll be disappointed to leave your hospitality, Christina, but I see that I leave you in good hands. I hope to make your acquaintance in the long run and that your reign is long and fruitful.”

Christina’s smile softened, eyes crinkling, “Thank you, Crowley. And one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Tell them that you love them,” she said. “You deserve to have the real love, not the philosophical kind.”

Crowley laughed, “I’ll take your word for it, cherie.”

o

Christina had lived a long time. Not all of the time was spent as the king her father was expecting her to be, but free like she’d always wanted to be. And all this time, she had one consistent friend - one that never aged but that was alway there.

“You ond ande,” Christina said, seeing the red hair come into view. “What have you done now? Or rather what is coming for me now. You don’t show up unless there’s something the matter.”

Crowley smiled, “Cherie, what do you mean? I’ve been keeping you out of trouble all these years and this is how I’m greeted?” When she noticed the look on Christina’s face she laughed, “Nothing’s the matter. Just - just wanted to keep you company.”

Christina narrowed her gaze on her, “I know you took manuscripts from the castle’s library all those years ago. Were they for your älskling? Were they declarations of love that you never spoke aloud?”

“Where’s this coming from, cherie?” 

“I know I’m dying, Crowley,” she said, scoffing when she noticed the appalled look on her friend’s face. “Come, keep me company in these last few days. We can talk philosophy and religion - I’m sure you can explain to me some things about the afterlife, right my ond ande?” 

The sharpness in Crowley’s face softened as she took a seat at Christina’s bedside, “Alright, let’s begin.”

Chapter Text

Versailles was dressed up to the nines for the engagement announcement of the Dauphin and his new bride, Louis le Bien-Aimé had spared no expense - or limited his list of guests. This ball was to be extravagant, like everything Versailles ever saw, decked in all their finery and masked to encourage the ongoing revelry under the guise of secrecy. 

Let it be known that angels do not look down upon having fun or extravagance, just the overindulgence of said things - and let it also be known that no other angel loved the finery of French costume and delicacies more than Aziraphale. 

When Gabriel had given Aziraphale the information that he was to sway the French king towards certain decrees - though the earth-bound angel wasn’t sure it would lead to great things - Aziraphale had leapt at the chance to join the well-manicured court and asked for permission to change corporation shape.

“Look, as long as you get the job done,” said Gabriel, waving a hand dismissively, “I wouldn't care if you change it to look like one of those riding animals. Just - do what you have to, sunshine, we’re counting on you.”

And, with that less than enthusiastic agreement from her superiors, Aziraphale changed to the form that would provide the most frills and swaths of silks. In a flurry, she commissioned a costume for the Masquerade Ball at Versailles and started working her way up the ranks to ensure that she was close enough to do her job - no matter how reluctant she was.

Little did she know, for she hadn’t seen hide or hair of her adversary in years, that the other side was just as interested in the happenings of this king’s acts as the upper levels were - and that she would not be alone at this party. 

o

The night of the ball was almost miraculously beautiful with clear skies and fresh air which allowed for the guests to mull in and out of the many halls and gardens when the dance-floor got too hot - air-wise and sin-wise. Aziraphale had already given her greetings to the king, dressed to match his crew of courtiers, and his queen who was more visible and vibrant in the room. She’d caught the eye of the king - to her dismay, but also that of the queen who found her a delight.

But overall she was relishing in the extravagance of the night. The beautiful costumes, the light airs of actual love that could be sensed through the musk of lust, and the joy were just part of the thrill.

Courtiers and visitors from afar all swarmed Aziraphale, offering her dances or drinks or food, all that she turned down with a flutter of her eyelashes and a low curtsy to which the men would follow with hungry eyes burning her bosom. But they were so dull. She was more interested in crossing paths with the thinkers of the time and, though she couldn’t find any of them, she did find someone with whom to talk.

“Mademoiselle, I overheard you asking about the latest play of Voltaire. Are you an avid follower of theatre,” a masked courtier asked, bowing low before Aziraphale. “Or merely an avid follower of the playwright himself?”

Aziraphale tilted her head, before remembering her manners and giving a quick curtsy, “I do love theatre, Monsieur, but I appreciate the writing itself. I am quite a bibliophile.”

The man before her smiled, grey eyes sparkling, “Ah, I could tell you were a reader. I have quite a collection myself. How would you like to grace me with your presence if just for a few minutes and we can compare tomes?”

The angelic beam of the angel bubbled up accompanied by her happy wriggle, “Why, Monsieur, you are the only one that has had the right idea mind tonight. I’d be honored to join you - for now at least. But pray tell, what should I call you?”

Again, the man bowed, blond curls catching the light, “Call me Pallas. And you, belle, what should I call you?"

“Azira, at your service.”

“Then come along, Mademoiselle Azira,” Pallas said, offering his arm to Aziraphale, “Let us talk books and knowledge.”

o

Pallas and Aziraphale walked the perimeter of the ballroom, catching the eyes of her multiple admirers of the night. The two of them shared the lists of their collections of books, their ideas on the latest philosophies, and shared glasses of champagne. And Aziraphale found herself having a good time alongside the mysterious courtier, almost forgetting the swaying waves of lust and rage against her back.

“Monsieur, what brings you to France? You aren’t from around here with that name - or that tan,” asked Aziraphale, eyes sparkling with mischief. “So why did you decide that Versailles was the place to be?”

Pallas laughed, a heavy and husky sound, “I could ask you the same thing Mademoiselle Azira, how could you grace such a sinful place with your goodness - but I can tell you that there are things that will stir soon, my dear. A revolution of the mind and of power are coming and I want to make sure I’m at the pulse of things. And yourself, a thing of beauty in a world of beauty, yet she still makes heads turn.”

Aziraphale blushed, pink coating her cheeks and down to the exposed tops of her breasts, “You flatter me, but there are many women in the court that outshine me - I’ve heard rumors.”

“And yet, there are men who are straining their necks to catch a glimpse of you and who are watching me with so much anger in their eyes I should be in flames,” said Pallas, smiling and patting her hand. “There are women in this room - much plainer than you - that are envious to their gills, pulling their husbands or beaus away to not be swayed by you. But it is only I that have seen the brains beyond the beauty, ma belle mademoiselle.”

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale ducked her head, the pink darkening to a red. “I did appreciate finding someone to talk to.”

Pallas gave a little hum before pulling away and bowing to her, “My beautiful lady, will you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

Aziraphale’s mouth opened in a soft ‘o’, shaking her hair until her curls were almost displaced, “No, no, no I’m sorry, dear, but I’m a terrible dancer.”

“It’s no problem," said Pallas, pulling her forward with a bright smile. "I’ll lead you.”

o

On the far side of the ballroom, another being from beyond this realm was busy doing the work his side had issued him. The king wasn’t hard to tempt one way or another - but it was towards the perfect woman to cause chaos - to cause him distress - and to bring about a type of discord within the castle.

Honestly, Crowley liked Jeanne, he thought that she was sharp as a whip and quite capable of changing France even if she was as prejudiced and pompous as the rest of the people of this era were. He hoped no harm came to her while being the Royal Mistress, not that it could - she had the queen enamoured as well.

Now bored of the exploits of the court, Crowley focused on the light flutter of angelic presence he’d sensed early on in the night and began to look for his companion in hopes of a good drink and even better company. He’d been drunk off of the constant outpour of sins radiating from the courtiers, dizzying him, and tried to hone in on the pureness of an angel amidst the crowd.

And then - he saw him.

No.

He saw her .

It had been a while that he’d seen Aziraphale presenting as a woman and he was always stunned at how she turned out, but this era had been made for this absolutely stunning creature. The light blue and white silks on her full form, exposing the milky expanses of her shoulders and a little beyond, the gold-lace trimmings glowing under the beaming of Aziraphale’s face and halo of white curls pinned back to show the high blush on her cheeks and the pursed pink of her lips. 

But the enraptured feeling of returning to heaven was short-lived as Crowley looked at the person twirling her around on the dance-floor. And the worst part was that there was an honest intention from her dance partner, not just the frivolous lust of the rest of the humans around them.

And from the looks of it, from the bubbling giggles, Aziraphale might not be completely unaffected.

Crowley felt his heart speed up, then stutter almost to a stop at the carefree smile on his angel’s face. He couldn’t help the jealousy inching up his body and the demonic urge to tear them apart from one another and sweep Aziraphale away where no one could love her other than him.

Sssstupid, sssselfish ssssnake , thought Crowley, shaking that instinct away. Don’t take her joy away.

No, he’d approach them, give Aziraphale the choice to leave her partner if she wanted to and if not - he’d fade into the crowd and leave his angel alone. No matter how much it pained him.

o

Pallas twirled Aziraphale off the dance-floor and the angel gave a relieved laugh, patting his hand before pulling away and back into her own space. 

“Oh, thank you dear. I really was getting a little overwhelmed out there,” she said, a wry smile on her face.

Pallas gave a little bow of his head as he let Aziraphale catch her breath, "Should I get you something to drink?"

“No need. Mademoiselle, you are a vision from heaven,” a voice from her left said, and it was then that she felt the flicker of demonic flair.

Aziraphale turned, eyes sparkling and the beam lighting her face once again, “Oh, Crowley! I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Crowley returned the smile with a small one of his own, “I brought you something to drink. Your favorite, angel.”

He handed the thin-stemmed glass over to the angel who took it with a happy wiggle, then he turned to her companion for the evening, “Thank you for taking care of my friend tonight. I know that she has a tendency of getting in trouble when left alone too long. What may I call you - ”

“Monsieur Pallas,” the man said, scanning Crowley with those stormy grey eyes. “And yourself, Monsieur?”

Aziraphale interrupted, placing a hand on the lean-muscled arm of her friend, “This is my dearest friend, Crowley. And Pallas has been so delightful to me. Crowley, you should hear about the amount of first editions that he has. I think I might have to sell a small portion of my soul for some of those copies. Pallas has a possible Sappho , dear.”

“ He does?” asked Crowley, looking the masked man before him up and down. “And Monsieur Pallas, how much would I have to pay to get my dear friend that copy for her collection?”

“Crowley, you don’t have to - ”

“My treat, angel. It’s been quite a long time since we’ve seen each other,” he said, giving the hand on his arm a quick squeeze.

Pallas’ eyes flickered back and forth from the fair woman to the severe looking man, at first expressionless - then a sigh introduced a small smile, “Perhaps I was wrong about what I said earlier, Mademoiselle Azira. I’m not the only that sees you for the beauty within and not what all these other men have been focusing on. Monsieur Crowley, we can talk about the price later on. For now, please, enjoy your night together.”

“Oh, Pallas, you don’t have to - ”

He shook his head, “No, dear lady, I asked for a few minutes of your time and you gave me more,” he bowed low, taking Aziraphale’s available hand and pressing a kiss to it. “May we meet again, Mademoiselle. And may your hearts be bright. Though may I say Monsieur Crowley, that if you don’t treat this belle correctly, I will come back and sweep her away.”

“There’s no reason to worry about that, good Monsieur.”

With a small nod of acknowledgement towards Crowley, Pallas bowed at Aziraphale and disappeared into the crowd. When they were alone, Aziraphale turned a little moue up at her friend.

“Dearest, not that I’m not terribly pleased to see you but how you be able to get me that collection now? He's gone and I don't even know if that was his real name,” said Aziraphale. “Did you happen to use any of your - abilities to scare that poor boy away? He was a delight and we were having such a wonderful time.”

“I didn’t do anything, Aziraphale, honest,” he said. “And I will make sure you get that Sappho even if I have to revive the poet myself and make her write you new odes. As for ‘poor boy’ - angel, are you really telling me that you didn’t notice?”

Aziraphale, having turned pink at Crowley’s second declaration, now gave him a confused look, “What do you mean? Noticed what?”

“That boy was no boy at all. That was a young woman dressed as a courtier for the night - it’s a masquerade ball after all,” Crowley said, sly smile curving his lips. “And you managed to steal their heart and, from what I can see, that of everyone at this ball.”

“At least it wasn’t the king’s,” said Aziraphale. “Dear, what have you been doing here? Are you here for long? An order from one of your superiors?” 

