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- France - a few miles east of Amiens. May 1918.
The sky is darkening now and the rain is steadily getting heavier, turning the muddy road into a quagmire. Aziriphale knows he isn’t supposed to still be out on the road, especially as he can’t use the truck’s lights for fear of giving away his position, but this trip won’t wait until the morning.
He strains his all-too-human eyes through the gloom. Fatigue has made them gritty; the last few months have left him feeling bruised all over. But he swallows down the creeping bitterness. He knows what the humans are going through and he has no cause for complaint.
He has the ambulance wipers going, giving him murky glimpses of the view ahead, but it’s barely enough to make out the road - and not nearly enough to see the motorcycle bearing down on him at high speed until its far, far too late.
Aziraphale can only cling onto the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip as they collide, metal screeching, then the motorcycle rebounds into the darkness and the ambulance slides to a shuddering halt, front tyres wedged into a ditch.
Dazed, he can only think, ridiculously: did he hit me or did I hit him?
For a moment he squeezes his eyes shut and forcibly pushes down the urge to undo it all with a miracle – he may still need to, but that must only be as a last resort.
“Look at my bike!! What the hell were you doing in the middle of the road?!?”
Aziraphale’s eyes snap open and his head whips round to the driver’s side window, his jaw falling open in astonishment. I know that voice.
The other driver is standing with his back to the ambulance, hands on hips, surveying his bent and buckled motorcycle and Aziraphale’s breath catches in his throat. Something in his chest blooms with warmth and he wonders in a dim corner of his mind if he’s somehow been injured and just hasn’t registered the pain yet.
The other figure turns, and Aziraphale thinks he can see the exact moment that Crowley recognises him, despite the darkened driving goggles covering his eyes. Crowley’s jaw clenches, and then he’s stepping up to the ambulance just as Aziraphale’s strangely numb hands manage to get the door open and he all-but slides out, Crowley catching his arms, steadying him.
“Aziraphale?! What in the name of all that’s unholy are you doing here? You could have been discorporated, driving like that!”
Many possible responses flash through his mind but the most pressing matter rises to the surface.
“I have a wounded soldier,” he croaks, gesturing to the back of the ambulance “– need to get him to the casualty clearing station at Gézaincourt”.
Crowley’s head tilts as he takes in the red cross on the side of the vehicle, matching the symbol on the armband his fingers are wrapped around. He steps back, relinquishing his grip, and moves to look at the truck’s front wheels. He sucks in a breath.
“Can’t fix that without a little…” Crowley twiddles his gloved fingers meaningfully.
“I know. But I-- Well, I can’t..”
Crowley turns back to him, brow furrowing, and Aziraphale ploughs on, knowing now really isn’t the time for lengthy explanations.
“I’m not supposed to be here.” He looks back at the road; back at the road that brought him here. “I was told not to interfere”. He tries to keep the anger and desperation from his voice, but he isn’t sure he succeeds.
Crowley says nothing, but from the way his lips thin Aziraphale knows he understands.
“So you can’t afford to attract any attention from Up Above.” A sigh, then; and with a slight gesture from Crowley’s hand the truck’s front wheels lift and reverse themselves out of the ditch, settling back on the road.
Aziraphale opens his mouth to thank him – and won’t Crowley be in trouble for this? Has he just passed the risk over to the demon? -- but Crowley’s head tilts again and his voice, softer now, cuts off his train of thought.
“Sorry, Angel”, he says gently, ”but I think it’s too late.” Crowley’s shaded gaze directs Aziraphale to the back of the truck and he knows before he throws open the doors that the soldier is beyond his earthly help now.
Aziraphale stands stupidly in the rain, feeling the cold and wet seep through to the marrow of his bones. All he can do is send a silent prayer for him into the aether: there’s no reply beyond the lashing of rain into the puddles.
If there’s a purpose in any of this, then he can’t see it.
Then a strong arm wraps about his shoulders and he’s being bundled into the front of the truck, Crowley sliding in beside him.
Crowley fumbles about in the pockets of his trenchcoat and pulls out a hip-flask which he presses into Aziraphale’s chilled hands.
“Go on. You look like you need it.”
He waits until Aziraphale has knocked back a couple of gulps before he speaks.
“Thought Heaven was sitting this one out. How did you get mixed up in this?”
Aziraphale coughs a little on the brandy, then takes another swig before he speaks.
“I tried to plead the case for stepping in, but they wouldn’t listen…” He trails off hoarsely. There’s the briefest of shimmers in the air and Aziraphale realises that he’s suddenly dry and is holding a flask of tea – a small, unlooked-for mercy from a demon in amongst the hellish carnage and he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He settles for sipping some tea, hot and sweet and possibly the best thing he’s ever tasted.
