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1501 – Florence, Italy
Aziraphale tried to sit calmly and patiently, in deference to his nature as an angel. It shouldn't be difficult – after all, the trattoria was charming, with ivy-covered stone walls, wooden beams and candlelight casting a warm glow on the wooden table.
But the angel was nervous, and sitting still was torturous.
Then he sensed a familiar presence behind him, which he noticed first by the scent – leather, smoke, cinnamon and whiskey, all of which combined to flood him with comfort. He noticed his shoulders dropping and the tightness around his eyes relaxing before he even consciously registered who it was.
“Angel,” growled a deep, gravelly voice he would recognize anywhere. “You called?”
In the years since the early 10th century, when each realized they had the ability to sense the other, they had worked out a way to enhance this … signal … or whatever it was, to allow one to call upon the other in times of need. They had played around with it in the intervening years, testing distances and strength of the signal, but never for anything serious.
This time, Crowley had been sleeping off the 14th century in a nondescript, unmemorable inn in Marseille when he was awakened by the overwhelming need to travel to Italy.
“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, not even trying to disguise the relief in his voice. For some reason, in the presence of the demon, who should have radiated chaos, he instead felt a deep calm, as if everything would suddenly, somehow, be all right.
“I'm here,” said Crowley. “What seems to be the problem?”
“I'm being audited!” Aziraphale said, shakily. “Supreme Archangel Gabriel is coming to Earth to … to… check up on me! He says it's a centenary review, but I've been on Earth for thousands of years and haven't had one, ever. I've no idea what this is about, but anything that brings Gabriel to Earth can't be good.”
Crowley took a minute to adjust his dark glasses and to settle himself more deeply into his chair. He didn't appear concerned at all. If anything, he looked perfectly at ease, like a snake coiled comfortably in its lair. How in the world did he always manage to look so confident, so … unafraid … nothing seemed to penetrate below his scaly surface. One of the perks of being a demon, Aziraphale supposed. No deep, dark emotions. Just cold, calculating logic. Well, that's what he needed right now, he told himself – strategy, not comfort.
“You should eat something,” Crowley said. “When's the last time you ate? Or drank anything? Or slept? Or even … I dunno … relaxed?”
Before Aziraphale could answer, the demon was summoning a server to the table, effortlessly, as if he was fully accustomed to everyone doing his bidding whenever he wanted them to, which he probably was.
“We'll have the antipasti to start, with the aged pecorino, followed by bistecca alla fiorentina, with a bottle of Chianti,” said Crowley.
Aziraphale found himself breathing faster, despite his best efforts to stay calm. There was something so … alluring … about Crowley when he took control like this.
He became further flustered when Crowley turned to him, lowered his dark glasses and gazed at him with those intense, amber eyes.
“Eat, drink. Then talk,” he ordered. Aziraphale complied.
Upon finishing the amazing meal – really, everything Crowley ordered had been perfect – Aziraphale found himself feeling much better – more collected, less panicked.
Crowley was resting his chin in his hands, elbows on the table, watching him closely.
“So, Gabriel has decided to check up on you, after all this time.”
Aziraphale nodded.
“What a coincidence,” murmured the demon.
“What do you mean?'
“Only that I recently received notice that my boss wants to … let's see … what did they say? Observe my work first-hand. One would almost think they were colluding.”
Aziraphale gasped. “Beelzebub?” he said.
“In the flesh. So to speak,” replied Crowley. “So, who's your target? No … no, wait. Let me guess.”
“Do you really think we'd have the same ...”
“Painter, sculptor, architect extraordinaire ...”
“Leonardo Da Vinci,” they said at the same time.
“Oh...fuck,” said Aziraphale.
“Language!” admonished Crowley, looking like he was trying to stifle a laugh.
“Look, this is not that big of a deal,” Crowley continued, still radiating an aura of calm. Aziraphale was quite certain that his own aura was not even remotely related to calm. “I'll meet with him first, tempt him towards wealth and riches. You meet with him and tempt … er …” he quickly changed tactics upon observing Aziraphale's glare. “ … I mean, sway him, towards … um …”
“Beauty, and the appreciation of the natural world as an extension of God's grace,” finished Aziraphale, firmly.