“Needed to tempt the king, though there isn’t much to tempt him towards - he’s easily tempted to pretty faces anyway - you’re lucky he’s gotten himself a new mistress otherwise you might’ve found yourself on the short list,” he said and offered her his arm. “Were you meant to tempt the king, too?”

She took his arm after giving it a little slap, “Absolutely not, I am here on business but - well, I just wanted the chance to look pretty for once. And the frills and silks and lights, and, oh, I overdid it, didn’t I?”

Crowley leaned towards her, almost pressing his face into the fluffy white curls, “First of all, you’re always beautiful, angel. Second, you didn’t overdo anything - to me you’re just the same as usual: beautiful and smart and dazzling. It's just that people are lustier here than back at home.”

Another happy wriggle from Aziraphale, “Oh, that’s - well, I won’t say kind because you won’t like it, but know that I am - touched. Anyway, let’s get something to drink, the king didn’t hold back, did he, dearest?”

“Lead the way.”

o

[1914]

Aziraphale was tired. A tired that sank into his bones and forced him to drag his body back into the infirmary and deal with the injured soldiers. 

He missed Crowley. The camaraderie, despite anger they'd left each other with, would’ve been a welcomed distraction from the carnage of this world war. It was Heaven and Hell all around, and War herself was cackling in the distance, bathing in the blood and mud of the battlefields.

“Strange place to find such a pure creature, but I suppose you’re doing your duty - blessing people with simply that aura of goodness,” said one of the medics walking over to him. “Though if I’m to be honest - I thought you’d be dead.”

Aziraphale tensed and glared at the intruder’s words, “Excuse me? Do I know you? And more importantly, is that a threat ?”

The soldier chuckled, pulling the hat off to release blonde curls that fell down to their shoulders, “Not a threat. I didn’t think that you’d recognize me, but I didn’t expect such a reaction. I think you remember me as Pallas .”

The shock that settled into his face started smoothing into something friendlier.

“Yet that was over a hundred years ago, so can I assume, dear friend, that you are not what you are just as I am not what you thought I was,” said Aziraphale, eyebrow arched. “My name is Aziraphale.”

“Angel of the Lord, yes, I've pieced it together,” the woman said, grey eyes sparkling. “And you may call me Athena. Pray tell, old friend, where is that lover of yours? I assume that they weren’t quite human either, right? Is he around keeping you safe?"

Aziraphale’s already tired eyes dropped further, “He's - asleep. We had a bit of a tiff. I’m afraid he’s a little angry at me."

Athena hummed, “Pity. He loves you dearly and he spent quite a pretty penny getting that collection of Sappho poems from me. Is that why you’re so close to the front lines? Trying to see if he’ll wake up and save you from a flood of admirers or from the massacre of the field?"

“Lady Athena, please,” said Aziraphale, blushing. “It’s just my duty. I can’t save them - but I can heal them. I can ease their departure. I’m sure that you’re just - keeping the tides flowing, right?”

“I’m a goddess of intellectual warfare, friend,” she said. “But there is little intellectualism here. I am doing my part, keeping that firebrand contained and then I sensed you - just as pure as ever but not in the same shape.”

“Less appealing?”

Athena’s lips quirked up, “In some ways - yes. But your mind is the same and that’s the beauty that your friend Crowley and I saw. Please, grace me with your company for now…I could use the light in this murkiness.”

Aziraphale sighed and gave her a little smile, “I’d like that.”

The two blonds moved away from the carnage tired, alone, and each seeking a reprieve from the vagaries of war - two ethereal friends sharing the burden of humanity’s spoils.

Chapter Text

Crowley was browsing the shelves in the bookshop, partly bored and partly curious. He knew this was the area of the bookstore where Aziraphale kept the tomes that were important to him - signed copies of first editions gifted to him by the authors themselves. It was, to be quite honest, both Crowley’s least and most favorite area of the shop as the books themselves radiated love and lust of their authors towards the gifted which ignited the self-depreciative jealousy - but in turn he couldn’t blame them for falling for someone like Aziraphale.

So while the angel busied himself on the Eastern side of the store, he nestled in this corner and looked through the inscriptions from his admirers. But, like always, the angel’s radar towards his demon was on overdrive and he was quickly caught in the action of plucking out books.

“Crowley, what are you up to?”

“Just seeing which of these writers loved you the most, angel,” said Crowley, sliding a thin book back in. “Fitzgerald - both of them, Hemingway, and - of course - your dearest Oscar.”

Aziraphale pouted, “Now, darling, don’t start - Oscar was just a friend. I don’t want you insinuating - ”

Crowley slipped out The Happy Prince and shot Aziraphale a look, “I didn’t say anything. Besides, he wasn’t the first, the last, or the only one that had fallen for your angelic face. But you’ve never told me anything about his infatuation with you. How did his other two beloveds handle it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I know that Constance thought of you as a dear friend for the rest of her life. Robbie, poor heart, did too. But you never told me about the problem child,” said Crowley slinking into his usual chair. “Did you happen to cross paths with the Lordling?”

“Do not get me started on Lord Alfred, dear, that is not a topic I wish to trouble you with. He was a brat - constantly moody and couldn’t stand criticism,” Aziraphale said with a sniff. “I wanted nothing more in those times for you to be around - just so that I could vent out all my frustration surrounding that situation.”

Crowley cooed at the indignant face scrunching up his angel’s features and beckoned him over with a long-fingered wave. Aziraphale pouted more, but was swayed towards the chair, perching himself on the armrest.

“Come now, angel, I’m sure he was just jealous. If I can tell just from the personal dedications written into your books, I’m sure that Bosie could, too.”

“That would explain some of his actions, but others…”

“Share with the class. I’d love to know.”

“Okay… 

o

Aziraphale was an angel which meant that he was to love every living being on earth, it was part of Her plan, regardless of how his superiors looked at him whenever he mentioned this.

But there’s an exception for everything and this was that.

There was something about the young man that Aziraphale just didn’t like. Too pristine on the outside, well-to-do, the perfect son of a noble, the perfect golden boy - on the outside. There was something sharper in his eyes and in that razor smile, and his crisp words and posh attitude that put him to shame.

And yet, he looked at the besotted look on his friend’s face and pushed back the bile for the sake of the man both he and this brat admired - he just wished that he could shake the feeling of disaster that seemed to radiate off the two of them.

He’d never wished for the chance to pull a temptation more than he did now.

It had been about twenty years since he’d talked with Crowley. Twenty years that he’d feared the worse when he hadn’t seen hide or scale of his friend; twenty years since he’d followed the fading trail of demonic energy to Crowley’s abode where he found the demon wrapped in the curls of his hair, sleeping soundly. Relief had eased his worries at the moment, but now he missed the demon who could’ve helped him puzzle out what was so off about this young man.

Or who at least would’ve let him gripe drunkenly over a good bottle of wine.

-

“Aw - did you miss me?”

Aziraphale gave a light smack to Crowley’s thigh, “Let me finish my story, please.”

“Right, right, go on angel.”

-

“Ezra, you seem distracted. Are you thinking of your mysterious demon once again?” asked the man to his left, hooded eyes gazing at him. 

Aziraphale blushed, “Oscar, don’t start.”

A chuckle rumbled from his chest, “C’mon Ezra, you get that distant look in those beautiful eyes of yours when you think of him. Why don’t you tell us more about this mysterious darling of yours? I know some people who don’t even think he exists - Robbie for one.”

The blush on his face burned hotter when a dismissive scoff emerged from the other side of his friend and piercing blue eyes met his.

“Come now, Oscar, don’t force Ezra to speak on something he’s ashamed of,” the younger man said, those eyes boring into the fairness of Aziraphale’s skin before turning a pout at Oscar. “You said we’d make it to the show tonight, and we’re going to be late at this rate.”

Oscar’s eyes lit up, “We should bring Ezra along. What do you say, dear boy? A patron of the arts like yourself,  I’m sure you’ll love the show.”

Aziraphale caught the squint from Bosie before meeting Oscar’s eyes, “Ah, best not, old chap. I’ve got quite a bit of cataloguing to do. I’m sure you two will enjoy the show - let me know how it is.”

Disappointment shrouded the Irishman’s face as he stood up, “It won’t be the same without you.”

“And we’ll be sure to catch you up, dear Ezra,” Bosie said, lips upturned in a sharp curve as he draped himself along Oscar’s side. “Come along, Oscar, dear, we don’t want to be late. People will be wondering where we are.”

“Quite right, Bosie, dear,” Oscar said, giving him a bright smile. He then turned that smile, but softer, at Aziraphale, “Until next time, dear friend.”

Aziraphale waved them goodbye, shaking off the ice-cold look of the lordling, and locked the door behind him. Sighing, he leaned against the door to the shop, and looked down at his shoes.

“Dearest Crowley, I miss you so. You’d be able to make sense of their whole deal.”

-

“So you did miss me.”

“Of course, dearest, what did you expect.”

“So that shows that Alfred was jealous of you, but you said he did things that were confusing?”

Aziraphale nodded, “Yes, there was this other time - ”

 

o

Aziraphale had found a cozy corner of the bookshop to read one of his newer treasures. The shop had been blessedly empty most of the day and he wanted to make the most of it by jumping into this newest text before anyone decided to interrupt his silence. 

But the bell at the door rang, an annoyed chime that mimicked the scrunching of Aziraphale’s brow. He closed the book and placed it down on the desk before getting up. With a tug at his waistcoat and a forced smile on his face, he made his way towards the front to greet his potential customer.

“Welcome to A. Z. Fell and Co, how can I - oh,” Aziraphale’s smile faltered for a moment before it spread again, tight. “Lord Alfred, to what do I owe this surprise?”

The young man put down the paperweight in his hands, nose turned up at the little figurine of the angel, and turned to the shop owner. He smiled that shark-sharp smile of his and clasped his hands before him, a faux joy in the expression presented before Aziraphale.

“Ezra, dear,” Bosie said, walking towards the angel. “I’m so glad to have caught you before you closed the shop for the day. I have a little proposition for you.”

Aziraphale’s senses prickled at the young man’s statement, hazel eyes scanning the length of him before gesturing that he continue.

Bosie turned his gaze down to his hat as he twirled it in his hands, “Ezra, I know that you are special to Oscar. A good friend, someone who he can talk to about the classics, truly a mind to match his and I must admit that I’m so… glad he found you.”

I sense a ‘but’ somewhere in this , thought Aziraphale as he tried hard to keep an unfazed face. 

“So,” continued the young man, looking up with freezing light eyes. “I wanted to invite you over for the weekend. Oscar and I will be hosting a few friends and I know he’d love to have you there. What do you say, Ezra? Leave your books behind for the weekend and spirit away with us.”

- 

“Aziraphale, tell me you didn’t go.”

“Let me tell the story,” exclaimed Aziraphale, arms crossing petulantly across his chest.

“But - ”

Aziraphale frowned, “Darling, I will miracle your mouth closed.”

“Got it. Mum’s the word. Go on, dove.”

-

Aziraphale could only blink at the young man who was waiting for his response with a glint in those piercing eyes that brought a cold sweat to the angel’s corporation. 

“I - I’m honored to be invited, Alfred, dear,” he said, fiddling with the bottom of his waistcoat. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to turn you down. I’ve already promised to go to a book auction this weekend for some very rare volumes. I - please let Oscar know that I would love to have gone - ”

“Oscar doesn’t know,” said Bosie. “You were meant to be a surprise. Oh, well, I’m sure there will be other times. Right, Ezra?”

The way that he said it, accompanied by the sly smile, made Aziraphale uneasy, but he gave a quick nod.

“Of course, dear. Whenever you’d like, just let me know.”

Bosie laughed, “Right, of course. Anyway, we’ll catch you later, Ezra. Make sure to get some good books…they’re bound to be your only companions for a while. At least until that demon of yours appears from the nethers.”

“I - ”

“No need to defend yourself, Ezra. Good-bye. I’ll send Oscar your love.”

Aziraphale watched as the man walked out of the store, bell jingling angrily before settling down, and he followed to push the door, sealing and barring it from any more visitors. He shook off the ice and slime he felt on his shoulders.

At least that gives me an excuse to check on Crowley this weekend. Aziraphale thought with a sigh, slinking off to finish his book

o

When Aziraphale finished, he looked down at the demon in the chair, waiting for him to make his comments like he had before. He was surprised to see the slack-jawed expression on the demon’s face and, after a few moments, Aziraphale shifted self-consciously.