“They gave me a watching brief: do not get involved, do not interfere. Let the humans get themselves out of this one. But I couldn’t, Crowley. There is so much pain and suffering – how can I stand by when I can make a difference, however small?”
He knows he’s babbling now, but it’s such a relief to be able to share this with someone – with someone who understands.
He continues: “Oh, I know it’s not much, in the grand scheme of things. I can’t do anything angelic – a whiff of a miracle could get me yanked back for questioning, and if I get discorporated I’m not at all confident that they’ll issue me with a new physical form– but I had to do something. Provide some comfort… spiritual or physical... to the humans. Such horrific suffering…” he tails off, unwilling to give voice to what’s in his mind’s eye.
Crowley is nodding.
“Yes,” he says grimly. “Hell is having a whale of a time with all this.” He bites the words out, and Aziraphale takes a moment to look at him. He looks thinner and paler than Aziraphale remembers, worn riding leathers splattered with mud – and, dear God, is that blood?
“We may not have started this one – the humans managed it all by themselves – but they’re certainly enjoying the show Down There.”
Aziraphale doesn’t miss the bitter tone to his voice, nor the subtle but telling switch from we to they.
“Rather hoped I’d be able to give this one a wide berth, but after my last little faux pas I was given a new assignment. Despatch driver. I’m delivering intelligence reports up and down this section of the front line.”
“So…your lot on are the side of the Allies?”
Crowley barks out a mirthless laugh. He reaches up and pulls off his helmet and goggles with a tired gesture. His hair is cropped short; the nape of his neck unexpectedly tender and vulnerable. His eyes glint a dull yellow in what little light there is.
“Until three weeks ago, I was a despatch driver on the other side of the front line. With instructions to meddle with the reports: change details of locations, troop numbers, that sort of thing. I thought perhaps Hell had chosen a side…though honestly at this point I can’t see that there is a right side to choose, it’s just death and destruction wherever you look….”
He takes a deep breath, strangely human. “And now I’ve been instructed to do the same on this side of the front.”
Crowley’s mouth thins to a grim line and he turns his gaze to the angel. “Hell didn’t start this, Aziraphale, but I think they are trying to keep it going as long as possible.”
They are both silent for a moment, the reality of this settling around them heavy and suffocating as brimstone. Aziraphale finally finds his voice.
“Could you…well, just deliver your reports without changing them?”
Crowley shrugs, and Aziraphale hates the hopeless slant to his shoulders.
“I could…but that won’t necessarily solve anything. It may not make any difference.”
“But I mean, if we follow the reasoning that Downstairs is trying to prolong things, then doesn’t it logically follow that by disobeying instructions you might be helping to speed things up? Bring an end to all of this sooner rather than later?”
Crowley mulls this over, brow furrowing.
“Wouldn’t hurt to try, I suppose….”
“It’s not like you’d be doing anything specifically good – as you say, you don’t really know what the consequences might be. Oh, except I suppose disobeying orders again would be a bit risky…” Aziraphale trails off, biting his lip.
Crowley sits up straighter.
“Well, a bit – though they might never notice – there’s enough madness and chaos around here to stand a chance of staying undetected. Of course, it would be good to have some insurance…”
He turns to Aziraphale again, and this time his eyes are gleaming with something, like embers in a banked fire.
“…like a meddling angel who can’t keep his nose out.”
Aziraphale blinks. “Well, really, I don’t think—”
“No, listen: if I do get called in by HQ, I can claim that my efforts at disinformation have been sabotaged by you. And if you should happen to need to do a few miracles which catches the attention of Upstairs then you can simply say you were thwarting me.”
Aziraphale feels something sparking once more in his chest. This could work. Clever, clever demon.
“So…we can both claim to be cancelling each other out, as it were?”
“Exactly.”
They grin at each other for a moment, and Aziraphale feels lighter than he has in months. Almost giddy. The brandy. Must be the brandy.
“Of course, we’ll need to keep in regular contact,” Crowley is saying, “so that we know the other one is still alright—”
“Hasn’t been recalled,” Aziraphale adds. Or discorporated he doesn’t say.
Crowley is nodding. “First Sunday of every month: Hotel Carlton in Amiens. They still have a wine cellar—” he flashes a grin at Aziraphale “—and I’ve heard they do a great souffle.”
It feels like Aziraphale’s whole body is thawing out, tingling returning to parts of him long-since numb. It’s not that he’d lost hope – he’s an angel, Hope is a defining attribute – but it has been in scant supply in recent days.
“I’ll be there,” he says, with feeling, with renewed purpose.
Crowley is pulling his helmet back on now, lambent eyes hidden behind tinted goggles once more, reaching for the door handle. “And I’m stationed with the 4th Army at the mo – the third Corps – in case you need me.”
