Archive of Our Own

Dawson City had changed, and it had changed for the worse. The city was seething with petty criminals and sleek con men who were all after the gold the prospectors had dug up from their claims. And as all those hard working prospectors were spending the midwinter at their claims, it was only criminals who remained in the city. 

The state of the place gave Aziraphale a headache. Getting the city rotting like this must have required a lot of dedication from a certain agent of Hell. 

He had avoided coming down to Dawson City the best he could, but it could not be postponed forever. A part of the steam machinery had broken, and thawing the permafrost with steam was the only way to keep the mine going during midwinter. If you did the work the human way, that is. It had been a very close call that Aziraphale hadn’t just miracled the whole of White Agony Creek into tropical temperatures when the machine broke. It would only have led to trouble, though. He was still discouraged from using miracles. Even after Aziraphale had received a commendation for smiting a demon, Gabriel still stuck to his ridiculous policies. 

Because according to Gabriel, true life as a prospector required purity, and purity required constraint. Little did Gabriel know about what was really going on in Dawson City, Aziraphale thought.

There were malicious gazes following him when he made his way through the frozen streets. He could feel them from the way his neck hair stood up. If it was up to him, the whole city could burn down. 

Well… The whole city, except –

Saloon Fortuna stood by the main road in all of its opulence. Aziraphale stopped to look at its decorative facade. He remembered how he had been drawn to the place without knowing why. The saloon still emitted that same inviting atmosphere, and it soothed the headache the corruption of the city was causing him, even with the loud music and bright lights that poured out of the saloon floor. There were lights in the windows of the upper floor as well. He caught some humans staring at him from between the curtains. They giggled and hid from view. 

Aziraphale shook himself and turned away. He was here to find himself a steam connector, and only for that. Then he would go back to his claim and finish his assignment. He had an inkling Heaven might soon let him return to London. 

It was long due.

Dawson had turned into a nest of unstylish pick pockets and graceless burglars during the past years. This of course made Crowley look like an excellent employee in Hell’s eyes, especially after a story went around that she somehow recovered from a direct angelic assault. 

Crowley didn’t mind her inaccurate reputation. Still, the truth was that Dawson had mangled its prosperity all on its own. The gold rush brought out the worst in people, all without any demonic interference. The promise of an easy fortune and the following lack of said fortune created optimal brewing conditions for crime and vices. Crowley let the humans terrorise the city all they wanted and focused on running Saloon Fortuna instead.

Running an entertainment establishment offered an excellent way to torment many people, she had found out. A woman who simply made her own money and had the ownership of her body? She must have made a deal with a devil, it was said. It was such a 14th century mindset, but Crowley honored this traditional thinking by making as many deals and contracts of employment with the women of Dawson as she could. It was the perfect opportunity, really. The church had laid down the groundwork, and all Crowley had to do was to offer a decent standard of living for a certain demographic. Humans hardly ever made tormenting themselves easier than that.

Tonight the saloon floor had been too loud and crowded, and Crowley had retreated upstairs to a spacious lounge with some of her dancers and whoever they had fancied to invite with them. Some were chatting. Some were playing cards. Crowley was trying to make her peace with the world using alcohol. It wasn’t a very successful attempt. She poured herself another drink anyway.

Dorothy and one more recently joined dancer were standing by the window, looking down at the people passing by. Crowley only partially listened to them commenting on prospectors and saloon goers. Rest of her was far away. Her fingers absentmindedly traced a scar at the base of her throat.

It was a comment from Dorothy that alerted Crowley back to the present. “Look who's made it all the way into the city! No other than notorious Mr. Fell.”

Crowley raised her eyes from her drink. That’s right; the world had gotten sharper without her noticing it. Maybe that was precisely what she had been trying to dull with this many drinks. Glasses and bottles were piling up in front of her.

“Who is he? I don’t remember ever seeing him here,” the younger dancer said. Was her name Ethel? Crowley was getting out of touch. She had used to know everyone in Saloon Fortuna better than they knew themselves. 

“Knockout Fell, they call him. He stays away these days. Must know half the city fears him and the other half hates him,” Dorothy replied. She glanced at Crowley’s direction. Even with the tinted glasses hiding her eyes, Crowley knew she had been caught staring. She quickly busied herself by making another drink. 

Dorothy had been at Fortuna for a long time now. She had been a nervous girl when she joined, just a scared kid hiding underneath unruly bangs. Now her long hair was gathered in a proud and elegant updo, and the lost look in her eyes had long since disappeared. It was replaced with a look of purpose and dedication instead. And at some point, without Crowley really realising how or when, she had become her right hand at the saloon. 

Sometimes Crowley wondered if Dorothy knew her better than what was wise for her. 

“What’s he done to cause people to hate him?” Ethel asked. No, she must have been Edith. Or was it Elsie?

“Were you in Dawson two years ago?” Dorothy asked and the other girl, whatever her name was, shook her head. “There was an infamous brawl here in Fortuna. Knockout fought the whole saloon at once! And defeated all of the toughest trouble-makers of Dawson at one go. Wasn’t it so, Miss?”

“Pretty much,” Crowley mumbled into her glass. 

“It was all the city talked about for a long time,” Dorothy continued, “and you know how losing a fight can hurt a man’s pride. There are countless people in Dawson who would like to revenge but don’t dare to face him alone.”

“Oh, I’ve heard about that!” Ethel/Edith/Elsie said. “Is he really that dangerous? He looks soft to me. I always pictured someone monstrous. Oh no, he saw us staring!” She giggled and stepped away from the window, pulling Dorothy with her. Dorothy laughed too.

“Don’t let his angelic looks fool you. He’s the most cunning of all the sourdoughs out there. And ruthless too,” Dorothy said and turned to look at Crowley with all too knowing eyes. “Is that not right?”

“He’s a pitiful excuse of a man,” Crowley announced and gulped her drink down.

A man from the next table’s card game spoke. “Yeah, what a miserable little runt.”

There was a flurry of movement and the man found himself lying on the floor with Cat’s-eye Crowley’s sharp heel pressed painfully against his throat. Cards scattered around him.

“If you ever as much as glance at his direction, I will end you,” Crowley hissed.

“Yes'm!” the man gasped.

“Get this man out of here,” Crowley said to her dancers and gave the human a kick before turning away. She went to the window and saw a glimpse of Aziraphale before he disappeared down the street. His shoulders were drawn up, his posture tense. 

Time went by so slow these days. But somehow already two years had passed. 

And still Aziraphale hadn’t come to her.

Crowley supposed it might all be easier if she went and followed Aziraphale down the street. She could walk down to him and speak her mind. Nothing was stopping her. In fact, alcohol in her blood was even encouraging her to do it. But after the ultimatum she had set when she walked out of White Agony Creek… It didn’t feel right turning back now.

She had played by Aziraphale’s rules for so long. She had pretended that they were adversaries instead of allies, allies instead of friends, friends instead of… whatever it was they had been for that one spring day.

No, Crowley was done playing Aziraphale’s game. She was done playing, period. It was Aziraphale’s turn to reach out to her for a change. Crowley deserved to set her own boundaries too. That much she had learned from her dancers. 

But Aziraphale hadn’t seeked her out for two years. Had he misunderstood what Crowley had asked for? Crowley knew she had been angry, and she had let the anger and hurt guide her words that day. But surely Aziraphale had understood. It had been simple enough of a demand. All Crowley needed Aziraphale to do was meet her in the middle. Aziraphale only needed to stop pretending like Crowley was just some demon and acknowledge that she was… whatever it was Crowley was for Aziraphale. A friend, the least. 

But Aziraphale could not budge an inch to compromise, it seemed. Crowley knew they were on the same side. Was it really so hard for Aziraphale to stop pretending they were enemies?

For a supposed being of pure love, Aziraphale had a surprisingly cold heart.

Aziraphale dug through a pile of scrap metal in a general store, hoping to find a steam connector. The corruption of the city was weighing him down again now that he had left from the calming aura of Saloon Fortuna. Who was he kidding. It was not the saloon’s aura. It never had been. It was Crowley’s. And it had the audacity to feel like home to Aziraphale.

It was hard to keep his thoughts to the task. The city brought up memories that he would rather not think about right now. Possibly at all.

