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1020 AD – Somewhere outside Winchester, England
On the far outskirts of Winchester, nestled amid rolling hills, stood the St. Aldhelm Monastery. As monasteries go, it was rather representative of the lot. Serene, isolated, stony, a healthy dose of imposing grandeur.
It didn't appear to be any special kind of monastery. Nothing that would attract any undue attention.
It was for this exact reason that Aziraphale had chosen it. He had been looking for the kind of the peace and reflection that only an ancient, unimpressive, ignored monastery could provide.
With his penchant for dusty tomes and classical knowledge, Aziraphale found himself quite at home in the monastery's scriptorium, where the air was heavy with the scent of aged parchment and the echoes of whispered prayers. On this particular day, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, he was meticulously transcribing an ancient text, his quill gliding gracefully across vellum with practiced precision.
He found this sort of work meditative; it allowed him to slip into a state of relaxation that he had too often been denied, of late.
However, one could only take so much of being alone with one's thoughts, especially an angel like Aziraphale, whose natural curiosity for all things human and Earthly had set him quite apart from all other preternatural beings he'd ever known, excepting only one.
Reflecting excessively on the shared traits between himself and an individual he frankly should avoid any affiliation with was not his preferred pastime. He would rather concern himself with matters that were more … appropriate, for his celestial disposition.
Having duly redirected his thoughts, Aziraphale decided to take a walk. Walks were helpful, he reflected. They gave him something to do as well as different things to encounter with his senses – a myriad of sights, sounds, smells … again, experiences that were not often sought out by others of his kind.
While walking and trying not to overthink everything, as was his habit, the angel found himself drawn in a specific direction, guided by a subtle but irresistible pull - a divine aura unlike any other he had encountered here.
Quite without knowing how he'd arrived, he discovered himself in a courtyard, which featured a central stone fountain, encircled by well-worn flagstones.
The aura was stronger here. Aziraphale was having difficulty interpreting the sensation– it was neither completely holy nor totally profane but seemingly a mixture of both. Treading lightly around the fountain, he stumbled over a fortuitously loose flagstone. Later, he would remark on how … convenient … was the placement of that unsteady rock.
The mysteriously holy-and-unholy aura was the strongest here. With a sense of foreboding, Aziraphale pried the stone from its mooring, revealing a small hiding spot, which in turn contained a crumbling manuscript.
Because of course it did.
Sighing, Aziraphale struggled through a brief but intense self-monologue.
“I don't think anything good can come from a well-hidden, ancient, crumbling manuscript found in a secluded monastery.'
“But what if it's something beautiful? What if … what if it's something that will forever change the way we look at the world?”
“What if it's something that will destroy the world?”
That last one was reminiscent of something Crowley would say. And he shouldn't be taking advice from a demon, of all the beings from whom to take advice.
Satisfied with his conversation (with himself), Aziraphale unrolled the parchment and began reading.
And then he gasped. And then he furtively looked about, making sure he wasn't observed. And then he secured the document within the tunic he wore under his cassock.
Finally, he thought to himself, “I should have listened to the Crowley in my head.”
Aziraphale was quite suddenly and vehemently tired of posing as a monk. He needed a drink, lots of drinks, and quickly.
Telling himself it was for the greater good, he performed a very minor, very surreptitious miracle, changing himself into clothing appropriate for working-day, common-man 10th century England (keeping the undertunic, of course) and positioning himself just outside of The Merrie Monk's Pub in Winchester proper, such as it was.
Securing a drink, the angel seated himself near the hearth, trying to warm up and attempting to devise a plan. He pulled the manuscript from his tunic and, using the table to conceal it, began to read again, this time more slowly and attentively.
He suddenly became aware of a crackling in the air, much like how it feels right before lightning strikes, and a very pleasant smell … like dark woods and leather and …
“Angel,” said a familiar voice. “You look positively studious.'
Startling, Aziraphale accidentally crumpled the parchment.
“Oh, it's you,” he said.
“Do try to control your excitement,” said Crowley, taking an uninvited seat at the table, carrying his own drink.
“What are you doing here?” asked the angel.
Crowley was wearing his usual dark glasses, but Aziraphale had grown accustomed to being able to read his expressions nonetheless. The demon cocked his head to one side. He touched the tip of his tongue to his upper lip, and then he grinned. He appeared to be both delighted and aghast.
“Ohhh, angel,” he said. “Someone's been very naughty. You took it off of consecrated ground. What were you thinking?”