In case you need me.
And before Aziraphale can wonder at the strange feeling that provokes, Crowley is out of the truck and raising his now undamaged motorcycle from the mud. Suddenly, there are so many things Aziraphale wants to say and all of them seem entirely inadequate—
“Crowley!”
The dark figure turns back toward him, straddling his motorcycle, and Aziraphale’s throat seems to have closed up.
“Be careful. Won’t you?”.
And the demon flashes him a devil-may-care grin before gunning his engine and then he’s off, speeding away, swallowed by the darkness.
Aziraphale sits still for a moment, listening to the rain drumming against glass and metal. He’ll have to get going again soon: even though the medical emergency has passed, there are miles still to travel to deliver his charge to a safe rest, then he’ll need to rest himself before he returns to the front lines. But for now, he simply pauses.
The night closes in around the ambulance, and yet things do not seem quite as dark or as cold as they had been before.
***
- USA - Chicago - downtown. Feb 1929.
Aziraphale pauses just outside the office door, checking his reflection in the polished metal of the doorplate. Not bad, even if he does say so himself. His corporeal body – the one he was issued with – presents as an anatomically correct male and, of course, it would have been much simpler to miracle a physical change but that could have been tricky to sustain for the length of time this trip might take, and he doesn’t want to risk reverting back to his usual form at an inconvenient moment.
No, he thinks; this way is better.
And it’s not like he’s never worn a frock before.
The sign above the door reads “Sydney Polyakoff – Musical Agency”, and he can hear the murmur of voices on the other side.
Gathering his resolve along with the case of his double-bass, Aziraphale raises his gloved hand, knocks, and enters.
Heart pounding strangely in his chest, he makes a beeline for the receptionist who barely glances up from her loudly animated telephone call to gesture him to take a seat.
There are a handful of other people waiting – a chap with a trombone, and a couple of kids with ukuleles – and so it’s not until he’s halfway into his seat that Aziraphale registers who is sitting next to him. Too late, he tries not to do a double-take.
Crowley.
Crowley in T-strap heels and a rather fetching flapper dress, topped off with a Marcel wave.
Gosh, I think he’s grown his hair long…
The demon turns to him, sliding his dark glasses down just far enough for Aziraphale to see a yellow gleam, and holds out a polite gloved hand.
“Well, hello –" he pointedly looks Aziraphale up and down, waiting.
“Daphne,” Aziraphale blurts out, belatedly raising his own hand to return the handshake. Daphne? Where had that come from?
“Daphne…” Crowley’s lips quirk. “Yes, of course. I thought I recognised you!”
Aziraphale blinks, his mind whirling. “Oh, yes, I remember…erm…”
His lips move as he struggles to think what on earth he’s supposed to say next.
“Antonia,” says Crowley helpfully. “1926 - Cheboygan Conservatory of Music. Weren’t we in the same class?”
“Ah yes! That was it!” Aziraphale has no idea where this is going, but he’ll play along for now.
The receptionist, still shouting down the phone at an apparently hapless client, flaps a hand at them to keep their voices down.
Crowley gives him a toothy – and rather unladylike – grin. “I do like your hat”.
“Oh, well, thank you…” Aziraphale’s hand flutters up to pat at the brim before he can stop himself. “I wasn’t sure if it would go with the bob—” He cuts himself off before he says anything more foolish.
“Never mind that - what are you doing here?” he grinds out between smiling teeth.
Crowley gives a demure little shrug. “I have to get to a birthday party at a hotel in Miami - supposed to help broker some sort of truce between rival Mob gangs.” He waves an elegantly careless hand as though they are just chatting but keeps his voice low. “Stop them shooting each other, blah, blah, all that sort of thing. Thought undercover would be best, and there’s an all-girl band going on tour who need musicians at short notice, so I thought I’d join them. Marvellous Mabel and her Modern Melody-Makers. What about you?”
Aziraphale stares at him in disbelief.
“You can’t. Because I’m joining them - I’ve been sent on a mission to save a lovely young singer from making some tragically poor romantic choices.”
Crowley raises a beautifully arched eyebrow.
“Apparently,” the angel continues, “…she keeps falling for unreliable saxophonists.”
Crowley’s eyebrow climbs impossibly higher.
Aziraphale notices for the first time the instrument case sitting at his feet. Well, it’s not a double-bass, so perhaps they can both join the band…
“What are you playing?”
“The saxophone.”
They stare at each other.
“Since when?!” Aziraphale hisses.
Crowley gives another little careless wave, though this one is less convincing. “Oh, I’ve been playing for simply ages!”
He leans closer, a grin lurking at the corner of his mouth, and his voice drops an octave.
“And you play the double-bass, do you?”