It was nearly two years since he had let Crowley walk out of White Agony Creek and out of his life. The month they had shared contained some of Aziraphale’s most treasured memories. But the memories were also tainted by the miserable way it had ended.

With Crowley gone, his cabin and the valley had lost their shine. The colours had become duller, the sunsets less picturesque. The homesickness had crept in during the long and lonely winter nights, when Aziraphale had tried to keep himself warm alone in the bed they had once shared. 

And what was worse: Gabriel had turned up at White Agony Creek unannounced, a mere half a year after Crowley's departure. He had walked around the valley, poked the equipment Aziraphale had built with his own hands, picked up things at the cabin and put them back down in wrong places. In short: he had acted as if he owned the place. It had felt like a violation. The cabin was the only home Aziraphale and Crowley had ever shared, and there was Gabriel, tainting it all with his disregard. It had left Aziraphale feeling dirty and exposed. But it had also reinforced his conviction that he had done the right thing, not asking Crowley to stay. All would have been destroyed if Gabriel would have turned up just some months earlier.

Most of the time Aziraphale was sad about it all. It was the same old sadness that had settled over him that night, when he had accepted he could not be with Crowley. But sometimes he was angry too. He had thought Crowley understood him better than this. He had thought that Crowley knew better than to ask him for things he could not give. 

Come find me when you’ve stopped pretending too.

Aziraphale had thought about it, of course. And he always came to the same conclusion. He was not brave enough to go against Heaven. Not for himself, and not even for Crowley. Just thinking about it made panic rise within him, and he had to focus on his breathing to calm down. And sometimes ration out a little whiskey for himself. For medical purposes only, of course. 

On the days when he was tired of pitying himself, he reminded himself that his cowardly path was in the end the right thing to do. It was what a good guardian, someone unlike himself, would do. Crowley had almost died because of his recklessness, for goodness’ sake. He was now putting Crowley's best before his own self-indulgent whims, for once. Crowley obviously didn’t see it was for the best, but Crowley didn’t seem to understand much these days. 

Aziraphale knew they were on opposite sides. For a short time, two years ago, he had thought they might have been able to settle their differences. He had thought the two of them could even share a home together. But Crowley had not been able budge an inch in her demands and take Aziraphale’s needs into consideration. No, Crowley had expected him to just overcome his fears in that instant. 

He should have known that the demon had, in the end, a cold heart.

A sudden and unpleasant tingling at Aziraphale’s neck gave him a stop from his gloomy thoughts. He paused rummaging through the spare parts and tried to pinpoint the cause of the sensation. Something non-human was on the move, and it was not Crowley. He turned to look behind him and through the store windows he saw Famine walking down the street.

The Horsepersons operated on their own, outside of Heaven’s and Hell’s ranks. They were not Hell’s forces, which meant that Aziraphale was not meant to interfere with their actions. But the Klondike region was currently under Aziraphale’s vague protection. He found himself running out of the general store to catch Famine before he disappeared down the street.

“Excuse me, good sir," he said and tried to sound assertive. “What is it that you are doing here?”

Famine stopped and regarded Aziraphale with a smile.

“Ah. Principality. Good evening," he said with a carefree tone. “I am not doing anything. I simply arrived when I was invited.”

“Well, if you are not doing anything, would you mind... not being here?”

Famine lounged about in a manner that managed to be even more offensive than a certain demon’s typical stance. He regarded Aziraphale from head to toe. Aziraphale felt as if he was sized up for a meal. 

“I’m afraid not, little warrior. Do you not hear the humans call for me? It would be terribly impolite to refuse a direct invite. Goodbye." And with that, Famine disappeared into the shadows. 

Aziraphale’s stomach churned. He huffed on his way back to the general store. The Horsepersons had no respect for the Heavenly order. Who was Famine to call him a little warrior? He was older than Famine anyway.

Famine’s presence meant no good for the humans of Dawson. It meant more headache for Aziraphale as well. Heaven would not let Aziraphale aid humans in their struggle against Famine – he was humanity’s own invention, after all. Whatever mess humans got themselves into, it was no business of Heaven to fix. 

Aziraphale’s sour mood made storm clouds start to gather over Klondike that night. He willed the right piece to appear in the general store, bought it, and went to search for a grocery store. He’d just buy some more food supplies and leave the city as fast as he could. The sudden hunger had made his head-ache worse.

Dorothy lured Crowley down to the saloon floor and Crowley instantly regretted following. The room was buzzing, and it didn’t mix well with her inebriated state. Apparently some big buff from the North-West Mounted Police was coming to town, and it was all the room talked about. Colonel Steele was the man’s name. Good luck trying to fix Dawson, Crowley thought. The city was a lost cause.

Crowley heard snippets of conversation here and there. Heroic tales of Steele clearing out other settlements in the area. Rumours about inhumanely brave rescues. Some of the most valued card sharks of Saloon Fortuna were already packing away their chips and sneaking out as Crowley watched. This colonel seemed to be bad for business, if anything.

One conversation especially caught Crowley’s ear and she gravitated towards the front of the saloon. It was about Aziraphale. The angel really had managed to gain quite the reputation, and a bad one at that. A group of men Crowley did not know looked out of the window and spoke in low tones.

“Knockout’s back. Strolling about as if he owns the place.”

“A fucking arrogant pest, if you ask me.”

“If there only was a way to get rid of the bastard for good.”

“You wouldn’t want that, now would you?” Dorothy said to Crowley with a hint of mischief in her voice. She had appeared at Crowley’s side out of nowhere. Crowley really did not know whether she should be proud of the girl’s timing or if she wanted to go full demonic at her because of it. 

“You wish. He means nothing to me, just like all the other men of the Yukon. And just wait, he’ll come crawling back to me sooner or later,” Crowley said. The words tasted foul on her tongue. 

“Whatever you say, Miss,” Dorothy said and curtsied before leaving, like she had always done. These days there was an ironic tone to it. It usually made Crowley smile. She had always used to tell Dorothy to stop curtsying, and eventually it had turned into a little inside joke between the two of them. But it didn’t make Crowley smile today. She slithered past the crowd to the window and again saw only the hunched silhouette of Aziraphale before he disappeared around a corner. 

Two years and Aziraphale hadn’t come back to her, crawling or otherwise. Two years should have been nothing compared to their shared history, and still it felt longer than some of the centuries during which they hadn’t seen each other. 

If Aziraphale would not come to her on his own, maybe Crowley could nudge him somehow. Just to… remind him of her existence. 

Crowley didn’t hear the sudden murmur that went through the crowd around her. She didn’t notice the people pouring out from the saloon, not until someone pulled her along. It was only out there in the street that she realised what everyone was so excited about. 

Colonel Steele had arrived, and he was holding a speech on the main road.

He was a big man with a grand moustache, dressed in a scarlet uniform decorated lavishly with golden medals. Something about the man reminded Crowley of an archangel she had once known and would now rather forget about. Gabriel, that had been his name. Steele held himself with that same unquestioned authority. Even his speech had the same patterns and the grandiose but empty statements. In short, Colonel Steele was the last man Dawson City needed. The crowd around Crowley murmured and she could guess their thoughts. The careers of the many petty criminals were at stake. But it was not Crowley’s problem. She was about to turn around and go fetch another drink when she saw those men from the saloon window approach the colonel. 

“Excuse us, honourable sir?” said one of the unkempt men.

“What is it, citizen?” Colonel Steele said. Condescending, of course. Crowley shook her head.

“If we may give you a tip, sir. There is a way to eliminate all of the crime in Dawson City with one sweep.”

“Please, do go ahead.”

“You should capture Mr. Fell. He is the most notorious troublemaker in the whole Klondike region. With him gone the city would soon start to flourish.”

The crooks of Dawson City were not so stupid after all, Crowley thought. Saving their own skin and fixing their bruised pride at one go. Clever little humans.

Aziraphale walked down the empty streets and tried to find a shop that was open. People seemed to have disappeared somewhere, but it was no holiday as far as Aziraphale knew of. He hadn’t thought Dawson could get any worse, and here he was, not finding anyone to sell him any food supplies. 

Not that the city had much food supplies to offer in any case. Many of the closed shops had empty shelves. The ones that were open had nothing to sell him. Famine’s doing. Maybe the moral thing to do was to stop eating and save the food for humans. It would make the rest of his winter even more miserable.

