Work Text:
Wessex, 537 AD
Crowley trudged through the mud out to the area the other knights had identified as the Black Knight’s apparent stomping grounds. The miracle that was keeping his armour from being utterly unbearable wasn’t enough to actually make the stuff comfortable, and he didn’t really feel like pushing Gabriel at the moment by doing a miracle that extreme. On top of that, the mud was on the verge of leaking through his boots, and the near-rain in the air was somehow both freezing and suffocating.
All of this meant that Crowley was not in the best mood when he reached the edge of the supposed Black Knight’s territory, only to trip some sort of demonic alarm system. Nothing happened, not immediately, but Crowley still groaned loudly and tossed his hands up in the air.
“For fuck’s sake!” he shouted into the forest. “Listen, Black Knight, whoever you are, just come out here so I can–”
“Is that you under there, Crowley?”
Crowley froze. The voice coming through the mist was he hadn’t heard in five hundred years, not since… not since Rome, but he still knew it better than anything else in the universe. “Azra? What the Hell are you doing here?”
“Oh! I thought that was obvious.” A figure emerged from the mist, decked out in pure black armour, with a broad, furry cloak draped across slightly over-large pauldrons. The figure’s helmet was tucked under his arm, revealing snow-white hair and round, pinkish-red eyes, which stared at Crowley in clear shock. “I’m the Black Knight!”
Crowley stared back. “You’re the Black Knight? How?”
Azra pouted. “Oh, come now, I’m not that helpless! I used to be a Cherub. I can handle a sword better than you, I’d wager.”
“Yeah, no, I don’t doubt that,” Crowley said. “I just meant… well, you’ve tried to kill people.”
“Has anyone actually died because of me?” Azra asked.
Crowley shook his head, slowly. “No, they… they all lived, all the people you’ve fought. Actually, I don’t…” He frowned, then, realising the truth as he spoke. “I don’t even think any of them were injured particularly permanently.”
“Well, there you go, then,” Azra said. “Nothing wrong with a little Wrath, and a healthy thirst for revenge. I do have a job to do, you know.”
“Yeah, so do I,” Crowley said. “I’m meant to be stopping you.”
Azra raised one eyebrow at Crowley. “And how were you planning to do that?”
Crowley grimaced. “I was gonna start with a conversation?”
Azra sighed. “Well, aren’t you fortunate that the Black Knight is me, after all?”
“Do you want to have a conversation with me?” Crowley asked despite himself, almost dreading the answer.
Azra bit his lip, then sighed. “I… yes. I do. I… Crowley, I’ve– I– I haven’t changed my mind, but…”
“I figured,” Crowley said, “and I won’t ask you to, but, bunny–”
And then, the mud finally worked its way into one of his boots, and Crowley cursed loudly, lifted his foot up, and nearly toppled over under the weight of his armour.
“Bloody armour,” he groused. “Bloody knights, bloody King Arthur, bloody Albion. Bloody assignment. I hate this place.”
“Come back to my tent,” Azra offered. “It’s dry there, and… and we can talk, if you’d like.”
Crowley looked at him for a long moment, more nervous than he wanted to admit, and then nodded and gestured for Azra to lead the way, stomping after him in his now-bloody-damp boots.
Azra’s tent was, of course, larger and warmer and drier on the inside than it really had any right to be. The second he stepped inside, Crowley vanished his stupid bloody armour with a miracle and groaned in relief. “God, I hate this place.”
“It is a bit damp, isn’t it?” Azra said, shucking off his armour more slowly than Crowley had. Crowley noticed with a faint twinge of disappointment that he left his leather gloves on. “What on Earth are you of all angels doing so far north?”
“Mostly, avoiding meetings at the Round Table by spending time with Guinevere,” Crowley admitted, flopping down onto one of the piles of cushions near the fire that probably shouldn’t have been there, had they been human. “I’m supposed to be spreading... y’know, peace, and good will, and all that.”
“Hm. Well, I’m meant to be spreading foment and discord,” Azra said, finally abandoning the last of his armour and settling down beside Crowley, conjuring a jug of wine and two cups as he did so.
Crowley took the cup he was offered. “So we’re both working very hard, in very damp places, just to cancel each other out. It’d be easier if we just stayed home.”
Azra’s face fell. “Crowley, I– you– that would be terribly dangerous. Heaven would check!”
Crowley sighed. “Listen, Azra, I don’t know where you got the impression that the Archangels were these terribly powerful and frightening things, but I promise you, they’re not. They’re technically my bosses, but I’m a Seraph, there’s not much they can actually do to me, if it came down to it. And– and, bunny, it’s not like the Archangels can make me Fall.”
Azra whipped around so quickly that he nearly spilled his wine, his breath hissing in sharply. “What? Crowley, of course they can!”
Crowley sighed. “I know there were rumours, just after the War, but–”
“They aren’t just rumours,” Azra said. “I promise you, they aren’t.”
Crowley blinked, looking over at him. “Bunny…”
“How is the wine?” Azra asked, staring into the physically-improbable fire as though he could find some truth or comfort there. “I had to summon it from the continent, beer is generally the drink of choice up here, but I thought it worth it for the evening, I wasn’t in the mood to drink beer today.”
“Wine’s good,” Coriel said softly. He wouldn’t push, not if Azra didn’t want to talk about it. He had to imagine that, if he’d been the one to Fall, he’d have to be pissed out of his mind to really talk about what’d happened. “Do you not like the modern beers?”
“Oh, I don’t mind it, but there are days where I prefer something else,” Azra said. “They’re certainly better now that they don’t have quite so many particulates in them!”
Crowley snorted. “God, that old slop. I told Noah he wasn’t allowed to make beer anymore after a few tries, had Naamah do it instead. She was actually decent.”
“Ah! Well, I’m glad I had dear Bashaa learn from her, then. I’d hate to think he had a subpar teacher.”
Crowley grinned, finally letting himself relax into the conversation. God, how he’d missed this, this comfortable camaraderie, this easy friendship, the warm and steady love he could feel just as plain as the heat from the fire, and so much safer and more assured. Even if… even if they never talked about Rome, even if they never came close to trying something like that again, it would be worth it for this. All of it would be worth it for this.
Crowley smiled over at Azra, leaning over to refill the demon’s cup, letting the thought of it run freely through him, just for a moment, wondering if Azra could feel it, too.
I love you, bunny. I love you, and I’m here now. I won’t let you go, not ever again, not if you’ll have me. I’ll keep you safe, keep us both safe.
I promise.