“Yes…well…” Aziraphale clears his throat. “Well….I’ve listened to lots of jazz records, how hard can it be?”
Their heads are ducked together still and Aziraphale takes a moment to admire – from a strictly aesthetic perspective – Crowley’s expertly applied make-up.
Hmm. Pretty shade of lipstick.
Aziraphale blinks, clearing his head.
“We could both not go,” he suggests. True, he’s put a lot of effort into the outfits and the wig and the make-up, but his feet are already starting to hurt and the prospect of wrestling with stockings for the next few weeks is not altogether a happy one.
“Well, that’s not going to work.” Crowley says, sotto voce. He sits back in his seat, pushing his glasses back firmly in place. “I mean, I couldn’t care less about the mobsters – they’ve all got a one-way ticket to Downstairs – but if I’m not the saxophonist then who else might your lovely singer meet?”
He sighs, somewhat theatrically. “I suppose I could go alone and do both jobs…”
Aziraphale wrings his hands. He feels that this is not going to end well, one way or another, but he hears himself saying—
“Right. We can both go. I’ll try not to interfere with your mobsters and you promise not to seduce the singer”.
There’s a soft snort of laughter from the demon. “Is it just the singer who’s off-limits, then?” And that eyebrow cocks at Aziraphale again, and his mouth goes strangely dry.
They stare at each other and not for the first time in their long, long acquaintance Aziraphale wonders if he’s reading something into Crowley’s words which isn’t there. Or is he not reading something which is there?
Aziraphale swallows. “Well—”
“You two!” They both swivel to look at the receptionist who has just bellowed at them.
“Bass and sax?”
They both nod.
“Great. If you still want the job, get yourselves down to Union Station, platform six – ask for Bienstock.”
“Looks like we are both in, then,” says Crowley cheerfully, picking up his saxophone case and holding the door open. “After you – Daphne.”
Aziraphale straightens, hefting his double-bass. This is quite possibly one of the worst ideas they’ve ever had in the whole course of their Arrangement.
But try as he might, he can’t stop the grin spreading across his face.
Head – and hat – held high, he steps through the door, leading the way.
***
- England - Sussex - Brighton. July 1973.
The sky is blue, reflecting the shade of the sea, and Aziraphale takes a deep breath of salt air.
Delicious.
The job had gone well. And the blessing had been a delight.
The wedding had been at midnight on the beach. Albeit the ceremony had no official recognition from the earthly Church or State, but as far as heartfelt pledges went Aziraphale was happy to bear witness.
There are a few people mingling around the town today with banners and leaflets; it’s mostly good-natured and Aziraphale is uplifted by the scent of hope in the air.
But he’s left the small band of marchers now and is strolling further along the beach, scrambling over a groyne onto the shingle.
“Lovely day for it,” says a voice just behind him, and he spins in disbelief.
“Crowley?!?”
The demon is stretched out on a towel, long limbs looking tanned and healthy, and, well – he seems to be sunbathing. Basking.
“In the flesh.” He grins and with the tinted glasses firmly in place Aziraphale can’t quite work out if he’s up to something or genuinely pleased to see him.
“Well…hello.” He manages, stutteringly, feeling suddenly overdressed in his jacket and tie next to Crowley’s rather close-fitting bathing trunks. And goodness – that moustache!
“What…er…what are you doing here?”
“Having a picnic.” Crowley gestures to the basket on the shingle beside him. “Want to join me?”
After a moment’s internal debate, Aziraphale does just that, removing his jacket to sit on. If it were any other demon, then he would suspect ulterior motives – a temptation, perhaps. But this is Crowley. This is just the way he is.
It turns out that Crowley’s picnic consists of two bottles of red wine, a pork pie, and an apple. Still, he shares it all graciously.
“So,” says Aziraphale, delicately licking pastry crumbs from his fingers, “are you working down here?” Though really, what work Crowley could possibly be doing lying on the beach is beyond him. “If I’d known, we could have made an arrangement….”
“Nah. Just fancied a little trip to see some….countryside. You know. Trees. Fields. Sea. How about you?”
“Oh. Well, I had to stage a bit of an intervention up at Beachy Head. Talk someone down, as it were. Remind them why life is worth living.”
“Sounds like a worthwhile job. And you thought you’d come to look at Brighton while you were here?”
“Yes – it’s such a nice part of the country, and with the events going on this weekend I thought I could pop by and do a wedding blessing whilst I was in the area. I mean, it wasn’t on the job roster, but I felt it was a good thing to do…” He trails off, suddenly conscious of Crowley’s eyes on him.
