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December, 1650 – Duns Tew, Oxfordshire
Crowley lounged next to the fireplace in the White Horse Pub, trying to figure out why, exactly, Hell had sent him to this rural backwoods. Usually they preferred him to be in large towns where he could have maximum negative influence.
His only instructions had been “corrupt justice and spread despair.” Not cryptic at all, that. Left a lot open to interpretation. Maybe he was being tested. I mean, if a demon could find any way at all to manipulate justice and foment anguish in an out-of-the-way village like this one, he'd have to be a hell of a demon, right?
Ha, hell of a demon. He hadn't even intended that one.
As he was nursing a mug of the local ale and generally feeling quite pleased with himself for his cleverness, he suddenly found himself with company at his small table.
“Crowley!” exclaimed Aziraphale. “What an unexpected pleasure. But whatever are you doing here?”
“I've no idea,” replied Crowley, motioning for the angel to take a seat.
“Ah,” said Aziraphale, with a mischievous grin, as he eased into the chair next to Crowley. “They just told you to get up here and make some trouble, eh?”
Crowley chuckled. “Pretty much just like that.”
Crowley took a deep breath, trying to control his feelings about seeing the angel again. He'd promised himself - friends only. Nothing unusual, nothing to tempt attention from either Heaven or Hell.
“Well, I think the humans have done your work for you, again,” said Aziraphale. “There's going to be a trial tomorrow; a poor local girl, seems to be completely innocent. I'm not privy to all of the details. I was just ordered to extend grace and mercy.”
“Oh, goody,” said Crowley. “Can I watch?”
“Certainly,” responded Aziraphale, standing and straightening his coat. “Perhaps you'll learn something.”
Aziraphale led the way to the gaolhouse, Crowley swaggering behind him through the snow. With a discreet wave of his hand, the angel was able to convince the guard that he was a relative of the young prisoner, a lady by the name of Anne Greene.
“And 'oos this with ye, then?” questioned the guard, peering suspiciously at Crowley, in his all-black ensemble.
“He is … a clergyman,” said Aziraphale, looking flustered. “Ah … come to pray for her poor soul.”
Crowley tried very hard not to scoff, and managed to turn his snort of derision into an innocuous cough.
The guardsman stepped aside, allowing both demon and angel through the door.
“Don't. Say. Anything,” warned Aziraphale. “It was the first thing that came to mind. Probably because of all the black you're always wearing.”
Crowley adjusted his glasses, smirked, and wisely kept quiet as the pair walked together to the last cell, where they found themselves face-to-face with a very young, very frightened woman.
“My dear child!” Aziraphale extended his arms warmly, beaming. “I have come to help you find mercy in this trying time!”
“Mercy?” cried Anne. “I've no chance at that. I'm going to hang for this, you'll see.”
“No, no,” assured the angel. “If you simply confess your sins and offer atonement, you shall be freed. It is promised!”
Anne shot a hopeful look towards Crowley, who was lounging against the wall behind Aziraphale. Crowley shrugged. “Seems a bit unlikely,” he said. “But what do I know? I'm just a clergyman.”
Aziraphale turned his head to glare at the demon, and quickly turned back to Anne. Reaching through the bars, he grasped her cold hands in his, and said, “Trust me.”
Reluctantly, Anne nodded.
The Next Day
Crowley and Aziraphale stood side-by-side in the courthouse yard, both of them looking glum.
Before them, on the green, was a hastily constructed gallows. Being led to it by a pair of guardsman, was Anne, hands bound, looking terrified.
“This is not how this was supposed to happen,” fretted Aziraphale. “I was told she would have mercy!”
“Yes, well, you're obviously not very well-versed in the intricacies of the human justice system, angel. Leave it to Heaven to think everything can be solved by confessing and atoning," said Crowley. He knew, better than most, the futility of confession. As for atoning, pffft ... who was listening? Not God, that's for sure. As evidenced by the scene before them.
Anne had reached the scaffold and the noose was placed about her neck. Her eyes were clenched tightly closed.
“Anne Greene,” intoned the justice. “You have confessed to the crime of infanticide and giving false testimony against a public official. For this, you have been sentenced to hang by the neck until dead. Do you have any last words?”
The prisoner swallowed, and then shook her head quickly. The executioner moved towards the lever to drop the platform.
Aziraphale reached out and grasped Crowley by the arm, turning to him imploringly. “Please?” he whispered.
Ngk, thought Crowley, reasonably. And they say I'm the tempter. The angel's hand was warm and soft on his arm, and he could feel, lightly, the press of Aziraphale's body against his side. All of that was bearable, mostly. It was when he looked into the angel's eyes that he realized everything was futile. Those beautiful blue-grey eyes, the color of an impending storm, were gazing into his with such trust, as if he knew Crowley could fix it all.
Taking a deep breath, Crowley muttered, "You owe me."
Aziraphale nodded. “Anything,” he said, pleadingly.
Oh that definitely didn't help. Crowley could imagine a lot of ways the angel could pay him back.
As Anne's body dropped through the hole in the scaffold, Crowley surreptitiously waved his left hand.
Anne reached the end of the rope, and dangled, her body swaying gently. The crowd gasped quietly, and then there was a moment of silence before the throng began to disperse. The show was over, and they had places to be.