Aziraphale tried not to become distracted by Crowley's tongue, and briefly considered feigning ignorance, but he couldn't ignore the fact that, in reality, here was someone who could quite possibly help him. He didn't want to linger too long on the implications of that, so he took a deep breath before answering.
“I don't think I was thinking,” he said. “I panicked.”
Crowley was thoughtful for a moment, and then asked, “Do you know what, exactly, you've got there?”
“This manuscript,” said the angel, glancing down at his lap as he attempted to smooth it out. “It's quite extraordinary. It's said to contain the means to summon angels.”
He paused for maximum effect, but Crowley remained his usual impassive self, eyes now unreadable behind his glasses.
“Um, it's not just about summoning angels,” Aziraphale continued. “It's about balancing the cosmic order. It originated in a time when angels and humans... well, let's just say we were more involved with each other."
“Involved?” smirked Crowley, raising an eyebrow. “So you were more … hands on?”
Oh, that wretched demon, thought Aziraphale. Stop blushing, you fool. And stop thinking about his hands on …
Aziraphale shook his head, as if trying to dislodge something. He noticed Crowley eyeing him with amusement, which certainly didn't help matters. He was just so ...irresistible ... when he grinned like that; he looked like he was picturing the angel unclothed and at his mercy ...
Where did that thought come from? What are we even talking about?
"Not quite what I meant,” Aziraphale stammered. “But yes, there were... interactions. Sometimes well-intentioned, sometimes not."
“Go on,” said Crowley, resting his chin in his hand, still smiling like he could read the angel's innermost thoughts.
Sometimes it seemed as if Crowley took great pleasure in making Aziraphale feel … whatever this feeling was. Well of course, he did. He's a demon. It's his job to tempt.
But angels can't be tempted, that's been completely established, right? Crowley knows that. So why does he persist in … ugh. This was getting the angel nowhere. Taking a deep breath, and trying not to notice Crowley's grin, and his proximity, and his scent, which reminded Aziraphale of cozy bonfires, leather, and something earthy and musky … right … um, what was he saying?
"So, a group of us, um, of angels, sought to create a set of rituals and incantations that would allow humans to summon us under controlled circumstances,” Aziraphale continued, trying to focus. “It was meant to prevent uncontrolled interventions and foster a better understanding."
Crowley chuckled. “Sounds like an ambitious plan.”
Not to be deterred, Aziraphale continued. “Once we, um, the angels, realized that this was the kind of information that could be misused” - at this, Crowley made a 'pffffft' sound, which the angel carefully ignored - “the manuscript was hidden, its whereabouts known only to a select few who understood its significance. Over time, it became a legend, lost to history."
“That was a great story,” said Crowley. “But you're missing half of it.”
Aziraphale frowned, confused.
“Oh, yeah,” said Crowley. “Demons ... we wanted humans to have the power to summon us, too. It was a way to tempt them into making deals, do our bidding, you know... all that demony stuff.”
Aziraphale felt a spark of something about to coalesce into understanding, which was confirmed beyond a doubt with Crowley's next words.
“Your lot, angel, worked together with my lot, to create this abomination. It was, as the humans might say, a joint effort.”
Quietly, Aziraphale said, “Angelic intentions for understanding, demonic desire for temptation. The means to summon both of our kinds."
There was a short pause, as both the angel and the demon considered this.
“Leave it to you to accidentally stumble across it,” said Crowley, looking impressed.
“First of all,” protested Aziraphale, huffily. “I don't think it was an accident. And I didn't stumble.” Even though, technically, he had. But he didn't want to look like some kind of bumbling fool in front of Crowley. And he had to believe that things happened for a reason. It was part of the very core of his being, as an angel.
“Secondly, if this were to get into the wrong hands …”
“Angel,” interrupted Crowley. “Everyone's hands are the wrong hands. Heaven, Hell, humanity. Each of them could use this to wreak havoc and destruction against the other. It would throw the whole celestial, infernal and human balance into chaos."
“I thought your side liked chaos,” said Aziraphale.
“I don't!” growled Crowley. “Well, I mean, I do, but not like this. Not potentially world-ending chaos. I've think I've always been clear about my thoughts on that.”
He had, thought Aziraphale. He was the rare … no, the only … demon that he'd ever known or heard of who didn't actively seek out destruction. That was something to ponder. But later, not now, while trying to avert this potential crisis.
“So, I return it to its hiding spot,” said Aziraphale. “It's been there for centuries. I was a complete idiot to remove it ...”
“That you were, angel,” said Crowley, fondly. “But what's done is done, and besides, I can't imagine any scenario in which you wouldn't remove a mysterious, ancient manuscript from a hidey-hole and read it.”