“Ah.” The demon fishes about in a pocket of his discarded jeans and pulls out a leaflet. “Do I take it you are referring to—” and he reads from it, somewhat theatrically “—the gay wedding between John and Graham?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.” Aziraphale raises his chin. “I think love should be celebrated, in all its forms.” He swallows, feeling an odd prickling of something at the back of his neck; behind his breastbone; at the base of his spine.
“Nevermind the gender? Or the race or creed? Or what society says?”
“Exactly,” says Aziraphale. “Love is…well, love. And no-one should be persecuted just for loving someone.”
Crowley is watching him steadily, almost expectantly, and it seems to Aziraphale that the very air around them is charged with something, like the heaviness before a thunderstorm. He looks up at the sky but it’s a clear expanse of blue, not a cloud in sight.
Crowley regards him for a long moment before finally simply saying: “Quite right.”
They sit in companionable silence for a while, the call of the seagulls and distant squealing of excited children a background to their thoughts.
“It’s beautiful here.” Aziraphale says finally.
“It is.” Crowley agrees. “I drove through the South Downs on the way here – that’s quite stunning.”
“It’s where Sherlock Holmes retires to,” says Aziraphale, with a smile. “To keep bees.”
“Right,” says Crowley; then with a slight shrug: “Never read any of those books.”
“Oh! You don’t know what you’re missing!”
Crowley turns his tinted gaze on him. “I don’t know what I’m missing?” he repeats carefully, cutting-short Aziraphale’s enthusiasm. “You know it’s just a story, though, yes? There’s no happy-ever-after in real life, Angel.”
Aziraphale blinks, wrong-footed. He wonders if he said the wrong thing somewhere along the line but can’t quite work out where. He’s adrift in the conversation, caught in eddies he can’t understand. Perhaps they shouldn’t have finished that second bottle of wine…
Crowley gives a sigh. He sits up a little, wrapping his arms around his knees and gazing out to sea. This time the silence feels strained, and it’s a relief when Crowley speaks again.
“At least they have free will. The humans. I mean, they make a mess of things and sometimes it turns out badly, and sometimes it turns out well, but at least they can choose. All that we can do,” Crowley continues, “is slip in a few covert blessings or curses on the side when we think HQ aren’t looking. And try to line up a bit of insurance for unforeseen eventualities...” He breaks off abruptly, picking up the Gay Pride Week leaflet again.
“Think this could catch-on, you know. Be the start of something big.” He says, sounding cheerier, tapping the paper, and Aziraphale reels a little trying to keep up with his mercurial mood.
“Ooo - there’s a disco on tonight. We could go. You could do some more unauthorised blessings.” Crowley’s tone has switched to light and teasing, but again Aziraphale feels that there is more being said than he really grasps.
“Oh. I…er…no. I don’t think I should, really. Besides, it’s not my sort of music.”
Crowley nods, as though it was the answer he was expecting. He looks out to the horizon.
“Right. I’m going for a swim. Don’t suppose you want to join me…?”
Aziraphale opens his mouth but Crowley stands, not waiting for an answer. “No, of course not.” He mutters. Crowley casts off his sunglasses and Aziraphale catches a flash of gold before the demon turns away.
He calls over his shoulder: “Feel free to eat the apple.”
And with that, he’s picking his way over the pebbles, awkwardly at first, like… well… like a demon on consecrated ground. But then he reaches the water and launches himself in with a lithe and sinuous grace.
Aziraphale watches, dazzled, until his eyes prickle and he has to look away.
***
- England - London – Houses of Parliament. April 2009.
Well, he has tried everything else.
Aziraphale sighs. He doesn’t, strictly speaking, need to breathe air; but it is a human affectation which has stuck, along with so many others, over his long, long time living among them and at this stage it is a habit of which he himself is barely aware.
Sometimes, though, only a good sigh can adequately give vent to his frustration. And he is most certainly frustrated.
Four months. Four months he’s spent trying to coax a recalcitrant MP – Mr Julian H. Chilcott, the Honourable Member for Bassingbourne-on-the-Naze – into repenting his duplicitous life but with absolutely no success. Despite having a wife, a pregnant girlfriend, and regular ‘lady of the night’, he still sees absolutely no reason to moderate his behaviour.
In the general way of things, Aziraphale tries not to judge. He doesn’t so much care about the carnal sins – as Oscar Wilde used to say, how bad can they be if everyone is enjoying themselves? – but he does care now because the girlfriend is young and vulnerable, and the lady of the night has given up all her other gentleman callers on the promise of becoming the next first lady of Bassingbourne-on-the-Naze. And the poor wife – honestly, she deserves some sort of sainthood given what she puts up with.
So, despite his best efforts to change the man’s ways – appearing to him in various guises as a child psychologist, a long-lost cousin, a mental health volunteer, a librarian at the House of Commons, and a circus clown (that last one, he admits to himself, was a final act of desperation) – he’s ready to concede defeat.