Anne's body was cut down and placed in a temporary casket, to be held for examination by the physician before burial.
Aziraphale met Crowley's eyes, his expression alternating between hope and fear.
Crowley glanced down, where the angel's hand was still clutching his arm. Aziraphale followed his gaze, took a short, shallow breath and quickly removed his hand as if he'd been burned.
Crowley chuckled under his breath. Aziraphale might not be as enraptured with him as he was with the angel, but he was definitely not immune to Crowley's physical presence and seductive aura. Crowley had promised himself he would never actively try to tempt Aziraphale, but if the angel were to become flustered in the presence of Crowley's passive powers, well, that was fair game, rationalized the demon.
“Trust me,” Crowley said. “C'mon.”
With a nod of his head, he led Aziraphale to the small examination room at the side of the courthouse yard.
“Your turn,” he murmured to Aziraphale, as they faced the guards at the door.
Understanding immediately, the angel lifted his head and said, haughtily, “Let us through. We're here to examine the body, to determine time of death for the official records.”
“Of course,” replied the right-hand guard. “Please, enter.”
Watching Aziraphale take control of the situation, without even a word shared between them, was insanely arousing. Crowley had to take a step back and lean against the wall once they were inside the room. He needed a minute to catch his breath and regain control of his emotions.
Upon opening the casket, they were met with the sight of Anne's pale, seemingly lifeless body.
Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder at Crowley. At first, he looked uncertain, but something in Crowley's face must have reassured him, because he took a deep breath, leaned in and pressed his fingers against the side of Anne's neck.
A moment of silence, and then the angel gasped. “There's a pulse! She's alive!”
“It's a miracle!” exclaimed Crowley, throwing his hands in the air and trying very hard not to laugh.
Aziraphale shot him a look that, if looks could smite, well ... Crowley would be totally smitten.
"Settle down," the angel muttered under his breath, lips barely moving.
The guards – the same ones who had removed Anne's body from the gallows - immediately ran to the side of the makeshift coffin, eyes wide, looking stunned.
“Well?” demanded Aziraphale. “Remove her from that … box… immediately and take her to the local physicians!”
As the dumbfounded guards helped the weak, but very much alive, Anne to her feet, they looked about the room for further guidance from the two strange-looking examiners. But they were gone.
The next day, the angel and the demon found themselves about 15 miles away, sharing a table and a bottle of wine at a cozy, candlelit tavern in Oxford.
“From what I hear,” said Crowley, languidly sprawling across the chair, “all of Oxfordshire is talking about the divine intervention that brought poor, sweet Anne back from the dead. People are going to church in droves. I bet you'll get a commendation for that one, for sure.”
Aziraphale shook his head, rolled his eyes at Crowley's sarcasm and kicked his dangling foot out of the way.
"One," he replied, "you didn't actually bring her back from the dead. You just miracled it so she didn't die in the first place. Two, from what I hear, all of the locals are up in arms about the travesty of a justice system that could allow such a fate to befall an innocent victim. Turns out, the young man who … er … had relations … with poor Anne, was in fact the son of the justice of the peace. Quite scandalous.
“I rather think your side will appreciate the ensuing chaos,” he continued.
“Oh they love it,” agreed Crowley. “They're so happy about it that they've completely overlooked the fact that I actually helped an angel.”
Aziraphale's expression softened as he gazed at Crowley. He lifted his wine glass in a toast. “We … uh … work rather well together, when we have to,” he said.
Crowley groaned.
“We work rather well together,” he mimicked the angel's fussy tone. “Not good enough.”
“What do you mean, not good enough?” Aziraphale asked, sounded offended.
“I risked my life, such as it is, for you,” growled Crowley. “Just because you batted those doe eyes at me and said please. You fucked up, angel, and I want a proper apology.”
“Fine” huffed Aziraphale. “I'm. Sorry.”
Crowley muffled a smile, wanting to appear stern. It was very difficult in the face of the angel's adorable pout, which made him want to lean across the table and ...
“No, no, no,” Crowley said, struggling for control. “I want an apology … with a little dance.”
“A what?” Aziraphale's brow furrowed.
“With. A Little. Dance.”
“I don't dance,” the angel said firmly.
“You looked right into my eyes, clutched my arm helplessly, and said - and I quote - 'anything.' ”
Aziraphale's mouth dropped open, which Crowley found incredibly delightful. He gestured towards the floor in front of the table. “Go on, then.”
Rising slowly and reluctantly from his chair, Aziraphale straightened his tie and cleared his throat.
Then he proceeded to, accompanied by sweeping flourishes and turns, chant dryly in a monotone, “You were right, you were right, I was wrong, you … were … right.” On the final word, he ended with an extremely sardonic curtsy, staring straight into Crowley's eyes.
Then, tugging his jacket down firmly, he returned to his seat and picked up his wine glass.
Crowley now found his own jaw dropping. He didn't want to admit it, but that … was quite possibly the most seductive thing he'd ever seen.
“Ahem, um, very nice,” he choked, coughing on his wine.
First, I need to have a lot more to drink, Crowley thought, as Aziraphale sat back down at the table. And secondly, I have got to find more excuses to make him do that dance again.