“Sure, that,” said Crowley. “And then we report in to our respective bosses, explain our interventions, and go about our merry ways. If asked, we deny any knowledge of the other's involvement.”
“That sounds … deceptively simple,” said Aziraphale.
“It is,” said Crowley. “Most angels and most demons are painfully stupid. Present company being possibly the only exception.”
Aziraphale huffed, trying to look offended, but not having much success. It seemed like the more irritation he showed, the more amused Crowley became.
“One other thing,” Aziraphale pointed out. “We'll have to act like hereditary enemies.”
“I thought we were hereditary enemies,” said Crowley, still grinning.
“Oh, you know what I mean! We can't act like we usually do around each other... like we're … “ Aziraphale stopped, not quite sure how to finish the sentence in a way that wouldn't provoke Crowley's scathing sarcasm or disbelieving groans.
“Like we're … what?” asked Crowley. If Aziraphale didn't know better, he'd think Crowley was experiencing some … anxiety? about how he would answer this question.
“Like we're not hereditary enemies,” finished Aziraphale, lamely, although that's not what he was thinking. Like we're friends, he thought. I can't possibly say that out loud. Crowley would never stop laughing.
“Right,” said Crowley, for some reason sounding resigned. “Hell forbid anyone think we were anything other than that.”
“So, Aziraphale,” intoned Gabriel, straightening his flawless, opulent doublet. Of course Gabriel would come to Earth looking like the world's richest merchant, drawing attention from everyone in the tavern. It would be beneath him to appear as any type of commoner, to actually try to blend in. “That was fairly good work, with the human. Upstairs tells me he's important in some way...” at this, the Supreme Archangel scoffed, as if he couldn't imagine any human, anywhere, having any modicum of importance to Heaven. “And it seems you have convinced him to work for the greater good of humanity. And Heaven, of course.”
Aziraphale released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
“Well, thank you, Supreme Archan...”
“However,” interrupted Gabriel, “I couldn't help but notice that snake hanging around. Seems like he's always … here. What are you doing to thwart him, Aziraphale? Because he doesn't look very … thwarted. In fact, he looks rather comfortable here, among the humans.”
Aziraphale thought quickly, which wasn't difficult for him in comparison to most other angels. I guess Crowley had a point about the relative intellectual capacity of most of the denizens of Heaven and Hell.
“Well, obviously he looks comfortable,” said Aziraphale, trying and mostly succeeding to appear bored out of his mind. “He's been down here as long as I have. But trust me, there's been nothing but thwarting going on. He wiles, I thwart.”
“Well, good,” said Gabriel. “Just … he seems crafty. If I were you, I wouldn't let him out of my sight, not even for a minute. God only knows what he would do if you weren't monitoring him.”
“Oh, of course,” nodded Aziraphale, arranging his features into a guise of indifference tempered with confidence. “I am keeping a very, very close eye on him. In fact, I doubt I'm going to leave him alone for any length of time after this. It's just too dangerous."
Later that evening …
Aziraphale sat straight and tense in the cushioned armchair that had been set before the fireplace in his inn room. It wasn't too bad, as far as inns go. Warm, cozy, lovely fire, firm bed … not that he needed to sleep, but it was nice to have the choice.
He was waiting to receive a signal from Crowley, so he could find out how the demon's meeting with his own boss had fared. Aziraphale tried to read, but he couldn't concentrate. He couldn't think about anything other than worst-case scenarios involving Crowley being recalled to Hell to be tortured for all etern …
He started at the knock on the door of his room.
Opening the door, he sagged in relief at the sight of Crowley, who was reclining leisurely against his doorway like he didn't need a spine to hold him up. In one hand dangled a bottle of a quite lovely vintage of red wine; in the other, he held a small, rectangular package, wrapped in paper and twine.
Stepping aside, Aziraphale wordlessly motioned for Crowley to enter the room, which he did, slinking towards the second chair that was positioned in front of the fire.
Aziraphale resumed his own seat while Crowley made himself comfortable, which involved an inordinate amount of lounging and stretching and ostentatiously draping himself across the furniture. Once settled, Crowley poured some of the wine into a glass and handed it to the angel, then poured a glass for himself.