Still, he’s sitting here in the House of Commons dining room in one last-ditch effort: he’s going to waylay the MP at lunch where he’s going to present him with evidence of his various dalliances (collected by A.Z Fell, Private Investigator) and see if that doesn’t shock the man into mending his ways. It is, perhaps, a bit of a grey area, scruples-wise, but in this particular case Aziraphale feels it is justified.
So, he’s just checking the photos, holding them close to his chest – slightly grainy where a telephoto lens has been used, but you can get the gist – when he senses someone at his shoulder.
“My, angels are getting broad-minded these days”. The voice, low and teasing, curls around him and Aziraphale simultaneously tries to sit up straight and stuff the photos back into the envelope, with mixed success.
Crowley slides into the seat next to him, smirk gracing his face.
“What,” says Aziraphale, once he’s found his voice, “Are you doing here?”
“Oh, you know.” The demon waves his hand in an infuriatingly airy manner. “Hanging out. Soaking up the vibe. Hobnobbing with bigwigs.”
Despite feeling unsettled, Aziraphale can’t help admiring whoever has been doing Crowley’s wardrobe. Even slouching in his dining chair, Crowley carries off the immaculate charcoal-grey three-piece suit with aplomb.
The angel pulls himself together.
“Not working then?”
“Not right at this moment. Looks like you are, though.” Crowley leans over, the smirk spreading into a grin. He gives a little nod in the direction of the photos, now hidden in Aziraphale’s breast pocket.
“Tempting someone, are we?”
“No! No, absolutely not.”
“Bit of cheeky blackmail?”
“No! More like…trying to persuade someone. Firmly.” Thinking on it, Aziraphale is not quite sure how he can explain his plan without it seeming….well…tawdry.
Crowley leans back, apparently losing interest, but Aziraphale knows him better, so he goes on the offensive.
“Why aren’t you working, anyway?”
“Because I’m sitting here talking to you.”
“No, I mean, last time I saw you, you said you had an assignment at a lord’s house somewhere.”
Crowley stares at him, brows drawing together.
“I said it was in the House of Lords”.
“Oh, f—fiddlesticks!” Aziraphale sits back, exasperated. “We could have job-shared this one, had I known. What did you need to do?”
“Tempt a Lord. Not worth the bother, if you ask me – he was already rolling in far more vices than I could have conjured-up for him. Not to mention a dozen holiday homes in far-flung places, shares in some decidedly dubious armaments companies, a rent-boy in Piccadilly and a specially-built, excruciatingly expensive aquarium in his basement. What about you? Any luck?”
“Not one jot. The man has the all the conscience of a rutting warthog. And—” he lowers his voice, warming to his subject now, “—as though his carnal pursuits weren’t enough, there’s something suspicious about his finances. I think he’s been somewhat inventive with his parliamentary expenses.”
That earns him a raised eyebrow. Gratified, Aziraphale continues.
“And I don’t think he’s the only one. I’ve been working in the library, and it’s surprising what information you can get access to.”
A lot of it is only gossip, but he has glimpsed some of the paperwork, and now he wonders that he didn’t think to explore this particular avenue before.
Crowley leans towards him and Aziraphale could swear that he can see a spark of yellow behind the tinted shades.
“You do interest me. Go on.”
And so he does.
St James’s Park. Three days later.
Aziraphale studiously examines his newspaper as Crowley lowers himself onto the bench next to him. Nevertheless, he spots that the demon is wearing that suit again, though this time with a red shirt, lending him a somewhat diabolic air.
Appropriate, considering the circumstances.
“Well?” Aziraphale asks from behind his newspaper.
“All done. The Daily Telegraph should get the package first thing in the morning. You know, you are just attracting attention with that.”
Crowley, with a deft flick of fingers, punches a neat hole in the middle of the page Aziraphale is pretending to read. The angel puts the newspaper down with a huff.
“Honestly,” Crowley continues, gesturing around them, “you’ve put the FSB on high alert and there’s a dozen secret service agents in the bushes ready to tackle you to the ground.”
Aziraphale crumples the page up and starts worrying at the edges of it.
“Did we do the right thing?”
“Yes.”
“Did we really, though?”
“Yes, we did really. Not a good thing, mind you, or a bad thing, come to that. But the right thing. Look, they shouldn’t have been cheating on their expenses – any of them. Not even for the sake of a duck house. And you said it yourself that the House of Commons Authorities could – probably would - hush it all up. Better that it all comes out. Let the public – let the humans – decide.”
It makes sense, of course; as it had three days ago when they had first concocted their plan to leak it all to the newspapers. It just feels…a little grubby. But then, this morning Aziraphale had burned those awful, awful photos so really he’s chosen the lesser of two evils. For whatever that’s worth.
