Chapter Text
1596
To any ordinary field agent, tending the apple orchard of the Packwell homestead would have been a dream stationing. A modest but homely manor, picturesque surrounds, nobody around to worry about besides the handful of long serving staff or the occasional passerby from the village.
For the angel who had been on guard duty in Eden when the whole original sin bit happened, however, it felt a tad pointed. Like hiring the first person who dismissed the wheel as ‘a new age gimmick’ to run a cart stall.
The angel, called Aziraphale, was more professional than that. He had donned himself well for a nobleman of that period - the galligaskins might have been beyond the average apple overseer, true, but they had just the right amount of pouf - and an adequately unobtrusive name. If any wily adversaries of his chose to snicker at the spoken pronunciation of ‘Master Fell’ being somehow ironic then that was entirely a reflection on them.
As he had not had the misfortune of encountering such an adversary since around the fall of Constantinople, Aziraphale was left to engage in other highly professional practices, namely complaining to anyone else who would listen.
“‘True Discourses on the Humble Englyshe Caboch’! Besides ‘In Defence of the Plague’ it is the only literary offering in this sleepy hollow.” Neither of which improved with multiple readings. “Oh, to see a gallery, or a performance that isn’t Roland the Rowdy arguing with his cock after a sixth yard of mead.” Granted the rooster’s behaviour was often not ideal, but it made for less than an intellectual discourse. “I have found less wearisome places at the bottom of the Black Sea. No offence intended, of course.”
The old housekeeper, Aida, took none for she could hardly argue. Caboches were overrated. Parsnips, now there was a vegetable to get one’s chaperon in a knot.
“It’s hardly as if there is a lack of good that needs doing elsewhere,” continued Aziraphale. “Sandalphon is assisting in what will become known as the Great Mitigation, and claims to similarly be having great success setting things up in Ethiopia.”
Unsurprising, to his mind, for the traditional kitfo there was heavenly. Always easier to encourage people to kindness where they had access to decent food. Resources were important, who knew.
Upstairs did. Except the thinking was still that being good when times were good was like playing on easy mode, and didn’t count all the more when an extra challenge was thrown into the mix, like famine-inducing locusts and cholera outbreaks.
“You’re right,” he declared, despite the utter absence of suggestion. “I must speak up. He cannot confine me here, without goals, without purpose, while even the horses are better employed! At least they get decently fed and ridden!”
Aida's lungs must have been playing up again for she was beset with a horrible bout of coughing, and had to accept the .
“The next time I see Gabriel I will give him a jolly good talking to, mark my words.”
Between the rows came a whistling so cheerful the sun itself seemed to shine upon the blossoms and say 'surely you can flower harder than that, bud.' Aziraphale recognised it immediately as his incoming superior and handled it with the grace and patience of a being of divine power. In other words, by flying into a complete tizzy.
“That's him!” Could one shoo an elderly lady? Could she hobble any faster? No, it seemed, and since encouraging her to do so had the opposite effect, the only option was to steer her between the trees. A nice, shady place to rest, plus with those gnarled, twisted limbs she would blend in perfectly. “Pretend like you haven’t heard any of this.”
“I haven’t.”
Gabriel was, as usual, looking pleased with himself. This was despite the fashion being very swishy, which he felt was undesirable. Still didn’t quite have a handle on these ‘cod peaces’ either but presumably which direction they faced was a matter of personal preference.
"Aziraphale! Thought I'd pop in and see how you were handling your core duties. Get it?” If there was one thing worse than apple-based humour it was being expected to enjoy it. “Word play! Marvellous.”
The small smile Aziraphale had to offer such mind blowing wit planted a seed of concern, however, and the archangel frowned. “Something wrong?”
Everything, everything was wrong. “Oh! Ah. Nothing. Everything is absolutely tip-top.” The duty to stay positive wrestled with the need to be truthful until, “I was-” Not curious, anything but curious. “-wondering whether, however…”
“Yes?”
“There might be something.. more useful for me to be doing.”
“More useful?”
“In an area that isn’t here.”
Might as well have asked for a hat made of mackerel. "There might be, Aziraphale, but then how would you complete your critical and ultra important objective?"
"Too right you are." Aziraphale was plastering on that cheer thicker than Scottish porridge. "About that objective though. What is it?"
"It's critical, Aziraphale."
"Yes."
"And ultra important."
"Doubtless."
"Well," Gabriel said, clapping his hands together. "Glad we could clear that up."
Before the sheer thrill of this enlightening conversation could pass over Aziraphale’s face, his ever inspiring leader leaned in. “I know what you’re really asking for, though.”
A thought that was both relieving and terrifying. “Oh?”
“For more work of course!” Waggling a finger in a mock scold. “Angling for that promotion at last. Great to see. Don’t worry, I’ll track down an extra challenge just for you.”