“Mr. Fell! Sir!” someone shouted behind him. Aziraphale turned and saw a young man running towards him in a hurry. He held to his cap with one hand as if it might have otherwise fallen from his head. Once he got close enough, Aziraphale’s long memory connected the face to a place: he was one of the three men who had briefly visited him and Crowley at his claim two years ago. 

“Hello, dear boy. How are you?” Aziraphale said. “Did you make it back to Dawson with no problem?”

The boy stopped in front of him. “I hope you can excuse me, sir, but I –,” he paused to even out his breath, “– I saw you going around the city. Didn’t mean to pry, sir.”

“It’s not a problem,” Aziraphale said. The boy kept glancing over his shoulder, back towards the main street. “Is there something the matter?”

“It’s just – I heard some troublemakers telling stories about you. To the police.”

“Really?”

The boy nodded and his cap threatened to fall off again. He pressed it tighter to his head. “I think they’ll come after you any moment now.”

“I see.” Aziraphale considered the situation. The human law enforcement didn’t pose any real threat to him. However, it would be extremely inconvenient if he had to sort things out with them now, when all he wanted was to get out of the city already. 

“Thank you, my boy. I owe you,” he said and touched the boy’s shoulder. A little blessing that would hopefully go unnoticed by the upstairs. And keep the boy from losing his cap. 

“Don’t mention it, sir.”

Aziraphale fled the city. 

Crowley listened to the fabricated tales the crooks were telling the colonel about Aziraphale. The list of his bad deeds grew more and more fantastical, and the colonel seemed to eat it all up. Soon he was huffing with righteous fury. Unlike for some, it wasn’t a good look for him. 

“This man sounds like the core of the rot that is eating this city alive!” Colonel Steele boomed. “Thank you for coming forward, gentlemen. Which one of you will press charges against the scoundrel?”

The men glanced at each other hesitantly. None of them volunteered. Colonel Steele blinked in surprise. “One of you must formally sign the complaint so that we can proceed. Then the man will be brought to personally answer to whoever signs it.”

The group of men backed away from the colonel, suddenly full of excuses and places to be. Not one of them was willing to be the single target of Knockout’s wrath. Crowley watched from the periphery of the crowd and smiled. To think Aziraphale had scared Dawson City so thoroughly! It was golden. None of them dared to risk having Aziraphale brought to face them. What a story to tell Aziraphale when she next saw him!

If… If she ever saw him again. 

Without making a conscious decision, Crowley was already approaching the colonel and opening her mouth. 

“Excuse me, sir?” Crowley shouted before she had yet reached the frontline of the crowd. The people around her murmured in excitement. Everyone knew the story of Cat’s-eye Crowley and Knockout Fell, or at least thought they did, and were eager for more. 

Colonel Steele turned towards her and adopted an even more condescending tone, since Crowley appeared to him as a woman. “Good evening, ma’am. How may I be of service?”

“I can sign it. Mr. Fell forcefully dragged me to his claim two years ago and made me work for him for a month,” Crowley said and now stood in front of the colonel in her full height. It was equal to Steele’s. The man tried to straighten up even more.

“The cad! My gorge rises!” Colonel Steele huffed, barely able to contain himself. He produced an official looking document from one of his subordinates and gave it for Crowley to sign. “Your signature here, please. Remember, Miss, if you press charges, this Mr. Fell may press charges against you in return.”

Crowley signed the document without a second thought. “You just bring him to me, Colonel. I can stand some mutual pressing.”

“Excellent!” Colonel Steele passed the signed paper on to his subordinate, a lean and pristine looking man who had a horse with him. “Superintendent Scarth! Fetch this man. I shall have a word with him.”

Crowley gave the superintendent directions to Aziraphale’s claim the best she could. The route was tricky to explain even without considering the glacier that blocked the last stretch. The man listened fluently all the way until Crowley mentioned him having to find a frozen and hairy elephant inside the glacier. After that it took some time to convince him that she was not pulling his leg. Finally the man rode away, and Crowley retreated to her suite at Fortuna. A drink to sooth her nerves, that’s what she needed. Just one, of course. She had a vague feeling that she had done something reckless, but couldn’t find the energy to care. All that mattered was that Aziraphale would soon come to her.

Aziraphale would come to her.

Aziraphale. 

It was the only thought in Crowley’s head when she promptly passed out some bottles later, not bothering to sober up first. 

A winter storm continued to gather over Klondike during the next day. It rattled the structures of Aziraphale’s cabin back at White Agony Creek, but hadn’t broken out yet. Snow was waiting in the heavy clouds for an order to fall down all at once. 

Aziraphale had only just settled down after the long and demanding hike from Dawson, when the sound of trotting hoofs alerted him. Someone had rode a horse all the way to his claim. That had never happened before, and it ought to have stayed that way, if Aziraphale had any say in it. He liked to think of himself as capable of great forgiveness, but the amount of perfectly fine horses sacrificed for the gold rush was testing his limits. There was no need to injure one more by forcing it to follow the treacherous path to his claim.

He marched to the door and out into the valley and saw a lean man dismounting from the poor horse. The man was polished and pristine to the tips of his sharp moustache. He looked like someone ironed every single piece of clothing he owned. Currently he was wearing what looked like a uniform of the local law enforcement: a scarlet coat with a neat row of medals on his chest. 

So the human police had come for him, after all. 

“What is it?” Aziraphale demanded, not bothering with pleasantries. He was tired and cold, and the arrival of the man wasn’t promising anything good. His plan of spending the evening reciting his favourite poems in the warmth of the cabin was slipping away. He had even planned to hum through a symphony or two.

“There is, uh…” the man stammered and turned to look at the glacier, “there is a hairy elephant in there!”

“Is there, really.”

“Yes, I saw it, just now –” the man said but stopped once he turned back to Aziraphale and saw his unimpressed face. He cleared his throat and smoothed down his already neat clothing. “Are you Mr. Fell, by chance?”

Aziraphale considered denying it just out of spite. But it wasn’t really worth the lie, was it? Surely the human law enforcement couldn’t be much trouble for him. 

“Yes,” he said simply and went around the corner of the cabin to chop more firewood. The weather was painfully cold and the cabin had been an ice cube when he had arrived. He had been very tempted to warm it up with the snap of his fingers, but the obtuse order was still to refrain from using miracles. Aziraphale would have given a lot to see Gabriel try to survive the Klondike winter the human way, like he ordered Aziraphale to do. Gabriel would not last a day.

“I am Superintendent Scarth from the North-West Mounted Police,” the visitor said. He walked around the corner where Aziraphale had picked up his axe and set a piece of wood on a bigger log to be chopped. “I’ve been authorised to escort you to Dawson, where you will respond to charges that have been pressed against you, in account of your illegal actions.”

Aziraphale lowered the axe without much effort and chopped the piece of firewood neatly in half. He arranged another piece on the heavy log and considered his options. “What will happen to me if I follow you to Dawson?”

Superintendent Scarth answered with a flurry of complex law jargon. Aziraphale let it fly by. Some Colonel Steele was mentioned, and a penalty and even imprisonment in case the charges were deemed convincing. Aziraphale split another piece of wood, set the pieces aside and placed a new one on the log. “Truth be told, I wouldn’t much care to go to Dawson right now, even if someone there wishes to speak to me.” 

“It is also my duty to inform you that Colonel Steele has canceled your claim and confiscated your gold –”

“Good grief. That’s terribly inconvenient,” Aziraphale muttered with a sigh. If that was the case, he would need to go to Dawson. Hopefully a good talking-to would do the trick and convince whoever the daredevil was to drop the charges. He hadn’t believed any of the townsfolk would have dared to go against him, not after the horrendous reputation he had gotten for himself. But it wasn’t the first time he had been wrong. “Alright, alright. Who signed the damned paper?”

Swing of the axe, setting aside the neatly splitted pieces of wood, setting a new one on the log. Superintendent Scarth rustled through his papers and searched for the signature.

“It is signed by Miss Crowley," he said.