“I suppose it is justice, of a sort.”
“Exactly. Now, are you going to spend the day fashioning origami storks, or are you taking me out for lunch?”
Aziraphale feels his mouth twitching into a smile. “Oh, it’s my treat, is it?”
Crowley hums, as though having to recall. “Fairly sure.”
Aziraphale nods, conceding, this once. “Then lucky for you I have a yen for La Gavroche”. He pushes himself off the bench. Crowley unfolds to join him.
“I have no idea what that is, but so long as it involves food and drink—” Crowley pauses, wrinkles his nose slightly, “well, drink, anyway – count me in. Lead the way.”
And Aziraphale does, turning to chat to his companion as they go. “Hopefully, we can both claim a win out of this one; keep the bosses happy.”
“Yeeaaah. I think we can spin that. Can probably pass lunch off as working de-brief.”
Aziraphale waits a beat; shoots him a sidelong glance. “Do you think we can claim it on expenses?”
Crowley laughs, his head thrown back, and they walk off, side by side, into the late morning sunshine.
***
- England - London – Soho. June 2020.
“So, how are you?” Even as he says it, Aziraphale winces slightly at his own inane question. It’s not like a demon can get sick – well, not from earthly viruses, anyway – but it seems only polite to go through the usual pleasantries.
“Oh, you know. Same old same old.” Crowley’s voice is oddly muffled on the telephone, and Aziraphale can hear something in the background – is that a door slamming?
He has the phone pressed to his ear, straining to hear more, when he’s abruptly deafened. Aziraphale recoils from the receiver, trying not to spill his tea. Frowning, he cautiously brings to the phone to his ear once more. Crowley’s voice cuts back in, loud and clear.
“—orry, dropped the damn thing. Anyway, what was I saying?”
“That you are old and the same?”
“The same as what?”
Aziraphale rolls his eyes.
“Never mind. So, what have you been doing, then? Aside from terrorising your houseplants?”
He’s not expecting much of an answer. COVID lockdown applies to demons and angels, too, apparently, so neither of them has been up to much for the last few months (and although Aziraphale suspects some Infernal meddling in China may have precipitated the whole thing, he fully believes Crowley’s protestations that he had nothing to do with it).
Despite – or perhaps because of – this lack of activity, they have been having regular phone calls during lockdown, and Aziraphale can’t deny that he looks forward to them. It’s not that he’s lonely – he’s spent far longer alone in far worse places than this – but it’s nice to have a reminder that there is a whole world out there, beyond his bookshop.
He does occasionally wonder if having a demon as his one-and-only social contact may look a little, well, blasphemous, but since the un-Armageddon no-one seems to be keeping count, so he tries not to fret.
“Well, I had a rather nice nap…” Crowley is saying, “And watched some telly. I found “Some Like It Hot” on Netflix!”
Aziraphale purses his lips. “Yes, well, I’ll admit it is a good film, but I still can’t believe you sold the plot of our little escapade to Billy Wilder. And I still think Tony Curtis should have played me.”
Crowley’s laughter comes down the line and Aziraphale can’t find it in his heart to be truly annoyed.
“Oh, and I did enjoy that book you sent me,” Crowley continues.
Aziraphale brightens. “You did? What did you think?”
“Quite fun, really. Liked all the mysteries. Though it was a bit confusing in parts.”
Tea-cup half-way to his mouth, Aziraphale frowns. “Which bits? The one with the orange pips? Oh! No! I know: the one with the dancing men – tricky, that one.”
There’s a pause on the line.
“No; the plots were fine. But I thought they were a couple, then it turns out Watson has a wife!”
Aziraphale can only stare into the mid-distance, struggling to keep up. Conversations with Crowley never seem to go quite in the direction he expects.
More noise erupts in the background, settling to a steady low hum.
“So,” Crowley continues, before Aziraphale can think of a suitable response. “Have you done the jigsaw I sent you?”
Aziraphale looks down at the floor at the box of the jigsaw, with the illustration on the lid showing a group of dogs playing cards. They seem to look reproachfully up at him. He nudges it under his seat with the toe of one shoe.
“Yes.”
“Liar!” But Crowley is laughing, and Aziraphale finds himself smiling.
Strident tones blare through the phone, breaking the spell.
“Where are you? Can I hear sirens?”
There’s more confused noise, and then Crowley’s voice cuts through.
“S’okay, s’okay. They aren’t after me.”
“Give thanks for small mercies,” Aziraphale mutters under his breath. “But where are you, anyway? You aren’t supposed to be galivanting about, I don’t think.”
“Says the angel who’s been cooped up in his bookshop for over three months now. I bet you haven’t been across the doors. Or opened the blinds. Or talked to anyone but me—"
“I have!”