This was not quite what Aziraphale had hoped. “No, no. I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble.” Please do not go to any trouble.
Gabriel smiled and clasped the other by the shoulders in a gesture that was intended to radiate benevolence. "My pleasure, truly.” Time to take his leave, but not without throwing back some extra reassurance. “Will drum up the difficulty level for you right away. Give you something to really test your nettles.”
Oh what an ill fate to befall him. Although, to be fair, it wasn’t the only thing that had fallen.
“I gone fallen in the scrub,” called Aida, from the scrub.
As it happened, on the other side of the very same village was somebody who had taken a far bigger tumble. While this event had happened quite a few thousand years previous, they remained not entirely over it.
That, however, was not the topic of that morning’s moping.
"I pray thee, Ashtoreth, be merry.”
"Pray me?" The snort that echoed from the other side of the settee was enough to rattle a cement gorilla. “I’m already faking merry as much as I am physically capable. Merry central over here. Praying’s got to be the last thing that’d help it.”
The duke's daughter Celia stood by that swath of skirts spilt upon her own furnishings like the world's laziest oil slick and tried to look stern.
“Being my Lady of the Bedchamber does not entitle you to spend your entire time in it.”
“Bit of a misleading title then.”
"Are you still sulking about inadvertently causing the whole exile business?"
"They were meant to be friends! All I asked was why a torchbearer wasn’t called a knight light; how'd I know that'd cause such a ridiculous debate your old man would seize power and yeet Duke Whatshisface out of the kingdom?"
"Yeet?"
"It's a word, give it time to catch on."
"It doesn't matter. You're a demon-"
"Still baffled as to how you worked that out."
"You have been skulking around this court since I was yea high, encouraging the old duke's excesses under the guise of ‘womanly advice’ and siphoning off the mulled wine.” Not to mention proper infernal activity, such suggesting caterpillars be subpoenaed for damages, or naming stoolball. “Besides, you sleep grumble.”
“I will mindwipe you. See if I don’t.”
Celia paid that as much attention as it deserved. "Come on, wouldn't you prefer to go back to the old days? Throw this grim puritan to the curb and get the fun one back?"
Trying a temptation, was she? The tyke. "Hold on, isn't this your father we're talking about? Should you be so keen to enlist dark forces to enact his disposal?"
"It's making him miserable." With a sigh, Celia sat. "All this pressure has him wrapped up in enacting stupid decrees on ‘morality’, banning mince pies and trying to control people rather than protect them. I'd rather lose his power than lose his happiness."
"Headquarters has been rather impressed," agreed the demon. "Souls are coming in with twice the despair as before, and it's spreading. Amazing what can happen when you outlaw pastries."
"So you'll help?"
Poor sweet summer child. "Nah. Much less work lying around and feeling woeful." Particularly when a demon could spin events to their own credit, it rather removed any impetus for change.
Strangling her frustration, Celia cut around to the other side of the couch upon which the useless creature had flopped. "We had a deal. I appoint you as an attendant to save you traipsing off after the old duke, whose name is Duke Senior, by the by, and all his followers into the Forest of Arden-"
A shudder passed over her at the thought. Camping. Even worse, camping and singing. Nobody outdoors had a right to be as jolly about the whole ordeal as that gang was rumoured to be. Had to be the worst form of torture they’d come up with yet.
"-and you fix this mess!"
So bad cop, was it? Luckily Ashtoreth had a technique for dealing with that sort of appeal to authority: malicious compliance. "Right, right right. So we did. And remind me, what was the timeframe set for said resolution?" Watching realisation hit Celia, as it inevitably did, before rolling over. "Second lesson in making agreements with occult forces, princess: attention to detail."
"What was the first lesson?"
"Don't."
The stubborn, exasperating… “If you won't cheer this place up, I'll outsource it.” Introducing her to this concept was clearly a mistake. “Touchstone!"
Not the jester! Their canned wit was too much for Ashtoreth, who also felt cutting remarks about the state of the world were firmly her territory. Probably be able to play the role better herself, really, if only his repertoire involved less beard-based humour. Nothing wrong with a good beard.
Before any protests could be made, through Celia's door bounded an unusual fellow. An outfit not so much tri-colour as tri-grunge, ridiculously layered but worst of all, what appeared to be three long funnels of actual hair making the points of the hat.
"Hold on, where's the regular guy?" asked Ashtoreth, alarmed, as much by the sense of the familiar as the requirement to make herself at least semi-vertical. Fully vertical, even. Double standards for females of the species applied even to posture, it was tiresome.