A crackling sound like thunder echoed from the mountains surrounding the valley. Aziraphale looked down and saw that he hadn’t only very thoroughly splintered the firewood, but also split the heavy tree trunk of a log underneath it in half. He swallowed and carefully let go of the handle of the axe. Then he plastered a chipper smile on his face before turning to look at his visitor. 

“Apologies. My hand slipped,” he said. This particular smile could dispel even the most stubborn customers from his bookshop back in London. To the superintendent’s credit, he didn’t as much as flinch. His eyes looked somewhat haunted, though. “Miss Crowley, you say?”

Superintendent Scarth swallowed and blinked before he found his voice again. “It says Miss Crowley,” he repeated slowly. He began to lean away from Aziraphale. Soon he would have to take a step back or he would fall.

“Thank you, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said and sharpened his smile a touch more. The superintendent faltered and took the step. “I think I will indeed go to Dawson, just like you asked me to.”

“Sir,” was all the superintendent said. After a moment of staring at Aziraphale, he saluted sharply, turned around and walked back to his horse as quickly as he could without running. The galloping horse and its rider soon disappeared between the trees. 

Aziraphale stood still. He stared after the visitor, long after he had already disappeared. Cold was getting to his fingers. His breath formed icy clouds with every exhale. His feet thought for him, and began taking steps to follow the hoof prints in the snow. Without packing, without preparing for the hike, Aziraphale was heading to Dawson again, with only one thought in his head.

Crowley. 

Soon Aziraphale was running, stumbling forward in the snow. He needed to get to Dawson. He needed to find Crowley and find out that all of this had been a misunderstanding. This wasn’t like Crowley. Crowley was his – had been his friend. Hadn’t she?

The short day of the Klondike winter soon faded into darkness as Aziraphale struggled to follow the path to the city. Icy wind began to howl. The storm that had been building up since yesterday finally broke and it didn’t hold back. Each step Aziraphale took had him fighting against the dreadfully cold wind that blew snow down from the sky. Never would he have begun the hike to Dawson in this weather, if he had a choice. But the thought of Crowley fuelled him on, even when snow filled his boots and wind got to his skin even through the thick winter clothes. 

He had let Crowley walk away from him that day. It had been for the best, Aziraphale had repeated to himself, over and over again. He had hoped Crowley had understood. They knew each other. Crowley was supposed to just – just know what Aziraphale meant. That’s how it had always worked. Hadn’t it?

But whatever this game was Crowley was playing now, it didn’t seem like she had understood a thing. Crowley had sent human law enforcement to meddle with Aziraphale’s assignment. It wasn’t even neglecting their Arrangement. No, it was a full on demonic intervention to Aziraphale’s Heavenly duties. It was sabotage, and it hurt to think Crowley would do this to him.

Snow continued to blow horizontally with the wind and made Aziraphale’s face go numb with the cold. Crowley had been his one and only constant in this ever changing world, and now… Aziraphale choked on a sob and he felt tears prickling at his eyes. No use crying over this. The tears would just freeze on his cheeks, and the cold was unbearable as it was.

Instead Aziraphale sent a very un-angelic curse to Gabriel’s direction. Who was that moron to ban Aziraphale from doing miracles? Gabriel didn’t know how it felt to live like a human. He didn’t know how the cold felt, the real cold. How cruel the frosty wind here was. How the very snot from Aziraphale’s nose was frosting on his face, and how the snow melted into ice-cold water inside his boots. How the muscles of these fragile human bodies would eventually tire out when you ask too much from them. And without his miracles, there really was such a thing as too much. 

Maybe he should let his corporation die just to piss Gabriel off. He could just follow Gabriel’s orders to the letter and show him the consequences. That would show how ridiculous and unreasonable his standards were.

But just thinking about the possibility hurt. His corporation was very fond of living, and Aziraphale was very fond of the corporation, no matter how harshly he sometimes spoke of it. He knew the weight of it and the feel of it. He knew exactly what foods were its favourites. He knew what brought it pleasure and he was fond of the visual look of it. It made him smile to see his reflection, whenever he had the chance. Mirrors weren’t a rarity anymore, like they had been for so many centuries. He had a couple of them in his bookshop, far away from here...

If this corporation died because of Crowley’s meddling, he would never, ever forgive her. 

No miracles, his supervisors had said. 

Well, they didn’t know the first thing about the Yukon winter.

Aziraphale was still debating whether or not it would be worth it to be petty enough to follow Gabriel’s rules to the letter, when his corporation gave up and fell into the snow. Heavy storm continued to push the snow around, and soon he was disappearing into the white.

“Aziraphale…” a sing-song voice called to him. A familiar voice...

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, barely audible. He felt so heavy. So tired.

“Angel… Wake up…” Crowley’s voice was soft and teasing. It felt like a caress. Like that spring day, now so long ago...

Aziraphale didn’t answer. He was succumbing deeper in his slumber.

“If you don’t wake up now you might not wake up at all…”

Aziraphale waited for the voice to go away. He only wanted to rest. 

Crowley’s voice didn’t let him. “Come to me… I’m waiting for you.”

“Why are you doing this?” Aziraphale whispered. He didn’t want to wake up. He was warm here, and he remembered being so terribly, terribly cold. “Why are you making this so difficult?”

“Why do you think?” Crowley asked back, voice light as a summer breeze.

“I asked you first," Aziraphale said and managed to find some bite to his tone. “You fiendish being, you inconsiderate –

“That’s right, I am devious… and cunning… and handsome…” Crowley’s tone was lulling Aziraphale deeper into slumber. He could listen to Crowley talk to him like this until he drifted away, and he would be happy to go. “Oh, you remembered me wrong there, didn’t you? I think ‘beautiful’ might be more fitting. Though I can be a handsome woman too, no problem. Humans are so funny, giving words a gender like that...”

“What are you going on about?” Aziraphale asked. There was a dissonance to the scene now. Aziraphale concentrated his efforts and managed to open his eyes. Crowley was there in front of him and he was –

Oh. Of course. Crowley was a woman these days. Aziraphale had remembered her wrong. 

“Come find me and see for yourself…” Crowley beckoned to Aziraphale. She turned around as if to lead Aziraphale away. But something was wrong about this too.

“What – why did you grow a tail?” Aziraphale stared at the cute bobby tail sticking right through Crowley’s glimmering dress. “That’s not your tail. That’s more like… a deer?”

“Fancy that, I haven’t been a furry creature before," Crowley looked over at her backside and wiggled the newly grown tail appreciatively.

“Why are you turning into reindeer?” Aziraphale asked, and watched in horror as more and more of Crowley was replaced by reindeer parts. Soon it was only her snake eyes left to tell the reindeer had ever been a demon. “Crowley? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, angel. This is your fever dream, not mine...” And just like that, Crowley vanished. She was replaced with rough mittens slapping Aziraphale’s face. He sucked in a deep breath and sat up.

“Goodness, you are alive!” a stranger in front of him said. The storm kept on blowing the snow around, and in the faint light of a flickering storm lantern all Aziraphale could see of the man were his dark eyes. Everything else was covered in thick winter clothing with snow on every surface. “I was sure I was too late.”

“What’s happening? Who are you? Where’s Crowley?”

“Take it easy now. Can you get up? You can rest in the sled.” He pulled Aziraphale up and patted some of the snow off of his clothes, before helping him to the sled and under thick furs. Then he sat next to him and grabbed the reins. The sled nudged into motion. 

It was pulled by reindeers. Aziraphale stared at them with distrust from the sled. He couldn’t see their eyes. His dream was quickly fading, but the sensation of Crowley’s presence still lingered with him. He had felt it so clearly… But now all he felt was the cold. Aziraphale was shivering badly and he felt weaker than he remembered ever having felt before.

“Miraculous luck that I found you in this storm,” the stranger said. 

“Miraculous," he mumbled to himself. Had it been a miracle? His, or someone else’s? 

Regardless, it had been reckless of him to try to follow Gabriel’s rules to the letter. He had nearly lost this corporation for good. The thought made his shivering worse. From now on he would treat his body better, he promised himself. It deserved to be looked after. He started by inconspicuously miracling his clothing dry and warm. Soon after his shivering started to calm. He added a little extra blessing of protection too for a good measure. It would not do to get discorporated by accident.

“I’m heading to Dawson City. Does that work for you?” his helper asked.

“Splendidly," Aziraphale said and focused again, remembering his determination to reach Dawson. “What is your business there?”