How does he know me so well? thought Aziraphale, a trifle irritably.
“Besides,” continued Crowley, “as soon as you removed that” - he gestured towards the parchment in Aziraphale's lap - “from consecrated ground, it caused alarms to go off all over Hell. And if Hell knows about it, I can promise you that Heaven won't be far behind. Bunch of gossips, the lot of them.”
“So why aren't they here yet?” said Aziraphale, trying to stay calm. “And since they aren't, how did you know where to find me?”
Crowley suddenly looked uncomfortable. His gaze was no longer focused on the angel, but rather it was roaming about the tavern; he was seemingly entranced by the décor, such as it was.
“Crowley? Crowley, for God's sake, look at me.”
“Well I certainly won't do it for Her sake.”
“Then do it for mine.”
Crowley reluctantly turned his attention to the angel, who waited with infinite patience, biding time that they didn't have.
“I can … I can sense … where you are,” the demon said. “If I try. Or sometimes, if you're close … I mean, geographically … I can sense you even when I don't try.”
Taking a deep breath, he continued. “So, when I heard the alarms, of course my first thought was, 'what has that bloody angel done now?' So I … tried to find you … and I did. And that's that.”
“Can you … do that … with any other angels?” asked Aziraphale.
“No,” said Crowley shortly.
“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, not knowing quite how to say what he was about to say.
“What?” said Crowley, morosely.
“I, uh … think I can sense you, too,” Aziraphale forged on. “I … sensed you … right before you entered the tavern. I've noticed, before, that I can sense when you're near. Geographically speaking.” He was too aware of saying the word 'sense' over and over, but couldn't seem to stop himself, just as he couldn't hold back from sharing this information with Crowley, despite his ingrained knowledge that he just … well … shouldn't.
“Can you … do that … with any other demons?” asked Crowley.
“No,” said Aziraphale, shortly.
There was a long pause.
“Well,” said Crowley. “So that's. Something. But. We don't have much time left. If I know anything about Hell, they'll be sending Lord Beelzebub to retrieve the manuscript. And they are quite adept at tracking infernal objects.”
“If I know anything about Heaven,” countered Aziraphale. “They'll be sending Supreme Archangel Gabriel for the manuscript. And he's. Tenacious.”
“Angel,” said Crowley. “I think we're going to have to work together to fix this.”
Aziraphale was reminded of the time, a few centuries ago, when Crowley had proposed something similar – an Arrangement, wherein they would help each other basically by not interfering with the other, in recognition that their efforts were cancelling each other out.
Aziraphale had been appalled, then, at the suggestion, even while acknowledging, somewhere deep inside his psyche where he didn't like to explore, that it made complete sense.
Now, here he was again. A cosmic twist of fate that had landed him in a situation in which he was being presented with the choice to conspire with a demon. But he was an angel. He didn't believe in fate. Despite the fact that fate was very obviously trying to get his attention, waving its hands about ostentatiously and shouting at him. Nope. There was no such thing.
Turning towards Crowley, he nodded his agreement. It felt...right.
With a brief discussion and a couple of minor miracles, they both found themselves in a secluded oak grove just outside of Winchester. They had both agreed that they needed a place that was away from humans. It was still daylight, but the sun was close to setting.
“All right,” said Crowley. “First, we need to ward it. It won't make it impossible to find, but it will slow them down so I can distract them and we can hide it. We need to hide this thing so deep that not even Heaven or Hell could find it.”
It was Aziraphale's turn to nod, and then he pointed out, “I won't be able to ward it from my side. I can only ward against Hell.”
“And I, angel, can only ward against Heaven.”
Aziraphale met Crowley's gaze through the darkened glasses, and then reached out. Crowley responded in kind, and they grasped hands, Aziraphale's right to Crowley's left, and then they shared the manuscript with the opposite hands. A breath, simultaneously, and it was done.
Aziraphale reluctantly released Crowley's hand, and tucked the manuscript back into his undertunic. He had no doubt that the ward had worked. He could feel its power, neither holy nor unholy, but somehow both, against his chest.
At that moment, there was a displacement in the air, and two figures appeared before them in the oak grove.
“Lord Beelzebub,” said Crowley, with a slight nod of his head.
“Supreme Archangel Gabriel,” said Aziraphale, following suit.
Gabriel smoothed out his meticulously kept dark suit and looked around with a moue of distaste.
“Why are we meeting in this … outdoors place?' he said. “Surely there are more comfortable locations in which to conduct our business.”