“What is it?”

Crowley slipped his glasses off and slipped it onto the table before him. He then reached over and grabbed Aziraphale’s hand, a slow chuckle rising in his chest.

When the laughter rolled out in peals, Aziraphale’s self-consciousness shifted into apprehensiveness and he puffed out like an indignant bird, “Honestly, Crowley, just what is so funny?”

“My sweet, innocent angel - tell me - did you know what happened behind the curtains at your discreet gentleman’s club?”

Aziraphale scoffed, “I’m not ignorant , Crowley. I knew exactly what was going on and as long as it was mutually-consenting I made sure that they weren’t caught by the wrong people. What does that have to do with any of this?”

“Dove, do you know what Bosie was notorious for?”

“You keep asking me questions - and how would you know,” asked Aziraphale, pouting, “you slept through the whole thing.”

It was Crowley who blushed now, “Well, ahem, thing is not all demons below hated me there were a few that looked up to me for completely misconstrued reasons. See they think that because I’m the original tempter that I have some - knowledge in that area.”

“Dear?”

“Aziraphale, you were being invited for a weekend with them,” said Crowley, squeezing his hand. “It was going to be two days of complete debauchery. Dove, you were invited for a threesome - or more - with them.”

The slack-jaw expression was now Aziraphale’s to wear, his own cheeks pinking, “Oh.”

Crowley chuckled, “Only you would’ve gotten yourself invited to a sexcapade with Oscar Wilde and his lover and not have known the implications.”

He pulled Aziraphale into his lap, pressing a kiss into the curls when the angel rested his head against the shoulder behind him, “Don’t look so stunned. I told you that Oscar thought dearly of you and Bosie…did he ever invite you again?”

Aziraphale’s sigh ran through them both, “No. Things quickly got out of hand soon after that. I kept wishing you were there - a good little curse would’ve done Alfred good after all the things he said. After everything he did.”

Another kiss to his temple, “He got what was meant for him in the long-run.”

They were quiet for a few minutes, both with one hand running over the edges of The Happy Prince . Then Aziraphale broke the silence.

“Love?”

“Yes?”

“Would you have been jealous? If you’d seen Oscar with me?”

Crowley hummed, “Yes, probably. But you would’ve had a reason to be jealous as well - I had my own Wilde on my trail?”

Aziraphale pulled away, fully facing the demon that was now wearing a teasing smile, “What do you mean?”

“Let’s get us something to drink and a more comfortable seat,” said Crowley with a little chuckle. “And let me tell you about my experience with Dolly.”

Chapter Text

Crowley and Aziraphale settled on the couch together a glass of wine cupped in the hands of each being. The angel settled into Crowley’s side until he could feel the faint beat of the demon’s heart against his skin and he sighed.

“Alright, love,” said Aziraphale. “Now, what was it you said about Dolly? Did you mean - Dolly Wilde?”

“Yup, the very same. Carbon copy of your dearest Oscar. Dolly and I became close friends in the twenties. I didn’t know anything about Oscar, at least not anything I didn’t learn from her, and I think she really appreciated that. I,” Crowley faltered, breath shuddering, “I was unfortunate enough to see her spirals - up and down and further down.”

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s knee with his empty hand, “Are you sure you’re up to talking about this, dear? I don’t want you muddling up some unbidden memories.”

Crowley for his part just pressed a kiss to the crest of Aziraphale’s wispy curls, “Nah, dove. I think you’ll find it interesting. After all, if Oscar was a character - Dolly was more.”

o

Crowley was glad that she had slept through what they now were calling the world war, though she’d been given a commendation sealed with a blood-red lip print from War herself - and hoped it wasn’t real blood.

And now, the era had come to a vivid awakening both of violence (if her few contacts in the Americas were to be believed) and of extravagance. She’d taken a look at London, heard of the social disasters, the persecution of people once again, and followed the scent of lesser sins and jubilation until she reached Paris.

In Paris, she had seen women with short curled hair and trousers and flapping skirt and her eyes had glistened. She chopped the long tresses that had grown out during her long nap and changed her corporation towards female.

She had sensed the curled edges of angelic power nearby, but she wasn’t ready to face the angel at the other end of that trail - it still hurt. She wanted nothing more than to avoid Aziraphale forever, but she knew that it was as impossible as pulling a moon out of its orbit

So instead she followed the scent of cigars and the bitter smell of something stronger towards a group of women that were creating and using their Eve-given knowledge to build something beyond their time.

Crowley, with her sharp beauty and her sharper tongue, was able to infiltrate the hoard of women and met the likes of Natalie Barney, Romaine Brooks, and - 

“Dorothy Wilde, but nobody calls me Dorothy - my name is Dolly,” said the tall woman coming up to the lounging Crowley. “And what should I call you, other than ethereally beautiful?”

Devil-red lips twitched up at the flirtation, “Dolly? That seems like a soft name for someone that seems as dangerous as you do. Call me Crowley, everyone else does.”

Dolly laughed and leant against the wall beside Crowley, “Well, Crowley, what do you think of our little crowd of savants? Writers, artists, photographers, all of us miscreants and sinners and pavers of a new love - and then there’s you. What do you fall under? Seductress? Dancer? Actress? Surely you love your audience.”

“I hate performing,” said Crowley. “But we all have masks we need to wear, right? No, I’m just a patron of the arts.”

“And lover in the company of beautiful women?”

Crowley gave a little hum around her glass, “We’ll see.”

o

Over the years, Crowley would get pulled into little escapades with Dolly and her one love, Natalie. At first, it was simply going to different shows at the Moulin Rouge and salon bouncing through Paris. Fun and bubbling like the champagne in their glasses.

Sometimes…sometimes it was a little more difficult.

Having to push back the sweat-soaked hair and wait until the blown-wide eyes of the woman turned back to the usual amount of dream behind those blue-grey eyes. She’d sit at Dolly’s bedside as she cried and vomited her heart out - as well as the heroin - and waited for the sobs to turn into shudders.

It was in those dark days that Dolly would talk about her past - something that she refused to tell anyone but Crowley. She would talk of her father’s darkness as he lost himself to the bottom of a bottle and the bottom of a hole - leaving them poor and beaten more often than not. She would talk about her famous uncle, cackling drunkenly when Crowley would admit she didn’t know about her twin.

“I am more Oscar than Oscar was.”

And she would speak of a man greater than life, hunted for the same reason that she found life. The brilliance of his mind, of his grandeur, that she hoped to emulate. Then she would spiral down into her tears, heart aching at the thought of Natalie.

“Dolly, babe, please,” Crowley begged, and it burned her tongue to say it. “You need to quit that stuff, it’s not doing you any good. Dolly, you can’t leave me alone with all those boring bookworms, are you?”

The bloodshot eyes of Dolly Wilde met the shielded eyes of her friend and she bit back another sob from deep in her chest, “It’s the only way that I can numb it, Crow. If not, I have to think of Natalie and how she doesn’t love me. Crow, will you love me? Promise me you won’t leave me like Nat does.”

Crowley swallowed the thickness in her throat, “You don’t have to numb it, Doll. Natalie loves you - of course she does - and she doesn’t want to see you like this. Now c’mon, up you get. We have a fancy party to go to. I heard Zelda will be there and you know what a wild time that’ll be.”

Dolly sighed, reaching out with her large, soft hands and cupping Crowley’s face, “My guardian angel - my dear dark-winged crow - what would I do without you?”

o

The next few years were a little more fun for the most part as Dolly’s moods swung back up.

Crowley was dragged to and fro, into wild parties that would soon be used to describe the twenties with the glimmer and glitz of the evenings that faded into dawn. Mixture of under-the-counter liquor and even further under-the-counter drugs that bounced from one person to the other and led to more than one loud cat-fight.

Crowley was Dolly’s date more often than not at these soirees,  a sleek bird that led her lithe companion around, blue-green eyes sparkling with mischief as more women and men fell for her wit left and right.

“Cher,” she said, patting the cheek of one of her many male suitors. “I’m flattered, but unless you’re hiding a bosom and more underneath those clothes I’m afraid you’re certainly not my type. Come along now, Crow, we’ve got people to meet.”

And she swept the red-head away towards the laughing group of intellectuals.

Dolly’d dance with Mata Hari and Isadora Duncan the latter who flirted and invited both of them to a trip down to the beach. Dolly could only laugh when Crowley turned down the dancer with a bright blush on her freckled face. 

“Darling, why are you so shy,” asked Dolly. “Such a temptress as yourself should be having more fun. Join Natalie and me for a night and you’ll see that every freckle will be worshipped like they deserve.”

Crowley frowned at her friend, “Doll. Don’t you start. You know me - and you know my story.”

“Yes, yes, an angel that you barely talk about,” Dolly said, her lips pulled into a pout. “Just let someone that actually loves you treat you right. Natalie is a generous lover - and, well, you can only imagine what I’m like.”

With a shake of her head, the black plume from her own wing perched on her headband flopping, Crowley stopped her friend, “Not another word, Doll. Flattered, amused, but no Doll. End of conversation.”

Dolly huffed and turned to her drink, eyes darkening, “Fine.”

o

Crowley was pulled away for a few years, Hell had decided that the demon who’d had a hand in the world war could definitely be used to spark trouble and get a new war started. So he’d written a letter to Dolly and the rest of their friends, excusing herself for a quick trip around the mainland. 

Many of them responded with teasing references to hunting down an imaginary angel, Dolly was noticeably missing and it worried Crowley to no avail. 

But it was she following the bloodied trail of War’s wake, cleaning up the carnage of an unstoppable wave of violence and it took a lot longer than she’d liked.

o

Curtains were all drawn in Dolly’s room, darkening it so her drug and alcohol muddled mind could rest. The pain from her chest bloomed beyond her heartache and the ever-standing pain that resided in her breast.

She popped a few of the leftover paraldehyde she had swiped and reclined into the silky coolness of her bed, hoping that sleep would take over before the pain did.

From the darkness, a pair of glowing gold eyes emerged and looked at the woman’s limp body, a low hiss escaping and echoing through the empty room.

Dolly gave a weak chuckle, “Ah, I knew you’d be here. Something told me that somehow you’d appear out of thin air in my time of need. An angel - or demon - come to take me away. Isn’t that right, my Crow?”

Crowley stepped out of the corner, shoulders heavy with grief, “Dolly, sweetheart, what did you do to yourself? I can help, if you let me.”

“No, you left ,” said Dolly, choking around the final word. “Just like Natalie, you couldn’t love me and so you left me. She left me for Romaine, you left me for your capricious angel. They couldn’t help me. You can’t help me, so just let it take me.”

“Dolly, you are better than this - you could change the world with your words,” Crowley said, stepping closer, kneeling at the bedside. “All we need is another detox, a quick trip to the doctor to get that cancer treated, and you’ll be up and dancing with the best of them again.”

She didn’t mention the ones that had gone before her - Isadora, for one - and that there were more of her old friends spirited in the hands of cocaine and heroin than even Crowley could count.

Another win for Hell, thought Crowley bitterly. But don’t take my Doll.

Dolly’s breaths had been slowing down during the demon’s plea, she turned unfocused blue-grey eyes at the red-head and a weak scoff pushed through her slack lips, “If you truly cared about me, you’d been with me.” 

There wasn’t a vice grip around Crowley’s throat, there wasn’t, but her lip did give a little quiver, “I’ve never left you, Doll, I’ve been around even if you didn’t see me. You can feel better - better than even the heroin makes you feel just - just let me help.”

“It’s too late.”

The words of Dolly were echoed by a deeper and darker voice that raised Crowley’s spine into a dangerous coil. She turned to see a cloaked figure looming there, bone-white fingers reaching out for the woman.

“No,” said Crowley, voice cracking. “Please, Azrael - ”

“Serpent, you know how this works,” the chilling voice said. “She’s to be taken tonight.”

Crowley turned to Dolly whose breaths were almost non-existent. The woman gave a slanted smile, something almost familiar, and she found Crowley’s clammy hand.

“Come with me, Crow. Put me to rest.”

o

“Oh, my dear,” said Aziraphale, hazel eyes swimming with tears as he pulled off Crowley’s side. “And then what happened?”