“I’m bringing food aid from the border. We’ve received distress signals.”

Of course. Famine was out and about. 

Aziraphale made sure the sled reached its destination in a miraculously short time. The sled pierced through the storm as if the weather was other people’s problem, and right now, as far as Aziraphale was concerned, it really was. Way sooner than he would have by foot he sensed Dawson and the reek of its viles. The city lights came to view from behind the mountains. 

When leaving White Agony Creek, Aziraphale hadn’t known what he would say to Crowley. Would he have politely asked what this was all about? He might even have suggested that it was all a misunderstanding. But now Aziraphale wasn’t sure he had any politeness left to spare. It was the cold that did it. It had always gotten to his nerves. And this time the cold had almost gotten his corporation, nerves and all. 

How dare Crowley not understand?

They reached the city and found that the way to the stables was blocked by a loitering crowd. Aziraphale sighed and stepped out of the sled. 

“Look who's back. Came to search for trouble, huh?” someone bold shouted at Aziraphale from the crowd.

“Did the big bad policeman scare you from your claim?” another one added.

Aziraphale’s hands curled into fists. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax minutely. Was it worth it to repeat the brawl from two years ago? “Gentlemen. I’m sure there is absolutely no need for disagreements. We’ll just leave this food aid and –”

In an instant Aziraphale was pushed aside and forgotten by the crowd. Instead they mangled each other, trying to reach the sled and its food supplies all at once. Aziraphale shook his head and turned away. He would not sort out any human business right now. 

He had an adversary to find.

“Good evening, old friend," Famine said and settled to watch the brawl about the food aid.

“It looks like your time here is up," Pestilence replied. 

“I’ll stay a little longer. Maybe these rations hadn’t stayed fresh after all," Famine said. “How about you?”

“I’m only getting started," Pestilence said. 

They stood and watched as a punch toppled down an oil lamp. The glass shattered and fire caught into straws and continued to climb up the wooden structure. Soon the stables were ablaze. The crowd scattered to safety, reindeers and horses following right after.

“See?” Famine said. “The rations got suddenly spoiled.”

Pestilence nodded appreciatively. Chaos was not the speciality of either of them, but they both appreciated all the little ways in which humans made their work easier. They watched in silent admiration as the flames caught the next building. The stormy wind made the fire spread quickly in the densely built wooden town.

Crowley was restless. Her leg was bobbing up and down, and if she stilled that, her fingers started tapping. There was a drink in front of her, and Crowley could have sworn she had tried her best to drink it slowly and not in her usual style. But the glass was empty again and she kept glancing towards the bottles. 

She was at the upper floor lounge of Saloon Fortuna again. There was a miscellaneous crew of her dancers and some cherry-picked townsfolk with her. Cherry-picked by who, Crowley wasn’t sure, because she could not remember inviting them there. But they were just humans. Who cared about who they were? Not her. Not today.

Fingernails tapping on glass. Her eyes, covered by the tinted glasses, glancing towards the bottles. Dancers chatting up the townsfolk and the other way around. Dorothy by the windowsill again, like just the other day. Laughter like crystal pierced Crowley’s ears. They were talking of romance of all things, the miserable creatures. Their lives, fleeting brief moments in time, so tangled up with it. 

Someone was showing off a locket. It had a lock of hair hidden in it. 

Crowley resumed to tap her fingers again. If she hadn’t, the empty glass in her grip would have soon shattered.

“Is there anyone special for you, Cat’s-eye?” Dorothy asked, a futile attempt to involve Crowley in the conversation. The girl had the gall to pretend she didn’t do it on purpose, and gazed nonchalantly out the window. “What about your English sourdough and his cute curls?”

Crowley snorted. “Him again? Come on, Dorothy, you know me. I’m not going to be swayed by any miserable prospector. I’m the Ice Queen of Dawson, the Frosty Flame of Yukon –”

“Speak of the devil. Mr. Fell is back already.”

Crowley rushed up and pushed Dorothy away from the window. 

The sight she witnessed blew her breath away. The city further down the main road was ablaze and the flames reached up to the dark and stormy sky, colouring the clouds with a poisonous tint.

But the burning city was merely a footnote to Crowley. Backlit against the hellish scenery, marching in the middle of the main street, was a lone miner. Crowley would have recognised the silhouette from anywhere. The figure took long and determined strives, his hands curled in fists and shoulders tensed up in an aggressive posture that sent a shiver down Crowley’s spine. 

Aziraphale was here, Aziraphale was coming to her and Aziraphale was angry.

Crowley would take Aziraphale’s anger over his indifference any day. There was nothing, nothing pitiful about Aziraphale’s anger. Aziraphale’s anger was righteous, and beautiful, and it might devour Crowley whole if she wasn’t careful. 

Her heart was beating loud in her chest when she left the window. “Everybody out!” Crowley shouted, her voice laced with demonic power that filled the humans around her with fear they could not name or place. She tugged pins from her hair and let it tumble down in curls. The tinted glasses were thrown in a corner. Humans scattered past her, abandoning the building, but Crowley walked slowly, deliberately down to the saloon. 

Their reunion should be set up something special.

Aziraphale marched through the burning city. The stormy gale fanned the flames behind him and he felt the heat of them in his back. Dawson was burning, and Aziraphale let it burn. It didn’t matter. He had one goal, and it was to find Crowley. Whatever was going on between the two of them had to be settled once and for all. 

The familiar shape of Saloon Fortuna loomed further down the street. The walk there was familiar too, and it wasn’t the first time Aziraphale had walked it while angry. Once Crowley had told him to stoke that anger. He hadn’t needed to. Crowley had once again done it for him.

And if any of the townsfolk dared to stop him this time, then God help them. If another brawl was what was needed –

“Mr. Fell! You are under arrest!” a voice boomed. The owner of the voice stepped in the middle of the road, cutting Aziraphale’s trajectory towards Fortuna. Aziraphale stopped on his tracks and glared.

The human who had stopped him was a tall and towering man, held upright by some inner righteousness that radiated from his very being. This must have been that colonel that he had been told about. Aziraphale looked at the man from his shining boots to his grandiose moustache and hated him.

“Get out of my way,” he said, his voice a low rumble from his chest. This, this Gabriel of a man was not getting on his way to Crowley. Not after all he had already been through.

“By the authority granted for me by the North-West Mounted Police, I shall –” the colonel continued, unfazed, or rather, oblivious, to the terminal threat gathering momentum in front of him.

“I said,” Aziraphale repeated, “get out of my way.”

Whatever Aziraphale had laced his voice with would have knocked a weaker man unconscious. It rattled the structures of the nearby buildings and was a consequential factor in the complete demolition of them once the fire reached that far. 

Colonel Steele did not know any of this. Fortunately for him, he was too far gone in his delusionally righteous worldview that the reality didn’t have too much surface to hold onto in his head. Aziraphale’s heavenly wrath merely scraped the surface of his imaginary world, where wrongs could be righted by excessive policing. In Steele’s world, criminals were caught and justice always won. Hence there was no way some petty criminal of Dawson City could get to his nerves. 

Mr. Fell’s formidable presence did throw him off his script, though. 

“Excuse me?” Colonel Steele said. He blinked and saw the man in front of him properly for the first time. The fire burning behind him lit the edges of his curly hair as if he was sporting a halo, his face remaining in shadows against the brightness of the flames. The man was shorter than him but somehow loomed larger. 

For the first time since his boyhood, Colonel Steele experienced fear. 

He didn’t recognise the emotion, though. He merely thought he had eaten something moldy that was now messing with his stomach. (It probably was the case as well, considering the state of Dawson’s food reserves.)

So Colonel Steele brushed it off and tried again. “By the authority granted for me by the North-West –”

“I don’t have time for this,” Mr. Fell said. He raised his hand in a gesture that looked like he was about to snap his fingers. Colonel Steele never heard the snap.

“– Mounted Police, I shall –” Steele continued and stopped abruptly. He felt dizzy, which was not appropriate for his rank, so he stopped feeling so. Next thing he noticed was that the air wasn’t piercing cold anymore, but cool and damp. The air smelled of old stone and mold instead of snow and smoke. He blinked until he finally began to believe his eyes. He was in some sort of a cell. The door of it was open. 