“I don't mind it,” said Beelzebub. “It's getting dark, and in the dark, outside, in an ancient grove … well, that's kind of my vibe.”
Gabriel sighed impatiently.
“OK, Aziraphale, hand it over. We know you have it. Good job finding it and all, but we'll take it from here.”
Beelzebub nodded. “Go ahead,” they said. “It's not meant for you or for Crowley. We'll handle it. We know what to do.”
Aziraphale exchanged a glance with Crowley, who simply gazed back at him, expressionless.
“I don't have it,” the angel said, sounding much more confident than he felt. “It's … in a safe place. That's not right here.”
Beelzebub and Gabriel both groaned, looking completely put out, but not at all disbelieving. It was obvious that neither of them could sense the object.
"Then, where is it?" Gabriel enunciated with precision.
Aziraphale wasn't sure what to do next. They couldn't stall these two powerful beings forever, and he couldn't escape to hide the manuscript while they were both staring at him and Crowley suspiciously.
Then Crowley stepped up between the two. He was brash and bold and appeared completely unafraid as he looked into the eyes of the two second-most-powerful beings in all of Heaven and Hell.
Aziraphale watched, feeling a nervousness that went beyond worry about what might happen to him, and instead fear for the courageous demon standing before him.
“If I may,” Crowley said. “I would like to pose a question. One that I don't think either party has considered in this particular case.”
Beelzebub rolled their eyes while Gabriel made a big show out of checking his watch.
“It's just that,” Crowley continued. “which side is going to safeguard the manuscript? Or are we going to share it?
"This wretched angel and I were arguing about it before you two showed up." Crowley continued, cutting a glance at Aziraphale.
"Yes, I thought that obviously Heaven should take control of it. But this foul fiend ..." the angel gestured vaguely towards Crowley. "thinks it belongs with Hell. Which is patently ridiculous."
Beelzebub narrowed their eyes. Gabriel furrowed his brow. It was obvious neither one of them had considered this practicality. And the thought of sharing … between Heaven and Hell?
“Well, of course Heaven will take charge of it,” said Gabriel, finally. “Angels are inherently benevolent. We will use the manuscript for the greater good of humanity.”
Beelzebub scoffed. “Demons excel in manipulation and subterfuge,” they said. “We can easily blend into human society and distract anyone trying to get their grubby claws on it.”
Now it was Gabriel's turn to laugh derisively.
The two preternatural beings began to argue in earnest, words overlapping each other, voices rising.
Crowley took that moment to slide close to Aziraphale and murmur, “Go. I'll meet you there.”
Aziraphale found himself shaking his head furiously. “No, Crowley!” he whispered. “I won't leave you alone with these two! You either come with me or … or … I won't go at all!”
Crowley emitted a noise that can't really be spelled out, but indicated irritation.
“Angel! I've got to stick around to make sure you have time to hide it!”
“No,” repeated Aziraphale, and then pressed his lips together and refused to say anything further. He'd made his point. To continue would be redundant.
"Angels are the only ones fit to protect this knowledge, Beelzebub!” exclaimed Gabriel. “We're the guardians of humanity's welfare, and it's our divine duty to ensure the manuscript's safekeeping."
"You angels,” sneered Beelzebub, “You fancy yourselves these benevolent overseers, but let's not forget, it was your kind who rebelled against divine will once before. Humans are easily swayed by power, and we understand their nature far better. We can protect it while keeping humanity in check."
Crowley made the noise again, grabbed Aziraphale by the hand, and they disappeared from the grove.
The spot where the Garden of Eden had once been was now a serene and picturesque oasis, with lush vegetation and the tranquil meeting of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers.
It was a place that had witnessed the dawn of humanity, the choices of Adam and Eve, and the consequences of their actions.
For Aziraphale, it was a reminder of the divine's creation and humanity's potential for both good and evil. For Crowley, it likely symbolized the eternal struggle between temptation and free will.
And for both of them, it was where their unlikely alliance had truly begun.
Crowley miracled a very deep hole in the ground under a venerable willow tree. Aziraphale placed the rolled-up, heavily warded manuscript into the crevice, snuggling it up against the deep roots of the tree, and Crowley filled in the hole again. Soon it was as if the earth beneath the tree had never been disturbed.
The ward they created together was powerful – stronger than either thought it would have been. It would last quite a long time. Not forever. They might have to renew it in a few thousand years.
The angel and the demon stood quietly by the banks of the conjoined rivers.
Crowley broke the silence.
“I dunno about you, angel, but I could use a drink. A lot of drinks, actually.”
Aziraphale nodded.