Crowley reached over to cup Aziraphale’s face, wiping the stray tears that’d fallen, “I asked Azrael if I could go along with her and he was surprisingly supportive - guess as long as I didn’t get in the way it didn’t matter to him either way.”

They were quiet, then a little laugh escaped Crowley’s lips unbidden, “Funny. Walking her spirit away she was back to her usual self - she laughed and said she should’ve known that I was a demon with the way that I seduced people without meaning to. I told her that she would always be a dear friend and she - she just answered by pressing a kiss to my forehead. Said to save my sweet talk for my angel.”

“And did you?”

“You know that I did,” said Crowley, pressing a kiss to the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth. “And thus both of us were loved - and lost - a most memorable Wilde."

"You cared for her deeply."

Crowley gave a little chuckle, "She was the closest thing I had to a best friend - aside from Leonardo."

After a moment of silence, a moment of remembrance for the Wildes they’d known and lost, Aziraphale turned to Crowley again, eyes twinkling, “Dear?”

“Yes, love?”

“Those demons that look up to you, those that filled you in on all those gentlemen’s tales - they wouldn’t happen to be demons of lust would they?”

Crowley blushed, “Erm, well,  yes, as a matter of fact they might be a couple of incubi and succubi that think that the original sin had more to do with that type of tempting.”

Aziraphale laughed, head tilted back and exposing the line of his throat, and Crowley’s blush started matching his hair. “And what’sssss ssso funny?”

“You teased me about not knowing what Bosie wanted, but you couldn’t fathom being bedded by Dolly and Natalie. And if only any of them knew what a softie you are in bed.”

Crowley gaped, fish-faced at Aziraphale’s words, an expression that was soundly kissed off by the angel.

As Aziraphale gathered Crowley into his arms, Crowley pouted, “I’m still a tempter.”

“Quite so,” said Aziraphale, nosing into the uncovered neck of his beloved. “You’ve certainly tempted me every time we’ve ever been together. Why don’t you show me if what they believed you capable of is true? And I will certainly do what Dolly ordered and worship every last freckle.”

The demon shivered and ducked his head towards his angel, “Well, when you put it that way. I can’t say no to another temptation - or deny an angel a chance to worship. Come along, dove.”

Chapter Text

The War to End All Wars. 

Aziraphale hoped that would be the case, but she sincerely doubted it with how War had glistened with bloodlust upon the battlefield. But now the world was in a silent moment of peace, reconstructing and healing - and, to her delight, creating.

She hadn’t been to Paris since the incident at the Bastille which she remembered with a flush of embarrassment and of regret - and lately longing for she missed her adversary so - but with the news of literary and artistic circles growing, well, she thought it was about time to brush up her terrible French and hitch a ride to the mainland.

After all, Gabriel’s newest instructions had included ‘help them get back on their feet’, and what better way than the arts?

It wasn’t hard to infiltrate the inner circle of fascinating and well-read women and men, a lot of them found their ways directly to her and warmed up to her more than she’d like, and it was soon that Aziraphale found herself being invited to one of the gatherings at Gertrude’s place. The hub of who’s who in Paris and a thrill vibrated through the angel’s ethereal magic.

o

Alice welcomed everyone in as the gracious host she was, smiling at the newcomer with renewed warmth and excused herself from the company of those around her.

“Welcome, you must be Azira,” said Alice, pulling one of Aziraphale’s hands into her own. “We were told to expect a new epistolarian in our midst - Gertrude’s been fascinated by the letters you’ve written to that lost demon lover of yours.”

Aziraphale flushed prettily, “Oh, well thank you. You must be Alice. Lovely to meet you, dear girl this is a wonderful array you’ve got here.”

Alice smiled, “I’m glad to hear that, but you’ll be more interested in the spread down where the intellectuals are sharing their bon mots. Go on, dear, I’m sure that you’ll fit right in.”

“I - I won’t be the only woman there, will I - aside from Miss Stein, of course,” Aziraphale asked, biting down on her lip.

As Alice led her through the hall towards their destination, she gave a little laugh, “No, Zelda refused to leave Frances today - and Elisabeth will be there as well. And Azira, dear, don’t call her Miss Stein - she hates that.”

“Right.”

She opened the door and Aziraphale fought the gasp in her chest with a full body wriggle, barely hearing Alice’s quiet ‘enjoy’. And as the door closed behind her, the eyes of the woman sitting at the center turned and locked on her.

“ Oh ,” the woman said, “look at our newest companion. What a vision she is. Boys, you might find a muse amongst the midst again - or Zelda, yourself. Come, beauty, come and present yourself to us.”

Aziraphale blushed, and walked up to the crowd taking in the faces of those whose names would be etched in history - Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda, Pablo Picasso - and her unnecessary pulse accelerated. 

“Um, hello, I’m Azira Fell, the - ”

“The letter writer,” Gertrude said, giving a slanted smile. “Yes, I read those very poetic verses of yours. Well written, good imagery, I was quite impressed.”

The host’s praise brought the attention of the rest of the crowd onto them and they greeted Aziraphale with the warmth and familiarity of old friends reuniting for the first time in a while as Gertrude introduced them all - unnecessarily as she knew exactly who they all were. 

The woman placed her hand at the small of Aziraphale’s back, eyes sparkling when they met the angel’s.

“What do you think of my intellectuals? Are they to your liking?”

She beamed, “Oh, of course Gertrude. It’s so nice to be in the presence of such radiant minds, refreshing after all the horrible things of the past few years.”

“Hmm, a radiant mind and a radiant smile, so apt,” said Gertrude. “Were you a nurse?”

“Yes. It’s not something I like to relive.”

The woman bowed her head, “Of course. No need to explain. Pardon me, radiant Miss Azira, I think my Alice needs me. I leave you in good hands.”

Immediately, a thin pair of arms wrapped around one of hers and she came face-to-face with the studious eyes of Zelda Fitzgerald.

“Oh, you beauty,” the woman said, smiling. “You must let me read some of your letters, dear. I’ll show you some of my writing, too. Come, be on my arm tonight while the men get their jollies being men.”

She shot her husband a glare before pulling Aziraphale away and towards the other woman in the room, all the while she chattered about how she was sure Ernest was trying to steal away her husband - that trollop. 

“But no matter,” said Zelda, snuggling up to the arm in her possession, “If he wants Ernest, I’ll just stay with this practically heavenly being that arrived. You wouldn’t mind that, would you Azira?”

Aziraphale’s blush heated her entire face, “I - I don’t mind, Zelda. I’d rather stick around one person until I get to know others.”

Zelda beamed, “Oh, excellent. Come on, let me introduce you to Elisabeth.”

o

After that first visit to the salon introduced her to the world of these flighty and fighting beings that created wondrous things while destroying themselves. It was exhilarating to be around them, trying to keep up with their moods and likes and capriciousness - but also heartbreaking. Aziraphale didn’t have enough miracles to keep them healthy, safe, happy - but sometimes her presence was enough.

“Oh, to be fickle as a moonbeam falling on snow choosing a place to land on those curls,” monologued a drunk Hemingway, swishing whiskey from his glass and hanging off Fitzgerald’s shoulder. “Please, Miss Azira, show us the way to heaven with the press of those pursed lips on a sinner’s cheek.”

Aziraphale was stuck between rolling her eyes at the melodrama of the author, and blessing the man for being all too wise in his drunkenness. Across from her, Fitzgerald made the decision for her. 

“Please pardon Ernest, Azira,” he said, helping Hemingway to his feet. “He gets all poetic when he’s drunk - or looking at such ethereal beauty, of course.”

“Of course you’d know what poetry Ernest spews when he’s drunk and looking at beauty, isn’t that right, love?” Zelda huffed.

Fitzgerald rolled his eyes, “Don’t start, Zelda.”

The words of Hemingway were quickly forgotten by the group as the husband and wife began hurling insults at each other - the gathering at Gertrude’s house soon falling into disarray at the marital dispute that no blessing from an angel could cure.

o

“Stop it, Frances, you’re just jealous that Azira likes me more than she’s ever even paid attention to you,” mocked Zelda at one of their gatherings, almost sitting in Aziraphale’s lap with her sinewy body that reminded her too much of Crowley. “Why don’t you go and cry to someone else?”

Fitzgerald rolled his eyes and turned to Azira, “Don’t mind her, belle, just tell me about your latest letter to that wily adversary of yours. From the last I read, your friend reminds me of a woman I met while we’ve been hopping from party to party.”

Aziraphale stiffened against Zelda, who pulled away to study her expression, “Maybe you should join us at one of Natalie’s soirees as well. Maybe you’ll come across that snake of yours.”

“Not Natalie,” Ernest said, crinkling his nose as he leaned against the couch and settled next to Fitzgerald. “Trust me, heaven’s light, the last thing you want to do is be caught in an affair with that woman.”

“Just because you don’t like her doesn’t mean that Azira won’t,” Zelda replied. “Come with Frances and me next time. Away from Ernest’s flirtations and Pablo’s wishes to strip you down and immortalize you in his work. Please, Azi, for me?”

The angel gave a little sigh, then sent the woman a wavering smile, “Alright, dear girl, I’ll join the two of you. Sorry, Ernest,” she said when the man gave a loud huff, “my curiosity will always get the best of me.”

o

Gertrude and Alice made sure to warn her about Natalie’s flirtatiousness - almost as bad as any of the members of their party. Elisabeth got excited, saying that she hoped to be there at Aziraphale’s first soiree and that if not, to please send Natalie her love.

With those comforting - and at the same time terrifying - warnings and words, Aziraphale arrived at the salon of Natalie Barney and, unfortunately, alone.

Dearest Azira,

I’m afraid that Frances and I have things to deal with so we won’t be able to make it.

Don’t worry, we’ve already told Natalie to expect you. Have fun, but not too much fun.

Love, Zelda 

Despite what Zelda said, Aziraphale still clutched the note close to her chest ‘just in case’ as she was swept into the house and pushed her towards the hostess. Elisabeth hadn’t made it, so there really was no buffer between her and the roaming blue eyes that took her in hungrily. 

“You must be the famous Azira that both Fitzgeralds gushed to me about,” said Natalie, taking Aziraphale’s hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “I read some of your writing - beautiful lyricism - and it seems we might have a friend in common. Though something tells me you’d be more open to an - arrangement with me than she’s ever been.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, blushing “You - you think we do? I mean, it’s a pleasure being here with these amazing people, and thank you for your praise.”

Natalie tucked Aziraphale’s hand in the crook of her arm and swept her forwards, “Let me introduce you to everyone.”

One by one, covetous eyes roamed her figure and made her self-conscious, pressing herself into Natalie by instinct. At the introduction of Romaine, Aziraphale could feel the burning of sin - of jealousy - pressing against her skin and she finally pulled away from Natalie. 

“You didn’t say anything about my pitching an arrangement to you,” the woman said, smirking.

Aziraphale frowned, “And you said something about a mutual friend and have yet to share that with me. If it’s true that you’ve read my writing - and if we do know the same person - you should know that no arrangement will replace them.”

A sigh deflated Natalie’s interest and a sincere, friendly smile replaced it, “If your love is the same as my Dolly’s friend then you’re right, nothing will take their place in your heart. She says the same thing, if they are one and the same.”

She pressed a gentle kiss on the softness of Aziraphale’s cheek, “I hope my forwardness doesn’t scare you away. Keep joining us and maybe your firebrand will come one of these days, reunited after all these years.”

Aziraphale’s unnecessary heart skipped a beat, “I’d like to keep coming, Miss Barney. I think you and I could be good friends - seem that those slip through fingertips in these times.”

“I’d like that.”

o

In the years to come, Aziraphale exhausted herself with miracle and blessings - one after the other - trying to heal the rifts between the figures around her.

Heal Zelda’s mind, heal Ernest’s liver, heal Romaine’s heart, heal and bless the Fitzgeralds - bless Romaine and Natalie - and Gertrude and Alice - guide them away from the anti-semitism of Elliot. 

Most to no avail. 

Answer the prayer of Natalie to save her Dolly - answer the prayer that Isadora rests peacefully - answer the prayer that I’ll be remembered - remember my work- remember my name - remember the lost generation. 