Steele peeked out the open door and saw a corridor full of empty cells. It had maybe been a prison sometime earlier that century but was now clearly unused. He wandered through the corridors, sweating underneath his thick winter uniform, until he saw another person in the distance. He barked a command to stop them. 

The poor man nearly dropped the pile of books he was carrying. He was small and definitely not police or military trained, which meant he was hardly a person at all. 

“Young man,” Steele said, even though the other man was already greying, “what is this place?”

“It’s, umm, it’s, it’s…” the man stammered, startled by Steele’s loud voice that echoed in the corridors. “It’s the Tower of London, sir.”

“The Tower of what?”

“London, sir. The Tower of London.”

The colonel out of the way, Aziraphale continued his march towards Saloon Fortuna. He didn’t manage many steps though, until another human voice stopped him on his tracks. It was a cry for help. 

None of the towns folk could have stopped Aziraphale by threatening him. But one distressed voice, a call for help, was enough to sway his determination to reach Crowley and only Crowley. Aziraphale looked at Fortuna, then to the building next to him where someone was calling for help, back at Fortuna and then towards the voice again.

“For fuck’s sake,” he grunted, and darted away from the main road towards the distressed voice. He would help someone quickly, and then get back on track finding Crowley. 

The building was a storage room, full of barrels and equipment. Something had seemed to rattle the foundations of the building quite like an earthquake, though Aziraphale couldn’t figure out what could have caused it. Fire hadn’t quite caught to this building yet, though it was starting to lick the windows and would soon find its way in. Nevertheless one heavy wooden beam had already fallen over the legs of a poor human. Aziraphale rushed towards her and lifted the beam without considerable effort. 

“There we go, dear, all is well,” he said and reached to help the human to her feet. Her legs, which had been not well at all, believed Aziraphale’s words and were well again. The human herself wasn’t quite able to keep up with all this, but her survival instinct told her what to focus on. 

“The, the, uh, kerosine, the kerosine,” she babbled and pointed towards the back of the storage room. 

Aziraphale held the human up and looked at the direction of her finger. The fire had made its way inside the building after all, from the back, and was now eagerly licking a stack of barrels. They were marked with labels that very clearly stated that fire should in no circumstances be allowed near them. 

“Oh bugger,” Aziraphale said. A quick protective blessing for the human was all he had time to do before the kerosine exploded.

Aziraphale slowly regained his consciousness and found himself lying on the street, covered in soot and debris. His head was ringing and his coat smouldering, but otherwise he was quite miraculously unharmed. 

How is it exactly, he thought hazily, that one city is able to cause this much trouble? 

The human he had saved was nowhere to be seen. He thought briefly of the police officer who he had sent to the best prison he knew of. That had probably been a touch too dramatic, he thought with a flash of guilt, and weakly snapped his fingers again.

“– shameful! Why would you lie to an officer of the North West Mounted Police about such a thing? London? London?! I was in Dawson, I was –” a voice shouted somewhere in the distance and then quieted. 

Aziraphale got up slowly and laboriously. The explosion had accelerated the spread of the fire and the buildings of the whole main road were now ablaze. Aziraphale’s gaze snapped to Saloon Fortuna. It too had caught fire while he had been unconscious. The flames were rising from its windows and smoke coloured the dark sky dirty orange. 

Crowley.

No more distractions. Aziraphale had one goal. He was meant to find Crowley. No human, no threat and no distress, was to distract him again. He took a step, willed the ringing in his ears to stop, and began advancing towards Saloon Fortuna again.

Anger, worry, fear, longing, everything was mixing up in him, and he didn’t know what was the driving force anymore. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was finding Crowley. Whether he would smite her or save her, that was to be decided later, once he had first found her.

The flames outlined the name of the saloon as he approached. Fortuna. It was a slap in the face and nothing else. Fortuna had never favoured him, never. 

She had better start now. 

Volunteer firefighters had gathered in front of the saloon, sorting out their equipment in a hurry. Aziraphale heard them debating when he rushed past them towards the burning building.

“The hose is frozen solid!” said one.

“Don’t worry, lad. The water pressure will take care of it,” replied a senior fighter. He saw Aziraphale running towards the burning building and attempted to grab him. “Sir, are you the owner of this establishment?” 

“Do I look like I run a saloon?” Aziraphale quipped back and yanked himself free. 

“Sir, you can’t go in there –” the firefighter shouted but Aziraphale ignored him. He barged straight into the inferno. 

The vision that greeted him made him stop in the middle of the saloon floor. Flames were devouring the stage. The tall curtains around it were ablaze. Heat was closing in to unbearable and smoke billowed up to the ceiling. And in the middle of the hellish scene, on the stage as if it all was part of her every day show, stood Crowley, the True Star of the North. Her dark dress reflected the colours of the fire and shone as bright as her hair, which cascaded down on her shoulders and back. 

She turned her head slowly towards Aziraphale and regarded him under heavy eyelids. 

Crowley saw Aziraphale rooted in the middle of the saloon floor, breathing heavily, covered in soot and his face glistening with sweat. The look on his face was fierce and bordering on angry. The sight of him sent a shiver down Crowley’s spine. 

Finally. Aziraphale was here.

But Aziraphale didn’t move.

Do something, Aziraphale, you blessed idiot, thought Crowley, as she looked down at him from the burning stage.

Do something, Aziraphale, you damned idiot, thought Aziraphale as he looked up at Crowley in all her glory, in her element among the flames. The look on her face was something next to loathing and indifference, and it sent a shiver down Aziraphale’s spine. But he couldn’t move. He felt as if he had been frozen by the blaze, frozen under Crowley’s gaze. 

Suddenly Crowley raised the back of her hand to her forehead in a dainty gesture. It looked foreign contrasted to her majestic stance, but it nevertheless broke the spell that was holding Aziraphale back. He saw Crowley’s knees buckle as if time had slown, and he was surging forward before he knew it. Somewhere behind him he heard the sound of shattering glass, but he could only see the figure on the stage.

“Crowl–!” he managed to shout, before a sharp pain erupted in the back of his skull and the world went black.

The firefighters had gotten their equipment working, and the water pressure sent heavy blocks of ice flying through the air as the hose cleared out. One of them had hit the back of Aziraphale’s head, and his corporation, all too familiar with the sensation by now, shut the lights immediately and called it a day.

“This can’t bloody be happening!” Crowley screeched in frustration and the grand piano exploded in a mushroom shaped fireball. She sagged on the floor of the stage, where she had artfully collapsed. What did God still have against her? Why ruin the show of her lifetime? 

The blaze had gotten through the ceiling and the building creaked ominously. Any human would have passed out by now from the smoke and fumes that filled the air. Crowley did not care. She made her way down from the stage to Aziraphale’s unmoving body and nudged him. No blood this time. But no consciousness either. Such a shame. Such a waste...

The sound of crashing timber alerted Crowley from her thoughts. The floor above them collapsed. With a roar and a gargantuous shrug the building fell in on itself in a rain of brick and timber and flaming debris. 

Outside, the townsfolk were herded back by the firefighters. One of them was explaining to anyone who would listen: “I couldn’t stop him! He must have been mad, or drunk. I couldn’t stop him! He ran straight in! Horrible way to die. Horrible, horrible. Just ran straight in.”

Then, Crowley came out of the flames, dragging Aziraphale’s unconscious body with her. She was experiencing a nauseatingly vivid feeling resembling a deja-vu, and the murderous glance she threw at the firefighters' direction made them all scatter far away from her. Crowley dragged Aziraphale across the street, in front of a building that was still mostly unharmed, and posed Aziraphale down on the ground. She then settled herself in his arms. Back to the role of a damsel in distress, she thought. Might as well. Then just a small surge of power to nudge Aziraphale awake…

“Miss! Thank the Lord! We were so worried!” 

A crowd consisting of her dancers accompanied with what seemed like half of Yukon’s pitiful police force emerged from around the corner. They dragged Crowley to her feet before she could protest. She was surrounded by relieved faces and only got a glimpse of Aziraphale’s eyes blinking open. 