After taking a long drink, Crowley asked, “How'd it go with yours?”
“Oh, no no,” protested Aziraphale. “You, first. And what's in the package?”
“So impatient,” teased the demon, removing his dark glasses. “You just can't wait to … open my package, can you?”
Aziraphale huffed indignantly. “I'm not even going to respond to that,” he said, trying to ignore Crowley's sardonic grin.
“All right, all right. The package is a gift from our mutual friend, Leo. It's a sketch, he's calling it the Mona Lisa. I thought there was something rather, captivating, about it. I'll show it to you later,” he said, motioning Aziraphale away from it. “As for my meeting with Beelzebub, well, she was rather impressed with my temptations.
“Don't worry!” he added, responding to the change in Aziraphale's expression. “I didn't tempt him to do anything evil. I just convinced Beelzebub that I did. That's how good I am.
“Now, what about you? How is his Supreme Smugness?”
“He seemed satisfied,” Aziraphale said. “He did tell me...” the angel stopped, not sure how much to reveal.
Crowley raised his perfect eyebrows. “Tell you what?”
“He told me … that I needed to keep a very close, um, eye on you. And. Um. Not let you out of my sight.” Aziraphale refused to meet Crowley's eyes, but it didn't matter, he could read Crowley's response from his body language, and could tell that the demon was quite interested in this turn in the conversation.
Somehow, without Aziraphale even being aware of how it happened, Crowley's chair was now snug against his own, only a couple of armrests separating him from the demon.
“Do tell,” drawled Crowley. “Why in the world would his supreme majesty highness want you to debase yourself with my company?”
“I may have led him to believe that I was engaged in a … hmmm … campaign of thwarting your wiles at every turn,” Aziraphale said. “And he would just like me to, you know, continue doing that.”
“Angel,” said Crowley, sounding impressed. “You know you can thwart me any time you'd like.”
Aziraphale tried to ignore the sensations these words, and Crowley's half-lidded gaze, wrought in his stomach, and other parts of his body that he wasn't prepared to think about.
“Honestly, though,” said Crowley, turning serious. “That's not a bad thing. It means that you now have a plausible reason to be around me. You know, for the thwarting.”
There was a pause, as Aziraphale gazed into the crackling fire. He could feel Crowley's gaze on his face.
“Unless, of course, that's not something you're interested in,” said Crowley lightly. “Being in my presence, that is.”
“I don't mind ...” Aziraphale began, carefully, “being in your presence.”
“Oh, well, that's all right then,” said Crowley. “As long as you don't mind..”
“But Crowley,” Aziraphale couldn't help himself. The wine was doing its work on loosening his tongue and lowering his judgment. “What about you? What would Hell say about you consorting with an angel? Enjoying meals with me? Drinking wine, in my room, together?” He was suddenly, painfully aware of the large bed pushed up against the wall behind them. “What would happen to you, if they found out … found out that … they would take you to Hell … they would... they would … ”
“Shhhhh, angel.” Crowley was suddenly right there, kneeling on the floor in front of him, his hands clutching the armrests of Aziraphale's chair, his beautiful serpentine eyes looking concerned under furrowed brows. “It's OK. It's fine,” he said, and his voice was so soothing and kind. “Nothing bad is going to happen, I promise.”
Their eyes met – the angel and the demon. And Aziraphale felt the tightness in his chest release slightly, just enough to allow him to take a full breath.
“Do you swear?” he whispered, wringing his hands together. “Swear to me, you won't put yourself in danger, for me. You can't do that. You can't … I couldn't take it if …”
“Aziraphale, listen to me,” the demon said, speaking quickly and firmly. “We've been here, on this Earth, together, for thousands of years. We both love … this planet. We don't want anything to jeopardize our positions here. So, we'll be careful. I'll be careful, you'll be careful. And it will all turn out just fine.
“I swear. I swear to you, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, and the angel couldn't help but notice how lovely his name sounded coming from the demon's lips. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” responded Aziraphale, without hesitation. “I do.”
Crowley smiled, his gaze and his grip on the chair softening.
“Well, that's all right then,” he said. “Would you like to see the sketch?”