Aziraphale teared up in the hopelessness of losing them to their minds, the drugs, the liquor, the grip of sins too great to fight, I’ll remember. I’ll remember. Immortalized in the shelves of my shop, on the walls. The lost generation is lost no more.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale was illuminated under the night lights of Paris, a far cry from the blood spilling along the streets during the revolution. 

She had heard from her days along the artists of the salons that there was a performer that was the greatest to grace the Parisian stages. 

“She is truly the Bronze Venus,” said a wistful Natalie Barney, eyes hazy with the vision. “Lithe of limb, light of foot, and with the smoothest canvas of skin - a sin wrapped in a blessing. Azira, please join us next time we go see her.”

The next time never came; the failure of the American banks caused the different salonists to focus their attention on that and Aziraphale was left wondering about this infamous Bronze Venus. But now, now she had a little bit of time on her own and she had found that this woman - Josephine Baker, was performing at the Théâtre Marigny. 

And here, under the bright lights of the Champs-Élysées, she was wiggling with the anticipation.

Around her, well-dressed couples and single men poured into the theatre with quiet murmurs and a low level of curiosity that settled on Aziraphale’s shoulders like a shawl. She let it simmer, but felt a drop in her stomach. This would’ve been the perfect place for her to come across with her dear friend that she was missing so dearly. 

Aziraphale hoped that she’d find the familiar trail of demonic energy or catch a glimpse of crushed-rose hair amongst the crowd - or on the stage. 

She hoped this Venus would lead her to her heart’s desire.

o

After the show, Aziraphale shot an angelic grace laced smile at the men guarding the dressing room area and convinced them that she had all the permission in the world to be there. She had thought she’d sensed a familiar tang of smoke and followed it backstage.

It wasn’t the first time she’d been backstage, but surely the first time she’d been around such carefree performers that ran around half-dressed, stopping only long enough to give her an appreciative look before running off. 

She was snooping, there was no other name for it, looking for a familiar slim figure, for either the curve of painted lips slipping suggestions into the ears of dancers or of a sharp smirk that made the lead slide into debauchery. 

“You seem a long way from Heaven, angel,” a voice said from behind, startling Aziraphale. 

When she turned around, she met the shining, mischievous eyes of the leading lady herself. A beauty with dark skin and a face-splitting white smile and she was still glittering from the makeup of the stage.

“Oh, I was hoping to find - find my friend around. But…they’re not here. I’ll just go and get out of your hair,” said Aziraphale, blushing to the roots.

The woman laughed, “No, no, doll, stay. I’m a terribly curious creature and I can’t help wonder how you convinced those two to let you back here - and why you thought your friend would be around,” she stuck out a hand, “I’m sure you saw the show, but I’m Josephine.”

Aziraphale gave a little smile, shaking the outstretched hand, “Aziraphale.”

“Well, Aziraphale,” Josephine said. “Come now and tell me all about your amazing persuasive skills.”

o

After that encounter with the charming vedette, Aziraphale became a familiar presence at the theatre, usually nestled in a favorable spot to watch the show and then being swept backstage to gush about the performance to the lady herself. 

Then, after bidding adieu to the crowds and crowds of enamoured fans, Josephine grabbed Aziraphale’s hand or arm and dragged her away and towards one of the fanciest clubs where they were greeted like old friends.

“Stick with me, darling, and your whistle will never be dry,” said Josephine one night, a wink and a drink for the angel.

And for her part, Aziraphale found herself drawn to the performer. So many years amongst the elite laureates of the modern era that she’d forgotten the way that theatre made her feel, and Josephine was so bright and energetic that the angel couldn’t help but gravitate towards her.

For weeks, the two of them strolled down the Champs-Élysées, arm-in-arm, and shopped or dined or simply enjoyed the Parisian atmosphere.

There were so many envious looks drawn their way from the crowds. Women that wished that they could’ve cozied their way into stardom with the petite danseuse sauvage, that eyed everything from the curl of Aziraphale’s hair to the pearls around her neck. To the men with wolf-like smirks that wanted nothing more than to be caught between them.

And weren’t they a sight?

Josephine Baker, the Bronze Venus, with her glistening dark skin and bright and mischievous eyes with her muscular and lithe dancers body and her companion, the fair, white-haloed woman with her thickness that seemed more apt for a pin-up poster that people had begun to call Minerva the Fair.

There were quite a few times where Aziraphale would feel self-conscious being around Josephine, especially in public.

o

“Aren’t you embarrassed to be seen with me?” Aziraphale asked one day as they sat outside a cafe.

Josephine, brows furrowed, turned to her friend, “Cherie, what in all the heavens would give you that idea?”

A wriggle that was more of an uncomfortable shift than her usual glowing one moved her, “I’m not exactly like all your friends from the theatre. I’m a little - frumpy and, well, fat.”

“Darling,” said Josephine, reaching out to grab Aziraphale’s hand on the table, “you are absolutely stunning, heavenly . Let me get some lace on you and you could become just as famous as me - Burlesquing isn’t that difficult to be honest.”

“You’re just saying that,” pouted the angel, pushing the plate of crepes away from her. “I know that people must think that it’s strange that someone as famous and beautiful as you is seen with someone like me.”

There was an angry glint in the dark eyes of the dancer when Aziraphale looked up towards her. It was there in the way that she squeezed the angel’s hand, and it was there when she leaned in.

“Who has been telling you such merde ? You are an angel that was sent to save this lusty devil from her sin-filled life,” Josephine said. “Gorgeous thing, don’t ever let anyone tell you that you’re not beautiful. We’re just on opposite ends of the spectrum of beauty - and you’re a truer friend than any other I’ve had.”

Aziraphale blushed and ducked down, looking at the  “I - well, thank you for that, Josephine. But, you’re no devil - nor a sinner - why, you’re just as angelic as I am, my dear.”

Josephine sighed and a dizzy smile curled her lips, “You’re too sweet. This is why I love you so much.”

A wave of pure, sugary love washed over Aziraphale, deepening the blush of her face as she saw the starry-eyed expression on the performer’s face. And the feel of that love almost soured in her stomach with the realization.

“Oh,” she sighed. “Oh, my dear girl.”

It was Josephine, bold and smiling Josephine, that now looked bashful, pulling her hand away and folding it onto her lap, “Darling, don’t - don’t mind me. It’s just - I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

The fair hand captured the hand still in reach, “My sweet girl, I’m not uncomfortable. I’m honored, truly, but - ”

“But you’re in love with that friend you were looking for,” Josephine said, a twitch of a smile at her lips. “I figured, my darling, but I thought you could love me back.”

Aziraphale raised the hand to her lips and pressed a light kiss, “Dear, I’d be honored to love you, but you’ll find me a fussy thing to love - and a patience not even someone as angelic as you could deal with. But you will find me an eternal friend, if that’s something you’d like.”

A wide, white smile split Josephine’s face, “Honey, of course I’d like that. A friend like you only comes once in a lifetime.”

o

Aziraphale’s lip wobbled, “Josephine, please don’t do this.”

The woman fixed her hat and shot her a wink, “C’mon, darling, I’m the slyest woman on this side of the Atlantic, why, I’m the next Mata Hari.”

“And that’s what I’m afraid you’ll end up as,” said Aziraphale. “Please, my dear, think this over.”

Josephine shook her head, “I’ve made up my mind, Aziraphale. I’m going to serve my country in whatever way I can. I can’t fight because they won’t let us - so I’ll gather as much information as I can.”

When she noticed the teary eyed expression on Aziraphale’s face, she gave a soft smile and held the angel’s hands in hers, “I promise you I will come back from this war unscathed, but you should consider doing something similar in London.”

“Jo- ”

Josephine pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek, “Come back after the war, you’ll see that we’ll be having a gay ol’ time just like the good days. Just - please come back to me.”

Aziraphale sighed and mimicked her action, “You too, my dear. You too.”

Chapter Text

The Black Cat Tavern wasn’t necessarily an assignment that Aziraphale had been sent on - but rather a calling. Just like his being at the salons in Paris and at the Gentlemen’s clubs back home, there was some kind of beacon drawing him to this American hub of secrecy.

He’d started coming a few weeks prior, uncomfortable at the looks that the self-called Beatniks and Bohemes had shot him and his still too pressed and pristine outfit. But as he wound down with the sweet Californian wine, and the members of this elite tavern realized he was more of their own than they’d first believed. Aziraphale quickly became a beloved staple along the bar and its patrons.

It was a sight, though, to see him nestled among the younger men who were just trying to escape the judgement of the world outside. They all found kind Mr. Fell a fresh breath of air, a hope that they could live a long life and be allowed to be themselves. And they loved his wit, his intelligence, and his protectiveness when the cops started to snoop.

Aziraphale, for his part, knew that this was his calling, a Principality protecting this swathe of people that felt the need to hide.

And it was this specific night, when an old face to the Tavern returned, that things evolved beyond the normal routine of Mr. Fell’s jolly ol’ time and brought more fun into the Black Cat’s claws.

o

They called him ‘sunshine’. 

It was the only name that he ever gave the crowd at The Black Cat because his name, he claimed, was too obvious to be inconspicuous - but all the patrons would say the name fit him. The golden hair, the sun-kissed and freckled skin, and those piercing blue eyes had become a swoon, drool-worthy member of their crowd. Making him a prize to be won and a presence that was envied and revered.

And he was back for the first time in months.

“My fellow queens, I’m back,” said Sunshine as he made an entrance. “I know you all missed me, but please hold the applause.”

The patrons scattered around the bar raised their glasses in a toast and greeted him warmly and Sunshine’s eyes scanned the crowd until it landed on the one person that hadn’t responded to his arrival.

As his gaze landed on the curly-halo of white, an eyebrow raised, “Who let the stooly in and how didn’t you notice him? C’mon Raoul, you’re slipping.”

Raoul, the large man behind the bar, shook his head and smiled, “Nah, Sunshine, he’s one of us. Makes the cops just up and leave, he’s like our guardian angel. Meet Mr. Fell.”

Sunshine walked up to the man sitting alone at the table and blushed at the warm smile the stranger gave him, “Nice to meet you, dear. They all call me Mr. Fell here, but if you’d like you don’t have to - you can call me Ezra.”

The blush on Sunshine’s face darkened, “Um, they - I go by Sunshine. My name is - well-”

Aziraphale shook his head, “You don’t need to tell me if you’re not comfortable, my dear. After all, we all need a little anonymity to be in spaces like these.”

The newcomer’s eyes widened, heart beating faster, “Ah, thank you. You really are an angel, aren’t you, Mr. Fell?”

A low chuckle rumbled through the barrel-chest of the older man, “I guess you can call me the guardian of these - what did you call them - queens ? Would you like to sit? I could order you a drink, my dear.”

He dropped into the empty seat across the table, Aziraphale ordering a drink for his new companion with a wave of his hand. And as they waited, Sunshine took a moment to soak in the view.

The cotton of hair that made him look older than what his face showed, because those blue eyes with lines that looked like laugh lines than wrinkles showed a youthful expression. The softness of his cheeks and his body were beautiful, but the muscles that pulled the sleeves of his shirt and across his chest made his mouth dry. 

He’d never seen a more beautiful being in his life.

“Tell me a little about yourself,” said Aziraphale as the drink was placed before them. “You seem to be a star around here.”

o

Sunshine and Mr. Fell became the newest obsession of the tavern.

While everyone had known how lovely the older man had been, with his manners and his kindness, it was Sunshine that explained to everyone just how lovely Mr. Fell was with his sweet words.

“An Ode to the Loveliest Being in Town: soft and strong, the bright beam of heaven that shines into my heart. Curls of clouds and blue that rivals Mediterranean waters, the only being to worm his way into my shriveling heart.”

Mr. Fell himself never heard the poems that Sunshine would sprout about his hair or eyes or arms, but the rest of the Beatniks were getting a little worried. Though the older man had never been lecherous towards the young man, in fact, he hadn’t ever shown any interest in any of the other members of their bar.

But they were worried that their sunshine was going to get his heart-broken. 

Sunshine was practically hanging on to every word and gesture in Mr. Fell’s story, the man rapt in the storytelling with his eyes distant and the crinkles deep in his face, and a couple of the others were, well, a little embarrassed.