“Let go of me, you –” Crowley cursed liberally to the crowd that was holding her and taking her away from Aziraphale, who for them was just a scruffy looking stranger. For everyone, except – Crowley caught Dorothy’s eyes among her crew. Dorothy was looking at Crowley, then back at Aziraphale, back at Crowley. She opened her mouth to say something, but it was too late. The momentum of the crowd was taking them away from Aziraphale, each and every member of the crew wanting to show Crowley the same care she had shown all of them, one by one, in her own cold way. But Crowley didn’t see the crowd. She saw only Dorothy’s eyes, wide and all too knowing.

Dorothy knew. Crowley knew that Dorothy knew, and Crowley couldn’t stand it. She felt exposed and she felt raw. She was not used to being read like an open book, not by a human. Not by anyone, not really. 

This is why she should never make any friends. They would just ruin everything you cared about right when it was on your reach –

“She’s hysterical," somebody said, and it was a close call that Crowley didn’t explode them in the fireball too.

“Shh, she just lost her saloon. Be considerate," someone else whispered.

Crowley was escorted away. 

Aziraphale blinked his eyes open slowly. He was laying on the cold ground. But hadn’t he just been in the saloon –

Crowley.

“You there! Mr. Fell!” that Gabriel-like voice shouted somewhere near. It made Aziraphale’s aching head throb. Colonel Steele was back in business, as if he hadn’t just been sent to London and back. Did nothing shake the man?

“Now is not the best moment…” Aziraphale mumbled and struggled to get to his feet. Colonel Steele appeared at his side and offered a supportive arm. Aziraphale pushed it away. 

“I have just heard the witness account of this honourable young man!” Colonel Steele boomed and straightened up his already pristine posture. “He has testified that the charges raised against you were made up, and that Miss Crowley did in fact spend a month at your claim willingly!”

“Did she now?” Aziraphale said. He was tired. He was sore. He wanted to go home, wherever that was. 

“It seemed so to me, sir,” a more gentle voice said. A young man stepped into view from behind the colonel, with a cap askew on his head.

“You!” Aziraphale said. There was some goodness still left in people, even in this God-forsaken city. “He visited us back then,” he mentioned to the colonel, who nodded.

The boy looked embarrassed and straightened his cap. “I wouldn’t put it so nicely. We actually intended to fight you to free Cat’s-eye Crowley, but you were simply too friendly, sir. So yes, we ended up visiting you.” He turned to speak to the colonel. “He made sure we were well fed and fully equipped before sending us away. I have to say, rarely do I encounter such hospitality around here, sir.”

“And I, on the account of hospitality being really too damn rare around here, I am going to stop investigating your case,” the colonel said to Aziraphale. 

“Does this mean I get to keep my claim, then?” Aziraphale asked.

“All charges dropped, my dear boy. On you go!” the colonel said, clapped Aziraphale harshly on his back, and marched away. 

“My dear boy... “ Aziraphale muttered. Exhaustion pulled his posture down, but he still had company. He dug up a weary smile. It took a lot more out of him than it ought to have. “Thank you, young man. It seems I owe you, again.” 

“Don’t mention it, sir. It seems that every time I run into you, I get excellent ideas for writing.”

Aziraphale wasn’t really listening. “Did you… did you by chance happen to see Miss Crowley just now?” he asked hesitantly. 

The boy too hesitated before answering. “I think she went with some other people from Fortuna.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale shrank down further. Crowley had left. 

“But many eye-witnesses were already talking about how heroically you saved her from the fire!” the boy continued chipperly.

Aziraphale had no memory of this heroic rescue. There had only been anger, the stunning vision of Crowley in the middle of the flames, and then waking up alone in the street. He didn’t understand what had happened. Had it all been part of Crowley’s scheme? Why lure him in the city only to knock him out? 

Nothing made any sense.

All the momentum that had pulled him through the storm and the fire had now run out. All that was left was soreness and exhaustion, and confusion. And hurt. Aziraphale’s throat was tight and he was suddenly fighting away tears. But there was no time for tears yet. He could cry once he got out of the city. He pushed the urge to cry away and turned to the young man once more. 

“I don’t think I ever caught your name, dear boy.”

“Jack. Jack London,” Jack said and held out a hand. Aziraphale shook it. 

“Mr. Fell. But my friends call me Aziraphale.” He saw Jack smile. “London, you say?”

“Yes. Though I’ve never been there. Am I right to guess you are from England?”

Aziraphale shrugged. Out of habit, he avoided lying even on minuscule matters like this. “London is my home.”

“How did you end up this far away from there?” Jack asked.

A surge of homesickness made its way in next to Aziraphale’s exhaustion. He didn’t try to fight it. But this time it didn’t feel exactly like homesickness to his bookshop in London, like it used to feel like. This time it was homesickness away from this place. He looked away from Jack, to the burning remnants of the collapsed Saloon Fortuna. With both Crowley and the building gone, nothing of its calming atmosphere remained.

“I had no choice but to leave,” Aziraphale said sadly. He had gotten used to the life of a prospector, but Klondike had never really been his home. Unless maybe for that brief month, two years ago... But the gold rush was coming to an end now, he knew it. Soon it would only exist in the stories people told each other. Then it would fade into history and be forgotten.

Suddenly Aziraphale caught up with something Jack had said. “Did you just say you are a writer?”

Jack nodded. 

“I am already in debt to you,” Aziraphale said, and didn’t let Jack pitch in to protest, “but I am going to ask one last favour. Write about Klondike. This will all be soon forgotten. The time goes by so fast and the present moment becomes history…” Aziraphale’s voice faded away. So much history that he had witnessed had gotten lost. So many stories that humans would never tell again.

“I will.”

“It was nice knowing you, Jack.” Aziraphale said, even though a ‘nice to meet you’ might have been more fitting, in human terms. He reached to touch Jack’s shoulder and blessed him for the second time. Debts were to be paid.

Jack frowned slightly but didn’t comment on the odd choice of words. “Likewise, Mr. Fell. Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale smiled, and with a pat on Jack’s shoulder and a last look at the smouldering remnants of Saloon Fortuna, he walked away. The weary smile disappeared from his face as if it had never been there. Only the heavy exhaustion remained. 

The firefighters had given up on this part of the city and moved on to work elsewhere. The streets were smoky and quiet where Aziraphale walked. Absentmindedly he healed the bump from the back of his skull and cleared the soot from his clothes and face.

He had gotten the ownership of the claim returned to him. His heavenly duties would not be interfered by human law anymore. He shook his head. He did not understand. After the stunt she had pulled, Crowley had disappeared, without bothering to explain herself at all.

But it was better this way, wasn’t it? Crowley had pulled away from the Arrangement, that much was clear. It meant she would stay away from Aziraphale too. And that was how Aziraphale wanted things to be. It was the sensible thing to want, after all. Just as the Arrangement had been, back in the day. Sensible.

Nothing more for him to do in the city, then. 

Crowley managed to escape her crew after being forced to drink a cup of chamomile tea. She had to resort to hypnotising only one of the dancers, one who had only then seen Crowley’s eyes uncovered for the first time. 

The others would brief the poor girl in once she’d wake up. Dorothy had always been good at that, making it sound like knowing the truth was a key to some secret society. It worked. Rest of the town still believed Crowley had a blind eye from a cougar attack.

Regardless, Crowley put a new pair of glasses on her nose as soon as possible before slipping out the door again. 

“But surely she is in no condition to go anywhere!” she heard someone say.

“Let her be,” said Dorothy, and Crowley felt sick. 

Where to go? Was Aziraphale still in town? Crowley marched through the sooty streets back to the remnants of the old Saloon Fortuna, trying to sense if the angel was still close.

The crackling embers warmed her face as she approached. 

“Your lovebird has flown away,” said a sickly voice all too close to Crowley’s ear. Crowley jumped and turned to see who had spoken to her, only to be greeted by a vision of rot, rash and ooze. Pestilence stood right by Crowley’s side. Parts of them glistened in the warm light of the dying fire. 

“He’s not my –”

“Oh, little sister, what do I care?” Pestilence said. “Neither of you get sick, do you?” Without a warning, Pestilence coughed straight at Crowley’s face. Instinctively Crowley backed away.

“We – no, definitely not,” Crowley said and desperately hoped it was true. Pestilence didn’t usually come this close and Crowley would have preferred to keep it that way. Any other demon would have envied of the state of Pestilence’s skin (or the lack of it), but Crowley had never taken onto that trend. The sight of it up close made her own skin crawl. 