“Pardon the intrusion, gentleladies.. people; I’m his replacement." Now that they were closer, the faint stench of evil that lingered on lower denizens was apparent, as was the disgustingly hopeful twinkle to their thickly lined eyes. “I’ve been sent topside to study the wiles of the demon Crowley, also known as Lady Ashtoreth, the serpent of Eden, and inventor of ‘the funny bone.’ Which is you, yeah?” A glance at Celia from over their reference material. “She cool?”
What was much cooler was ignoring stupid questions. “What do you mean, study?”
The jingly demon began to look as nervous as a fan at a signing. “Underling Eric, Your Craftiness. Been tracking your career for a long time now, ever since shopping malls. Big fan.”
“Since malls?” repeated Ashtoreth, taken back. That was Trajan, Rome, 100-something AD.
“Real keen to take in all the action.” Sweet Satan, they were clutching a notebook. “Won’t get underfoot, promise. Can’t wait to watch the massive brawl happening you no doubt had a part setting up.”
“Brawl?” asked Ashtoreth. “Oh, yeah. The brawl.” A pause. “When you say 'happening' do you mean-”
“Outside, in the courtyard right now. Hadn't you heard it? Duke's champion is a mountain, already broken all three of one man’s sons, snapped them in two like dry noodles!” enthused Eric. “Horribly violent. Fantastic, eh? Would have to have a brain of battenberg to go up against him now.”
Drifting onto Celia's balcony, the pair stepped out in time to witness pre-bout peacocking. On the part of the champion called Charles, anyway, not that he needed to; he was indeed twice the build of your average fighter, and was warming up by flexing barrels overhead. One per hand.
His opponent did not appear so eager. Standing across from Celia's father, the new Duke, and his attendants, the obviously noble gent watched with the faint confusion of someone for whom warming up was something that happened to scones. It was a quietly troubled expression that the demon would know anywhere.
"They have to be kidding,” said Celia. “That one doesn’t look like he could wrestle a kitten- Ashtoreth?" Despite the demon being next to her moments before, Celia found herself speaking to air. "Lady Ashtoreth?"
Below, a sharp line of jet was already carving through the crowd to the angel.
Aziraphale knew who was up before it was even announced, but it hurt to hear anyway.
"And the final challenger for this day is Master Fell of Packwood."
Nothing for it then. Best remove some of his fine outer layers lest they be ruined in the skirmish. No sooner did he was wonder where to lay his delicately embroidered jerkin than a pair of helpful hands were by his side.
The angel thanked his assistant, until he realised who it was, and scowled.
“Should’ve known you’d be here when I heard there was trouble.”
“Bored of your usual adversaries and thought you'd test your full angelic might against an unsuspecting mortal?” countered the demon. It wasn’t as if being opposing numbers on earth since the literal dawn of time meant they could claim dibs on one another. Besides, everyone had to have a hobby. Even violent ones. Like nålebinding.
“I'll have you know this is entirely Gabriel's doing.” Anxious eyes flicked over to the imposing figure doing leg lifts with an entire wagon for a moment, before he confessed, "I may have suggested a hint of dissatisfaction at the productiveness of my current mission."
Charles had moved onto stretching his biceps by bending a palm tree over his head. "No biggie then," said Crowley, who understood. "Spot of divine power and you'll send this joker off whimpering like a whimpering thing."
The angel fussed at his hands. “No big ‘E’, quite.”
“Otherwise you’d be trying to thwart me as a holy smear on the ground.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Angel.”
“Yes, my lady?”
“You will be channelling some otherworldly strength, won’t you?”
“I thought,” said Aziraphale, straightening up. “That I am more than capable of handling this with my own corporation.”
“Aziraphale!”
"Wouldn't be honourable otherwise."
"Bloody loopy you are. Did you not hear what happened to Phanuel? Work compensation claim waiting to happen."
"The more you try to talk me out of this, the more suspicious it is."
“I can cause a distraction. Think I heard some geese nearby and-”
The demon would receive a scathing look as well as a doublet. “These good people’s day shall not be ruined by your diabolical inference, fiend. This brute shall be put in his place, and no more youths crushed in the name of pride.”
Ashtoreth might have pointed out the irony had she not been in the middle of accepting a ruffed lace shirt and trying to stay cool about it. “Angel, seriously-”
Any concern about the ludicrousness of doing this in hose was cut off by a bemused angelic smile, tunic tucked into braies.
“Have faith, Crowley. I served in the Achaemenid Guard you know!”
Stunned, the demon watched as Master Fell strode into the circle. Hard to know what was more mortifying, the cheery, "Salutations, my stalwart pugilist!" or the little bow. So much for putting the fear of God into him. Even the duke’s joyless entourage snickered, but Aziraphale did not notice.
Charles smiled the smile of a man about to have the easiest day of work in his life, and not two minutes later, there was a resounding cronch.