“Sunshine,” one of them said, leaning against the back of his chair. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Fell, but we wanted to know if he wanted to join us in a rousing round of songs. He does like to sing.”

The small smile on the older man’s face widened to a blinding beam, “Oh, dear. You sing? That would be so lovely to hear.” 

Almost jumping out of his seat, Sunshine pushed the group of men forwards, “I’d love to, Mr. Fell. C’mon Marc, Frankie, you heard him. He wants to hear us sing.”

The couple shared an exasperated look and a united sigh. It seemed far too late to save their sunshine.

o

A couple of weeks into their newfound friendship, Sunshine found himself staring at the profile of a distracted Mr. Fell who was more interested in staring into his glass of wine than drinking it.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Fell? You don’t usually look so down unless you hear that one of the boys got caught in an - uncompromising position by the coppers.”

Aziraphale looked at him, a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes slipping onto his face, “It’s nothing, dear, really. I guess I’m just a little homesick.”

Sunshine narrowed his gaze, “Missing your books? Or something more?”

“I left a good friend of mine as well - they’re watching the shop,” said Aziraphale, the smile dropping a little. “I guess I miss them a little more than I realized.”

“You’ll leave soon, won’t you?” Sunshine asked.

“I think so.”

Aziraphale felt the wave of sadness from the man across from him and reached out at the hand settled on the table, “Don’t fret. We can stay in touch.”

“It’s not that, Mr. Fell,” said Sunshine, his wide blue eyes staring at the hand on his. “I just, I thought you knew.”

“Knew what, dear?”

“That I’m mad about you, you beautiful angel,” he said, exasperation coloring his tone. “That everyone in the Black Cat is scared that you’re just some sugar daddy that’s going to use me and lose me. That I wouldn’t even care about that. That I’ve written poems, odes , to every inch of you.”

He stopped and took in the stunned look on the face of Aziraphale.

“And I’ve said too much.”

Aziraphale sighed and muttered something that sounded like ‘Not again’ under his breath before turning his full-attention on the man across from him, “My dear, I’m afraid that this wouldn’t work out between us anyway. I’ve only ever loved one other person before, and will only ever love them. I’m sorry.”

Sunshine gave a little hiccough of laughter, “It’s fine. I’m just glad I was able to even spend time in the presence of such beauty. And I’ll find you in London. How many antiquarian bookshops are there anyway?”

A bright bubble of laugh brought about the angelic smile on Aziraphale’s face, “I look forward to your visit.”

o

SoHo was turning into the seedy underbelly of London, but Aziraphale kept strong in his little fortress. There were less customers nowadays, except for those looking for a store that was decidedly not his, so every time he heard the bell he barely looked up from his book. 

This time was different. 

The bell had rung with an excited wiggle, like the sound of children’s laughter under the summer sun and it piqued Aziraphale’s interest. 

“Hello? How can I help you?”

“Mr. Fell,” a long-lost voice called through the stacks. “How is it that you don’t look like you’ve aged a day in the decade since I last saw you?”

Aziraphale looked around the books and saw a familiar golden face and beamed, “My dear boy . You finally found your way to London,” then he stopped and studied the flawless, and wrinkle-free, face of the man before him. “And I should be asking you how you’ve kept your good looks.”

Sunshine tilted his head back and laughed, “I guess that there’s no use for lies anymore, maybe you can know my real name after all. Mr. Fell, I am Phoebus Apollo,” he bowed, a smirk on his face, “at your service, handsome.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, “Dear, I mean, my Lord,” he bowed, “you honor me - ”

“Please get up,” Apollo said, reaching for Aziraphale’s elbow. “You don’t need to bow to me Guardian Angel of the Queers. Will you share with me your true name?”

“My name is Aziraphale,” he said. “But dear boy, would you like some tea?”

Apollo smiled, “I’d love to. We need to catch up - and you need to tell me about your lover,” he took a deep breath, “smells a little smoky in here - care to explain.”

A laugh that smoothed the worried wrinkle between his brows, “It’s a long story, dear. You might as well get comfortable.”

“Oh, handsome, I’ll get comfortable,” he said. “But first, I’m going to browse your poetry section. I saw some greats there.”

Chapter Text

Crowley had made a lot of good friends in his lifetime, and he was sure that as his endless life would continue he would continue to make more. Humans, for their part, were always drawn to him because he was temptation on two legs - even when he wasn’t actively working - so it was a relief when he could make a friendship that arose from the lowest points in his life.

This specific friendship, Crowley knew, would be the one that he’d treasure forever.

It was 1973 and it had been a decade since he’d last seen Aziraphale, the two of them still skirting around a well-hidden, tartan thermos of death and the connotation that it carried. Crowley celebrated the occasion of seeing Aziraphale from a distance, blessing a young man who’d almost been caught in a compromising position,  by getting rip-roaring drunk at a nearby bar. 

He’d gotten in a state pretty early on, ranting to everyone though no-one was listening. Well, almost no one.

“There, there, love, there’s no point in wallowing,” the young man that had sat next to Crowley said, “A handsome man like you can’t be so forlorn about one person rejecting you.”

Crowley looked at his new companion, “Y’don’t get it. ‘S’n angel . And I lo-li-lo, ah, you get it. But he said ‘m going too fast but he’s just sc’rd because that prick is always in his face. N’ what do you even know, y’re just a kid.”

The man rolled his eyes, not exasperated just endeared, “And you’re in love. I get that . But you have to tell me: what’s so great about this person that you get to claim they’re an angel?”

This time, Crowley gave a longer look to the lightly-browned face of the man, the mischievous but genuine glint in his eyes, “A’right, but shouldn’t we get to know each other first? ‘M Crowley.”

“Nice to meet you, love,” the man said, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder instead of reaching out for a handshake. “My name is Freddie.”

0

After that long night, Crowley and Freddie became close friends. He learned that the younger man was in a band and that they’d just finished their first album - which Crowley found like a fun little endeavour until he heard them and realized the talent they had. And Freddie learned that there was more to Crowley than a drunk, pining man.

And for years, the two of them spent time together drinking away the woes of their hearts. It was the way that Crowley had to confront the younger man when he listened closely to Freddie’s new song that sounded too much like a reference to Aziraphale, or when there was a song that sounded too much like a reference to himself.

And of course, a song right in the middle where Crowley had to confront the feelings that the human had for him.

“Freddie, you know - ”

“Yes, darling, of course I know,” said Freddie, with a wide smile. “But that doesn’t mean that I can help my feelings - and you’re too good a friend to let it be ruined by my traitorous heart. We have a ton more years of friendship to experience.”

And that was that.

0

On a cold day in 1985, Crowley received a call from Freddie inviting him over to his place. 

“There’s a new show that I know you’ll just love . Take it from a queen to a queen, this show is right up your alley.”

And usually, he didn’t fight Freddie’s instincts, he just went with the flow and drove up to Freddie’s expected to be wowed by whatever it was that caught his friend’s interest.

What he didn’t expect was the star that he had over to watch the show as well.

Dressed in a comfortable, oversized sweater and the baggiest, unflattering pants known to mankind, sat the Princess of Wales on Freddie’s couch, smiling up at him with a smile that rivaled angel-light.

“Darling, come meet my friend Diana,” said Freddie, pulling Crowley closer to the woman. “Di, this is my dearest companion Anthony, but he chooses to go by his surname, Crowley.”

The young woman reached up to shake his hand, “Pleasure, Crowley. Freddie was telling me that you’re a true friend…and that you were an unfortunate sex-god that fell in love with an angel.”

Crowley felt himself grow hot, “Lady - ”

“I’m not Lady Diana here,” she said. “Just Diana or Di.”

“It’s an honor.”

Diana smiled while Freddie dragged him down and covered them all with an oversized blanket, “Darlings, this is one of the funniest shows that the Americans have created. I’m sure you’ll love it. And I already know that you’ll identify with the characters,” he said, winking at them. 

Crowley, leaning into his friend’s frame, “What’s this show called anyway?”

Freddie beamed, “ The Golden Girls .”

0

After the show, Freddie ordered some pizza from the nearest Italian restaurant and the three of them, legs piled into a stack underneath the blankets, dug in and shared stories.

“This angel of yours,” Diana said, chewing around the sticky cheese of her slice, “he sounds a lot like my friend, Ezra. He’s a little eccentric and oh, so lovely.”

Crowley perked up, covered eyes widening, “Ezra…Ezra Fell? Cottony white-blonde hair, heavenly hazel eyes, a perchance for rare books?” 

Diana raised an eyebrow and matching, cat-like smirks spread on both faces before Crowley - he sensed the spark of dangerous curiosity before he could brush away the question and felt the dread wash over him.

“That’s him,” she said. “So…you’re his dear Anthony? This makes so much sense. He’s been worried about you for a decade and you’ve been partying with Freddie.”

“M’not partying , gotta keep ‘im outta trouble,” said Crowley, pouting. “And, my lady, please don’t tell him you know me - I don’t want him to think - to think - ”

Freddie laughed, “That you’re trying to seduce the Princess of Wales?”

Diana joined in, her laugh loud and far different from the laughs of royalty, “Mums the word, dear. But you will join Freddie and me on these TV dates, right? I did have a lot of fun tonight.”

And who was Crowley to say no to two royals?

0

The following years wove into each other, the three of them meeting up in secret for a few more Golden Girls viewings before things went to shit. Between the princes who Crowley was pleased to find out were a little more Diana than Charles, and Freddie’s sickness, the three were pulled away in different directions.

Crowley was there at Freddie’s bedside, holding his hand in those last days in 1991.

“Aren’t you afraid you’ll get contaiged?” asked Freddie after a coughing fit. 

The dark circles around his glassy eyes and crust-covered lips turned Crowley’s stomach, not with disgust at the man, but fury at Pestilence’s audacity to touch such a bright soul - to have done so much damage for his retirement tour.

He shook his head and tightened his grip on the pale hand, “Absolutely not, Freds, I’m not ignorant like the rest of these pricks. I’ve been in America long enough to know it’s not passed on just by touching your hand,” he stopped and swallowed around the thickness clogging his throat, “besides, you’re my friend. And I’m not leaving you alone.”

Freddie gave a wheezy laugh, “My hero. You’ll never get rid of me like this…I’ll be with you forever friend.”

Crowley responded with a smile, “I can take that punishment.”

He didn’t go to the funeral service. Instead, he popped a Mozart CD into the Bentley, found out that somehow all his music had turned into Freddie’s best hits, and blasted it all the way to Scotland, willing away tears and the frustration in his chest.

However, two familiar figures did find their way to Freddie’s mysterious burial site.

“How did you get Mary to tell you where she buried him?” asked Diana, face veiled with black lace. “She said she wasn’t going to tell anyone?”

A little secretive smile curled on pink lips, “I have my ways, my dear. And I think you needed some time alone with your friend.”

Diana smiled, “Oh, Ezzie, you would’ve loved him. Witty and fun-loving, but so kind and - and talented. We used to get together with a friend of his and just watch this American show. I - I’ll miss him so much.”

Aziraphale patted the hand tucked at the crook of his elbow, “Dearest, he was taken from us before his time. He should’ve had years to his name - but his name will live forever. Trust me on this.”

“Ezra,” she said, glancing over at him, “I think it’s a good time to tell you as any…I think Freddie was in love with your dear Anthony at one point. I met him - we’ve been together a few times for these little stay-ins.”

“I - what?”

She gave a little chuckle, “Red-hair and eyes of mystery, right? Yes, that was him. Freddie admitted he was once twitterpated over him but realized very soon that he was head-over-heels for someone else.” 

As Aziraphale spluttered and took in the information, Diana tossed the rose upon the disturbed dirt and blew it a kiss, “Crowley was one of his best friends. One of mine, too. I just hope wherever he is he gets to have his fun.”

0

Diana kept in touch with the red-haired demon that Freddie introduced her to, as well as the angel that she had befriended. Aziraphale helped her make the hardest decision of her life - to be strong and brave against the truth of her family - and was at her side in her charitable work and in the education of her boys.

But Crowley was there for mischief, filling in where their dear Freddie would’ve been:

“Are you sure about this, Crowley? This isn’t really what people are used to seeing from me…and I do have quite the image.”