“Such a shame,” Pestilence said and regarded Crowley from head to toe. Gawked at her like newly arrived prospectors sometimes had done in Fortuna, before they learned the rules of the place. But the way Pestilence did it, it didn’t feel like they wanted to peel off Crowley’s dress. It felt like they wanted to peel off Crowley’s skin. Slowly, lesion by lesion, and with immense attention and care. 

Crowley wished she had a coat to cover her bare arms. 

“Thanks for, uh… telling me,” she said and tried to regain her footing. Pestilence was now biting their lip, roaming gaze gone hazy. Crowley crossed her arms and straightened up, even though instinct told her to shrink down. At that Pestilence blinked and met Crowley’s eyes. 

“What? Oh, about the angel. Makes no difference to me. Though I do understand how it feels to want what you can’t get. Good luck,” Pestilence said, and with a last lingering look turned away and disappeared into the shadows of the smouldering city. Crowley shivered and rubbed her arms, trying to banish the feeling of something crawling over her skin.

As the oppressing presence of Pestilence receded, Crowley realised they had spoken the truth. The city was growing more dull and muffled, reverting to the normal state of Crowley’s existence. The vivid colours of the embers lost their sharpest edge and the warmth of the fire its intensity. 

Aziraphale had left. 

Crowley drew in a sharp breath. It couldn’t be. She had had Aziraphale so close, and everything had gone wrong. How had everything gone so wrong?

Suddenly annoyed at herself, Crowley sobered up. The piercing cold of the midwinter night hit her in an instant and she recoiled. But it wasn’t only the cold air that made her shiver. It was also the guilt that crept in without an invitation now that alcohol wasn’t keeping it at bay. Guilt, accompanied by a decent dosage of shame. Crowley ran her fingers over her scalp and down her hair, the elegant curls now flat and limp. God and Satan, what had she done? 

Growling in frustration, Crowley tore herself away from the glow of Fortuna’s embers and walked away. Something had to be done. Aziraphale could not be left believing that Crowley had just – had just what? Messed with his assignment to force him to come to see her? But that was exactly what she had done. There was no way Crowley could explain it away. She had said she had stopped playing games two years ago, and here she was again, tricking Aziraphale. What could she possibly say to Aziraphale in her defence?

Crowley stopped dead on her tracks in the middle of the street. People walked past her, hurrying each to their own destinations, throwing puzzled looks at her on their way. She did not see or care. 

There was no denying that she had pulled a dirty trick on Aziraphale. Aziraphale might never forgive her. Those were the facts. And there was only one thing she could say to Aziraphale to justify herself. Only one thing that would explain all her actions, outright and clear.

Suddenly Crowley was running. She gathered up the long hems of her dress and ran through the streets, back to the temporary lodgings of her crew, and searched for pen and paper. What to write? Straight to the point, no excuses, no room for a misunderstanding. Especially no room for a misunderstanding. A couple of short sentences and a signature, that was it. Crowley's pen flew over the paper, and before she could second-guess what she had written, she jammed the letter in an envelope. It sealed itself under her merciless glare. She turned on her heels, grabbed the first coat she saw on her way out, and went to find the North-West Mounted Police.

Colonel Steele and some of his men were assisting the firefighters further down the main road. Crowley debated whether she should play the role of a damsel again, but she was starting to get sick and tired of it. It had only ever been fun to do it for Aziraphale, anyway. Instead Crowley drew herself in her full height as she approached the men. 

“Excuse me? It seems you let Mr. Fell go.”

“Miss Crowley!” Colonel boomed as he saw her. “Yes, I took the liberty to do so. After he so heroically saved you from the fire, I am certain you feel the same way and drop the charges.”

Crowley had some opinions concerning human men who told her what her feelings were, but she let it slide this one time. This was not about her. The letter was a ticking bomb in her hands. Sooner she got it sent the better. She stretched her hand out to pass it to the colonel.

“I have a message I need delivered to him. It is urgent.”

“You can leave it to us, Miss,” Colonel said. He took the letter from Crowley and turned towards the crowd. “Superintendent Scarth!”

That same polished looking man who Crowley had given directions to earlier emerged in front of the colonel, saluting. 

“This urgent note must be delivered to Mr. Fell immediately. I am sure you will reach him in no time,” Colonel ordered.

The superintendent’s expression turned haunted for a moment before he regained his professional face again. “To Mr. Fell, sir? Are you certain?”

“Yes. From Miss Crowley.”

Now there was no mistaking of the haunted expression on the man’s face. “Fr-from… Miss Crowley, sir?”

“I believe she is also known as Cat’s-eye Crowley. Is there a problem, superintendent?”

“No, sir,” the superintendent said, but made no effort to take the letter from the colonel’s hands. Crowley watched him curiously. 

“To me it seems as if there is.”

“Very well, sir. A letter to Mr. Fell. From Miss Crowley. Not a problem,” superintendent said. There was a mechanical smile on his face that tried to hide a more primal emotion. He took the letter carefully, as if he too was waiting for it to explode. He then got to his horse and rode away.

“Is he trustworthy?” Crowley said. She could not afford this letter not to be delivered. 

“You have my word for it, Miss. The North-West Mounted Police always delivers,” Colonel said.

Crowley sent an uncharacteristically generous blessing after the superintendent anyway. It made her itch, but it was a small price to pay. There was to be no uncertainty about whether or not the letter reached Aziraphale’s hands. Not being sure about it would have been a death sentence. She then walked slowly back to the lodgings, where her crew was already setting up a stage for tonight’s show. 

A strange calm had taken over her. There was nothing to do but to wait. Crowley’s fate was out of her hands.

“Mr. Fell! Sir!”

Aziraphale quickly wiped his eyes dry before turning to see who had addressed him. He was still close to the city, on a hill top from where the city lights were still visible. A man on a horseback reached him. The storm clouds had moved on, and in the moonlight Aziraphale soon recognised the superintendent who had brought him the bad news earlier. 

“What is it this time?” he asked, but without any bite to his voice. He felt so tired. The last thing he wanted was more bad news. 

“There is a letter for you, sir,” Superintendent Scarth said. He got down from the horseback and held out a letter in his hand while staying as far from Aziraphale as he could. Aziraphale took the letter from him and the man mounted back on his horse right away.

“A letter?”

Scarth was already riding away when he turned to shout: “It’s from Miss Crowley!” He prodded the horse to gallop and soon disappeared. 

Aziraphale was left alone with the letter in the moonlight. He turned the envelope in his hands. He would have recognised Crowley’s sharp handwriting even if he hadn’t been told him it was from her. Why would Crowley want to write to him?

A nauseous feeling crept to him. It must be a follow up to the charges he had been freed from. Some type of new insults. More threats and disrespect. Had Crowley not shown already how little she cared about his time and effort?

Aziraphale ached. The letter burned his hands.

Would it be better not knowing what poison Crowley had poured into the letter? 

Maybe he could allow himself to imagine that there was one being in this rotten world who could… who still might... 

Aziraphale turned to look back towards the city. Its lights flickered in the valley. Over the smoking shambles he saw a window on a house, lit up, framing a distant silhouette.

Crowley looked through the window towards the mountains. A waning moon had risen and the hills were contrasted black against it. If she squinted, she could imagine a figure of a man poised on the hilltop.

Once Aziraphale read her letter, he would turn around and return to the city. Crowley was certain of it. There was no way Aziraphale would just leave and not address what Crowley had written on it. 

There was a shy knock on the door.

“Crowley? Your show is up next," Dorothy said. 

“Yes, one moment.”

Crowley sighed and looked at the moonlit scenery one last time. She stood up, took a deep breath and pulled the curtains over the window.

Saloons may burn down, but the show continued. 

The window far away in the city darkened. 

On the hill top, there was a trail of footprints. Each step had sunk deep into the heavy snow of the midwinter, and the harsh moonlight painted them with dark shadows. The trail led away from the city, towards the woods, where wolves were howling and trees crackled when sap froze over. 

On the hill top, next to the trail of footprints, was a sharp shadow casted on the snow. 

An envelope stood in the snow, abandoned, the seal unbroken.