“I know a great little spot in Ninevah,” Crowley said. “It's not far.”
Crowley and Aziraphale lounged at a small table that had quite suddenly come open in the popular tavern, both still relatively sober, but not for long.
“Do you think they've stopped arguing by now?” asked Aziraphale.
“Oh I very much doubt it,” said Crowley. “And when they do, I'm going to tell Beelzebub that you stole the manuscript from me and disappeared. And you, angel, are going to tell Gabriel that I stole the manuscript from you and you've no idea where to find me.”
Aziraphale felt a pang, somewhere near where his heart resided in this corporeal body. He tried to sweep the feeling away by drinking more.
Crowley, however, was very perceptive.
“Why so ssssad, angel?” he said. He was starting to hiss. When he started to get drunk, some of his more serpentine habits rose to the forefront.
Aziraphale frowned. His better judgment was being negatively affected by the alcohol. Which, after all, is kind of the point.
“It's just … we'll have to. Stay away from each other. For a while. Until suspicions die down.”
“And that. Makes you sad?” asked Crowley, somewhat incredulously.
“Oh, never mind!” Aziraphale said, finishing off another drink. “No, it doesn't make me sad at all. In fact, it makes me deliri … delirioush … very happy.”
“I don't think it does, angel,” laughed Crowley. Why was Crowley less drunk than he was, mused Aziraphale. S'not fair.
“You're not s'drunk s'I am,” said Aziraphale, intelligently.
“I'm getting there,” said Crowley, looking amused, and way, way too sober.
“M gonna sober up,” said Aziraphale.
“No!” said Crowley, suddenly looking serious. He reached a hand across the table, seemingly on impulse, grasping the angel's hand. His touch was warm. And soft. He had soft hands, for a demon. Although, come to think of it, Aziraphale had never touched another demon's hands. Somehow he thought they would be rough, or scaly, or calloused or something.
He was distantly aware that he was internally babbling to himself, but he couldn't make himself care, not while Crowley was still holding his hand and looking at him like that, so earnestly.
“You've soft han's,” Aziraphale said. “They're ver' sof. And warm. Like. Cozy.”
Crowley smiled, and kept holding his hand across the table, looking into Aziraphale's eyes. Even hidden behind dark glasses, Aziraphale could feel the weight of that stare. For some reason, it made him very aware of his ... physical corporation. Especially in the stomach region, which felt suddenly ... fluttery? Was that even a word?
“Angel,” Crowley said softly. “Are you going to even remember any of this after you sober up?”
If Aziraphale didn't know any better, he'd think Crowley sounded … hopeful? But why should Crowley care? Demons … they were incapable of feeling … warm feelings. Like the ones Aziraphale himself was feeling, right now, with Crowley's hand clasping his and Crowley's eyes gazing into his.
Shouldn't be feeling this, Aziraphale told himself, forcing himself to sober up enough for coherent thought to return. It will never, never, never be reciprocated.
You will not, he thought forcefully, embarrass yourself in front of Crowley. You will not.
He pulled his hand away, suddenly furious for allowing himself to be, almost, tempted. Crowley was very, very good at his job, thought the angel.
He could feel himself blushing, and he refused to look at Crowley for a minute, until he could will his heartbeat to slow, and his breathing to return to normal. In his distraction, he wasn't noticing the emotions playing across the demon's face.
“So,” said Aziraphale, back to business. “This arrangement. You and me, working together,” he put an emphasis on the word 'working.' “It turned out well.”
Crowley was silent, for longer than was necessary to respond to a statement like that one. Aziraphale still refused to meet his eyes.
Then, finally, he sighed. Aziraphale could tell, just by the sigh, that Crowley had also sobered up.
“Yeah, I guess it turned out OK,” he said, almost grudgingly. “We sorta make a good team. A good, um, working team.”
Aziraphale finally settled his eyes on Crowley's face. He felt his anger soften, as it almost always did when he looked at the demon.
“Maybe we should work together more often,” said Aziraphale, gently testing the mood.
Crowley nodded. “Sure, angel. We can maintain the status quo, make sure things don't get too out of hand,” he said.
“We won't change the world,” Aziraphale added. “Just nudge it in the right direction from time to time."
Crowley smiled, but his smile looked sad.
“This world's a complicated place. Sometimes, it needs a bit of... balance,” he said.
Aziraphale pondered this for a moment, and then raised his glass.
“To balance,” he said.
“To balance,” agreed Crowley, toasting.
The angel and the demon sat quietly in the tavern, resting in each other's company. Enjoying the moment, knowing that it would be centuries before they could do this again.