The man gave her a sharp grin, gesturing at the dress, “To quote an old friend: darling, you’ll have eyes - and other things - popping tonight. Trust me, this dress is the perfect revenge. There will be pictures of you everywhere and the world will know what ol’ Chuck lost.”

Diana frowned, “You’re saying this is a revenge dress?”

“I’m saying this is the revenge dress,” said Crowley, getting up and facing her towards the mirror. He perched on her shoulder, “This dress is gonna go down in history, trust me on this.”

She laughed, “Familiar words. Alright. Who am I to argue with that logic? Let’s be the envy of the White House.”

0

The largest event to her name. As big as her wedding, as important as her divorce, but more heartbreaking than anything. The people of the UK mourned the Lady that was no longer their Princess, but two beings mourned the death of their friend with fury in their hearts at the truth behind the accident.

Crowley couldn’t go into the church, but he walked along the congregation and waited in the hidden corners of Althorp Park as she waited for the royals to herd the distraught boys and part the grounds. When they were gone, he spotted a head of cotton-white and braced himself.

“I thought you’d be here,” Aziraphale said without turning around. “She told me that you were friends - and I thought I sensed your interference with that gorgeous dress of hers. My dear - ”

He choked around the end of the sentence and Crowley pressed a supportive shoulder against his, “Angel, you can let it out. There’s no shame in mourning a friend.”

The tears streamed down the plush cheeks and Crowley felt his own burning like holy water at the corners of his eyes. 

“She was a good woman - a heavenly one at that. She was made for your people.”

“No, she’s a helluva lot better than my lot,” spat Aziraphale. “And Charles didn’t deserve her, we didn’t deserve her, and Heaven doesn’t deserve her either.”

“Azira - ”

“She was your friend, too, darling,” he said. “And Freddie’s, and Elton’s, and all of them have suffered so much . What is it about this time period and the pain . Pestilence and the touches of addiction and this horrible action by that woman.”

Crowley wrapped an arm around Aziraphale, dragging him in for one of the few hugs they’d shared in their mutual association, “Let it all out, angel. I’m here. We can mourn them all and they’ll all live with us. In our hearts and in history.”

The two of them looked over the spot where Diana Spencer was buried and let their sadness out.

Chapter Text

Hell had announced to Crowley that he had mischief to create in the Americas, or at least stir the pot a little more than what it usually was. It was the 90s, and between the remnants of the punk scene and the fury of the queers, Crowley wasn’t sure they really needed him for mischief. 

But orders were orders and he wasn’t one to turn down an escape from England. Besides, Freddie had told him that there were fun places in the U.S. that he’d love - and he never questioned his Fred. 

0

This club in particular was a riot in the making, pulsating music and the back and forth of the people dancing and looking for a good time. There were all sorts of people, combinations, and dressing in the crowd and it filled Crowley’s grace-hollowed heart with joy to see these people whose ancestors had been so terrified of being outed being so happy and secure in who they were.

They sat along the bar, presenting neither here nor there, and watched the hungry looks from both ends of the spectrum before turning their eyes elsewhere. And, knowing that it’d only be seen as an angel trying to undo their actions, they’d bless them and hopefully protect them from Pestilence’s grasp.

“I saw that,” a voice said to Crowley’s right after blessing the grinding couple at the center of the crowd. “Didn’t think something like you would do something like that.” 

Crowley’s hair stood on edge as they turned to the stranger. There was something eerie about this newcomer, the aura just right to be human but not enough to hide the inhuman nature.

“What do you know about what I am?” asked Crowley, eyebrow perched above the sunglasses.

The stranger laughed, “A demon, straight from Christian hell. I’m a god, and take it from one snake to another - there’s a lot of mischief two beings like us could get into around here. But you’re choosing to bless instead.”

Again, Crowley scanned them, long black hair and icy grey eyes that spoke of frost and their heart dropped, “Loki.”

“You have me at a disadvantage, you know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“Crowley,” they answered, wary of the hand now stretched between them. “But I don’t know if the mischief you’re up to is up my alley.”

Around the two, the crowd of pulsating bodies quickened into a frenzy with the music before the placating tones of a familiar voice eased them into slow movements. The change brought a few breathless men to the bar, leaning at Loki’s side.

“Are you done flirting, gorgeous,” one of them asked Loki. “I thought you were going to give us a good time tonight?”

The other man raised an eyebrow and let his gaze slide up Crowley’s body, “Although, I don’t mind sharing with someone like that .”

Loki laughed, “They’re not interested right now,” they turned those icy grey eyes towards Crowley, “but something tells me they’ll come around.”

Crowley scoffed, “In your dreams. Now, get lost and give them what you promised.”

As the three walked away, Crowley was sure to send a quick blessing towards the men - and by the glance that Loki sent their way, they had sensed it.

0

It seemed that Crowley was being followed by the Trickster. At every club they went to, the god was there - presenting as a voluptuous female that echoed the beauty of his Norse heritage, or as a bright, young, thing with tight clothes and innocence painted onto the ancient face - and Crowley did their best to stay away.

Sometimes unsuccessfully.

“I think you’re trying to avoid me,” said Loki, this time a young man. “Do I frighten you?”

Crowley scoffed, “Hardly. But I know that you’re more in Pestilence’s corner right now with the actions you’re taking - and I refuse to do their dirty work.”

Loki’s eyes scanned Crowley’s face, “You don’t want to cause trouble?”

“Just because the likes of us are called tricksters and tempters doesn’t mean that’s all there is to us,” said Crowley, lifting the glass to their lips. “These people have enough on their plates without us shitting on them.”

“Then why,” Loki asked, frowning, “hang out in places like these?”

“I identify.”

“And the blessings?”

A sip, and then a tang of demonic fury radiated from Crowley, “Pestilence had the audacity to take a friend of mine. I don’t appreciate it - and I’ll be damned once again if I let them take more innocent lives.”

Loki was quiet, thoughtful about Crowley’s words and he focused on the party-goers before them. He then turned to Crowley themself, eyes running from head to chest and back up before pushing off the bar.

“I’ll be seeing you, you stunning snake.”

0

It was almost sweltering with the bodies around them, pressing and with rage that would make Hell proud. 

They called it the new March on Washington, a call-back to the first declaration for the rights of marginalized people. This wasn’t about marginalization - this was about the government letting thousands of people die because they believed a disease was a punishment.

Crowley had joined the crowd with as much anger as the humans had, the same indignity that burrowed into their heart at the time of the flood returned for this fight. They thought of Freddie, of all the hands he held while spending time in the hospital wings dedicated to AIDS victims and the rage fueled his steps.

When someone got tired, he’d spark their feet enough to give them a boost.

Keep going , they thought. Keep going so they know how we feel .

And Crowley felt a matching rage across the crowd before they spotted a familiar head of sleek, black hair.

Unlike the last few times they’d met up, this Loki wasn’t there to build disaster. She, for that’s what form she was in, was focused straight on the speakers on the stairs and not on any of the salacious looks that were being thrown her way. This wasn’t a trickster anymore, this was a god among the populous fighting for their rights and lives.

A smile pulled at Crowley’s lips and went to join the crowd now pulling the quilt out and spreading each square taut, every life lost to this government’s inaction. The icy aura of Loki closed in soon after, manicured hand pulling the fabric to their right.

“I’m sorry, handsome,” she said, under her breath.

“For what?”

Loki gave a little chime of a laugh, “I thought you didn’t like me because you thought less of me - I didn’t think that it was because you cared for humanity.”

Crowley scrunched up their nose, “Don’t let people hear you, I have a reputation to uphold. But, you’re not wrong . I didn’t want to be dragged into whatever mess you were trying to create. Plus, I thought you were stalking me.”

“I was just a little,” answered Loki.

The two of them straightened up as the last corner of the quilt was laid and Crowley sent her a look over his glasses, revealing their golden slits to the other supernatural being.

“I couldn’t help myself, you’re fucking gorgeous and I just wanted a little - taste ,” she said, giving a shrug. “Figured out that you were the tempter from a few incubi I found at clubs and I figured you’d be down to - get down.”

A bright blush crossed the already sun-reddened face of Crowley as they choked out, “Oh. Um - ahem. That’s really - I mean - I’m not really that kind of tempter.”

Loki’s laugh echoed through the mall, “Of course not. I know a being in love when I see them - and actually pay attention. But until this is all over, I will be flirting endlessly with you. I don’t give up that easily.”

Crowley could just shake their head, “I wish you luck but that’s a dead-end, my friend.”

She shrugged, “Still. A fun journey.”

0

Loki had heard about the failed apocalypse of the Judeo-Christians, about how the original tempter and an angel had somehow outsmarted (or outdumbed) both sides and made it out on the other end and his interest was piqued.

He’d known that Crowley lived in London, and it wasn’t hard to trace angelic grace to its source - a corner bookshop that seemed to spill-over with the amount of literature within.

An early copy of the Poetic Edda in hand, Loki hid in the shadows and watched the heavenly creature as he scared off customers with the large black snake that was perched on his shoulders. 

“A snake to a snake,” said Loki with a laugh. 

Shop cleared from other customers and mind made up, he sidled up to the beautifully plump bookkeeper, “Lovely collection you have here. I haven’t seen such a well-kept copy of the Edda since, well, since an old friend of mine’s. And an even more gorgeous specimen around your neck.”

The snake gave a loud and sibilant hiss as the angel turned to him, “Well, thank you. And I think he’s lovely too. Most beautiful snake in the world.”

Another hiss from the snake, this time a shier sound as it ducked its head under the chin.

“Not as gorgeous, though,” continued Loki, mischief in his eyes, “as the one holding the snake.”

He blushed and the snake hissed again, an angry sound that brought a full smile to his face, “Oh, well, thank you dear, I just - it’s not.”

“Get losssst, Loki,” the snake said, lifting itself from the shoulder he was resting on and slithering to the ground where it transformed into a human - into Crowley. “That’ssss not funny.”

Loki chuckled, “Don’t be grumpy, Crowley, I wasn’t going to steal him away. I was just curious about the being that I had been competing against. I understand why I lost. Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

Crowley, blushing turned to his friend, “Loki, this is Aziraphale. Angel, this is the Trickster - Loki.”

Aziraphale bowed his head, “A pleasure, Lord Loki. But - competing? What were we competing for?”

Another chuckle, “Oh, lovely angel, don’t worry about it - it wasn’t even a competition.”

Still confused, Aziraphale turned to Crowley then to Loki, “Would you like to stay for a spot of tea? I’d love to know how the two of you met.”

At Crowley’s loss of color, Loki’s smile turned sharp, “Lead the way.”

Chapter Text

The Dowlings had no way of knowing that they’d been plunged into a life of supernatural occurrences when they decided to use a church instead of a hospital to have their child. And it wasn’t even limited to the angel and demon on staff. 

What they didn’t have any way of knowing was the fertile land their mansion was built on and that it had attracted something ancient to the land to watch over the greenery - even with a terrible gardener. 

O

Freyr had felt the pulse of magic far different from any fertility god’s hand as it blossomed flowers in the garden of the ambassador. Curiosity brought him to the edges of the surrounding forest, looking for the being that had caused almost a full garden to bloom without anything more than what seemed to be - love . 

Just the feeling of that love was enough to get his heart racing, excitement and a twinge of his own feelings starting to escalate. Peering down from the thickest tree, he noticed the figure kneeling along the flowers. He was thick himself, thighs and generous tush pulling the smock tight around him and Freyr followed his curiosity closer to observe.

“Oh, you beautiful darlings, won’t you be so kind to grow just a little taller for me?” the man said, running strong and calloused fingers along the stems of the flowers. “You’ll bring joy to the day just with your shining glory. Come now, darlings, shine for me.”

The flowers, and Freyr himself, shivered at the voice and the sunflowers peeked their heads higher towards the sun. 

“Lovely,” said the man and straightened himself out. 

Freyr was not a shallow man, he saw beauty in a lot of things that the rest of the Aesir didn’t, and he was a god of beauty for a reason - and this man before him was stunning. 

Yes, there were weird tufts of white hair and his mutton-chops were unruly, the nose took up the majority of his face and his buck-teeth took up the rest, but there was so much beauty there that Freyr almost lost his balance.

The man cracked his back, his neck, and then moved on to the next patch of greenery, stumbling as something emerged from the bushes.

“Dear little friend,” he said, scooping up the garden snake that had startled him. “Aren’t you beautiful? Not the most beautiful snake, I’m afraid, but darling nonetheless. Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

Oh , Freyr thought as the gardener placed the snake among the flowers. It’s over for me .

O

It wasn’t stalking, or else, that’s what Freyr was trying to convince himself of as he perched on a tree branch outside the Gardener’s cabin. 

For the past week, he had been coming closer and closer into the land of the ambassador to catch a glimpse of this gorgeous creature. He’d watch as the Gardener cooed over the baby and flustered over the Nanny’s jokes, jealousy twisting his stomach.

Every night, he’d follow him to the cabin where the man would close all the curtains before settling in for his daily rest but this night, this night, plans had been made with a friend - at least that’s what Freyr had overheard the Gardner tell the Nanny. 

What will he look like , thought Freyr, without his smock? In regular clothes? 

Steps from the path brought his attention away from the door and towards the sound - the friend - approaching the door. A frown spread on his face at the sight of familiar red hair pinned back, of black clothes, of eyes hidden behind sunglasses, and he saw an echo of the Nanny coming up to the door.

“Oh Francis, are you ready to go?” called the voice, a mimicry of the Nanny’s but shriller and nasally. 

The door opened and Freyr felt his heart flutter against his chest. If he’d thought the Gardener was beautiful before, that was nothing compared to the vision presented now. Gone were the nose, the teeth, the hair and eyebrows and in its stead were the cutest upturned nose and clouds of white curls.

A pout pulled those lips out and Freyr wished to be the breeze as to touch them, “Crowley, that’s enough of that. We are not Ashtoreth and Francis tonight - we are Crowley and Aziraphale.”

The red-head, Crowley, smiled, “Of course, angel. We should go, we have to make it to the concert in time.”

“Then dinner?” asked Aziraphale - Aziraphale - hazel eyes brightening.

“At your favorite table at Benares.”

The smile that brightened his face was enough to dazzle Freyr even from his place in the tree, “Lovely. Let’s get a wiggle on, my dear.”

Freyr watched them leave, trying to focus on the strong back of the man instead of the round bottom, and made up his mind.

“I gotta get closer .”

O

Thad Dowling would not be able to tell you what possessed him to hire the new bodyguard. All he knew was that one moment the man had appeared saying he was responding to a position opening and the next he had a new bodyguard that would be patrolling the grounds.

After a moment of confusion, he’d shrugged and accepted it - he was an important person after all and he needed all the protection he could get if he planned to eventually run for president.

Freyr was buzzing with excited, and nervous, energy. He’d already circled the grounds twice trying to get a glimpse of the angel he was smitten with - but had not gotten a glimpse of either faces of him - of Aziraphale .

It was around noon when he heard whistling and caught a blessed glance of the crisp, white smock of Brother Francis making its way through the gardens, a flower held lovingly in his hand. In an instance, he found himself accidentally bumping into the man.

“Oh, my dear boy, I’m so sorry, I was in such a hurry, though that’s not an excuse,” said Aziraphale, eyes gleaming with concern underneath unruly eyebrows. “Are you alright?”

Freyr felt himself burning where a hand pressed his elbow, mouth dry as he nodded at the friendly face before him.

“Lovely. You’re new, aren’t you, dear? I’m Brother Francis, the gardener.”

“I’m - um, I’m Niklas, ne-new bodyguard,” Freyr stammered out, “Um, the garden is stunning. You must be a great gardener.”

The ruddy cheeks seemed to brighten with a blush, “Oh, heavens, thank you, dear boy. Miss Ashtoreth would beg to differ - she thinks I’m too soft with them - but I appreciate the compliment. I should be off. It was nice meeting you Niklas.”

And he was on his way again, smiling over his shoulder and weakening Freyr’s knees, “You, too… angel.”

And so it went for the next few weeks.

Freyr would find a reason to ‘accidentally’ bump into the gardener a few times a week, or a few times a  day if he was feeling a little greedy.  And sometimes, when Nanny Ashtoreth was too busy with her hellion of a ward, Aziraphale would invite him for a bite of lunch along the garden and Freyr’s heart would just about give out.

Every brush of their skin was electric, every smile scorched his heart, and he was sure - so sure that maybe this wonderful being could be convinced to be spirited away by a fertility god and tend to the earth in a more - ancient way.

It was just about finding the right moment to ask.

O

Nanny Ashtoreth was not an overly friendly woman, everyone on the staff knew that. She ruled her tiny domain with an iron fist and the only person that she ever seemed to give any sort of kind word towards was little Warlock - and if anyone listened close enough they’d say Brother Francis, as well.

She was feared by many,  sought after by many others, but her attention never wavered - but for the last few weeks the rumor mill had focused on her hyperfixation with the newest bodyguard Niklas. 

“I bet she wants to screw him,” the head of security said, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “Young little thing like him, she’ll be able to do whatever she wants with him.”

The chef gave a little snort, “Like Niklas wants her. Besides, it’s not him she wants - she’s just pissed because the boy’s giving that hideous thing all his attention.”

“Francis? That’s what this is about?”

“Of course, poor boy must be blind as a bat if he thinks Francis is worth larking over, but Ashtoreth must not like the fact that her territory’s being poached upon.”

Before the guard could respond, a throat cleared behind them and the two gossips almost fell over. They glanced back to find the stern face of the woman in question.

“I suggest,” Nanny Ashtoreth said, giving them a sharp, predatory smile. “That you get your facts straight before you gossip. And maybe not talk shit in the middle of the house.”

Both ducked their heads and muttered something that could’ve been considered an apology, then she walked away.

O

Crowley was not jealous.

She wasn’t .

A stupid little crush from a human boy towards his angel didn’t mean anything in the span of their years. After all, she survived Michelangelo’s crush on Aziraphale (barely), and this little Niklas means nothing when they’re on a mission to save his pitiful little existence. 

Still, she guessed it might bother her a little that Aziraphale’s kindness didn’t let him give the boy a hard ‘no’ and leave him to the worms. And maybe the little bumps and brushes and touches did bother her a little.

It was too forward for this pipsqueak.

One afternoon, a sunny day that would’ve been perfect to bask in, while pushing Warlock’s pram, she noticed the bodyguard closing in on Aziraphale, catching the angel by the waist when he stumbled, startled by the sudden appearance of the boy.

Fury ran through her body at the slow slide of his hands across the rough surface of the smock, and while she knew that, though  Aziraphale was blushing underneath the ruddy makeup on his face, he wouldn’t say anything as to not hurt this young man’s feelings.

“For Ssssatan’s ssssake,” said Crowley as she approached them. “Francis, dearie, are you alright? That would’ve been quite a nasty tumble.”

Aziraphale turned that sunny, angelic smile at him, “Oh, Miss Ashtoreth, I’m quite alright. Niklas ca - er, helped me out a little. No harm done. Now, may I take a quick look at Master Warlock?”

Crowley couldn’t fight the smile that twitched her reddened lips, “Be my guest.”

While Aziraphale’s attentions were fully on the wide-eyed babe that was reaching out towards his whiskers, Crowley turned to Niklas.

“I think you’re guarding the wrong body there, dearie,” she said, giving him a sharp smile. “Wouldn’t want people thinking you’re up to something…untoward.”

Niklas looked at her, bright green eyes staring at him with a defiant glint, “There’s nothing untoward about my relationship with Brother Francis. I’m giving him the attention he rightfully deserves.”

Crowley bristled, then something  “Whatever you think you’re doing - this isn’t courting. I’m sorry to break it to you, he doesn’t even realize what you’re doing. He’s a little slow on the uptake. Besides, what do you know about what he deserves?”

Angry magic pulsed through the earth below her and her covered glasses widened. She met Aziraphale’s eyes around the young man, his face also stunned.

“You should watch your tongue, Ashtoreth,” Niklas bit out. “I think I’m more attuned to what he deserves than you think.”

A strong hand landed on his shoulder that tensed under the touch. Niklas turned around and followed the line of the hand up to the now thunderous expression on the face of an angel. Though he cradled a child against his shoulder - there was something terrifying about him.

“Niklas, if that is your true name, I think you owe Miss Ashtoreth an apology. That is no way to talk to a lady,” said Aziraphale, tone as cold as his eyes had turned. “And I think we’re going to need to have a talk…all of us.”

And he lift his fingers, gave a snap, and the three of them - plus Warlock - found themselves at the gardener’s cabin.

“Angel,” started Crowley, then took a step back at the angry look on that face. “At least give me the hellspawn. You’re radiating right now.”

Aziraphale’s handed the babe over and marched forward, disguise falling as he stepped through the threshold, “In.”

Both Crowley and Niklas had the good sense to do as they were told. As if there was a shield at the door, the Ashtoreth disguise melted off and left Crowley in the usual clothes she wore to get Aziraphale and Niklas went through a transformation himself, losing the suit and ending up in a flowing tunic and hair growing wavy and long to his shoulders.

“Oh,” he croaked out. “Angel wasn’t just a nickname.”

Aziraphale sent him a look, “Not at all. Now sit. I’ll get the kettle on.”

O

An angel, a demon, and a fertility god all sat around the table and sipped at their drinks - two teas and a strong coffee.

Freyr had introduced himself and explained what he had been doing in the area originally - then the two beings explained their reason for intruding on what is, technically, his land.

“So, dear,” said Aziraphale, now a little calmer that things had been cleared. “What is it that made you sneak into the staff? Oh, I do hope my little miracles haven’t upset the balance of your growth.”

Freyr blushed and hid his face with a large swallow of tea, “N-no, the miracles haven’t been - what I mean is - they’ve been wonderful. That’s - erm -that’s what really brought me.”

“Oh?”

“I -uhm, I sensed the love that you were using to get the garden to grow and I got curious. And then- ” he trailed off, embarrassed.

At his hesitation, Crowley gave a little laugh and when the god turned to look at her, defensive, he took in the sympathetic smile.

“And then you caught a glimpse of an angel and you couldn’t help but fall in love yourself.”

Freyr nodded, a small smile of his own as he risked a glance over to the angel in question.

For his part, Aziraphale was almost glowing pink as the weight of the words fell on him. Hands slid away from the table to start fiddling with the hem of his sweater and the worried pout tugged his lips.

“Oh, my dear. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to - to lead you on,” said Aziraphale, eyes wide with worry. “I did think you were such a dear heart, but I hope you understand - that is - I don’t - I already - I couldn’t - ”

“It’s okay, Aziraphale,” Freyr said, holding out a hand to stop the man’s nervous wordstream. “I think - I think I figured it out. Besides, I think it would be very looked down upon for an angel to become the consort of a fertility god.”

Again, Crowley laughed, this time full-bodied and bringing Warlock to a bout of bubbling giggles as well, “Utterly blasphemous.”

O

Freyr and Crowley, who lugged a snoozing Warlock in her arms, left Aziraphale’s cabin, their  disguises sliding back on them like a cloak.

“I really am sorry about the way I reacted,” said Freyr in a quiet voice. “I didn’t realize how much history the two of you had.”

Crowley shifted, “I guess I might be, too. I, being the great demon that I am, was feeling a little -ngk- jealous . ‘S not often that a pretty boy gets so handsy with him and, well.”

“You lost your shit?”

“If you wanna put it like that.”

Freyr laughed, pitching his head back and letting the sound bounce off the trees. Crowley joined him after a moment and soon the woods were echoing with the pair’s laughter.

Then, they sobered up at Warlock’s snuffling.

“You’re the luckiest being alive, you know that Crowley?”

Crowley’s eyebrow crawled over her glasses, “Uh-huh…because I get to change his damned majesty’s nappies?”

“No,” said Freyr, a secretive smile on his face. “Because Aziraphale loves you . Because you get that soft and strong, heavenly being all to yourself. Because you got to love him first.”

The blush that crawled up Crowley’s neck washed out her hair’s color with its brightness, “I - ngk - what gives you the idea that I’m - that he - ”

A strong, long-fingered hand landed on Crowley’s shoulder, “It’s alright. Just wait - you’ll see. The most epic of love stories will have a happy ending. I know it.”