“Waving at the amazon delivery man at a safe distance does not count.”
“I’ve been busy!”
“What, re-organising the shelves? Switching to the Dewey decimal system?”
“Given that you are directly responsible for the Dewey decimal system I really don’t think you can throw stones. I’ve been stock-taking, as you well know—”
Another alarming slamming noise, and now the background tone has shifted slightly.
“—And I’m still honing my baking skills. Oh! I meant to tell you: I found a new recipe for éclairs and they are absolutely delicious!”
His stream of conversation is abruptly interrupted by a knock at the shop door.
“Oh, hang on – I think it might be another delivery. I’m expecting a new silicone baking tin…”
Aziraphale hurries to the door, flings it open and steps back–
Crowley.
Crowley with a huge grin and arms extended wide in a welcoming fashion, bottle of wine in each hand.
Aziraphale has taken a step forward before he knows what he’s doing, but fortunately his brain catches up just in time to stop him going any further.
“Gosh!” He manages. “But – you can’t be here! Can you?” He leans past Crowley for a moment, glancing up and down the street furtively, before grabbing his lapels and yanking him over the threshold, the door slamming shut obediently after them.
Crowley’s eyebrow arches. “You have been alone too long!”
“What are you doing here?”
“Well, I heard that there was a mountain of fine pâtisserie going begging and some dogs desperately needing a hand to finish their poker game.”
“What…? No, never mind. Look – I know we can’t carry the virus, but this—” Aziraphale flaps his hand back and forth between the two of them, “— is illegal!”
“I’m pretty sure it’s not.”
“It is! Lockdown, remember?”
“Yes, but we can bubble now.”
“I’m s-sorry…?” Aziraphale stutters to a halt, unaccountably rooted to the spot. Could this be some slang term he isn’t familiar with? Suddenly it feels terribly stuffy in the bookshop, and he thinks perhaps he should have tried to get more fresh air over the last few weeks…
Crowley sighs. Clearly this isn’t quite the reaction he was hoping for. He sets the wine down on the desk. Wordlessly, he scrolls his phone for the BBC website and holds it up in front of Aziraphale. The angel scans the headlines. Oh. Oh.
“Ah. I see. So…”
“We, my angelic friend, are allowed to form a social bubble. As of today.”
“Right. Yes.”
“You and me.”
“Yes. Yes, I see that.”
“So…?”
Aziraphale bites his lip. There are thoughts – feelings – which are swirling around a bit and don’t seem to want to settle on any one thing. It’s confusing. Not an entirely novel sensation when it comes to Crowley, he reflects ruefully; being in the demon’s presence is like being on a fairground waltzer: exhilarating, but sometimes leaves him feeling oddly queasy. Although that could be all the éclairs.
“Are you quite all right?” Crowley’s voice, unexpectedly soft, breaks through his thoughts. He’s removed his glasses, propping them on the horse statue on Aziraphale’s desk, and is looking at him with gold-tinged concern.
And it’s such a gentle feeling, in the end, which washes over him; calming and freeing at the same time. Aziraphale simply looks at his friend – so very dear – and realises with absolute clarity that he is terribly glad to have him there.
“Yes,” he says, decisive. “I am now.”
The moment hangs delicately between them, like dust motes in slanting sunshine.
Aziraphale takes a deep breath.
“Well,” he says, brightly, “tea, or red wine with your éclair?”.
***
5.+ 1. England - Sussex – a few miles north-west of Eastbourne. June 2028.
The sun has been up a while by the time Aziraphale stirs. Funny how he never used to really bother sleeping, before; it wasn’t among the many human habits he gradually adopted over the years. But he’s learning to try new things, and this is one that he has found he rather enjoys.
Of course, whilst he is actually asleep there’s nothing much happening – although he’s started to dream sometimes, which he finds a bit unnerving. No. It’s the time just as he’s drifting off, and the first few minutes that he wakes, ripe with possibilities, that he has really come to treasure.
On this particular morning he stretches out, finds the rumpled bedclothes otherwise cool to the touch, and levers himself up with a yawn. Pulling on a worn tartan dressing gown and sliding feet into battered old slippers, he pads downstairs to the kitchen.
Ah.
The evidence of last night’s celebration is still littering the surfaces: dishes piled haphazardly in the sink; an empty champagne bottle from their first vintage with his bowtie still tied around the neck of it; pillar candles which have burnt down to the wick (oh bother – wax on the tablecloth again!); and a strangely orphaned sock acting as a bookmark in a copy of Decanter magazine. The copy of Decanter magazine; the one with the glowing review in it for the first sparkling vintage produced by the Unholy Vineyard.
He smiles. Crowley, as it turns out, had invested wisely all those years ago. Aziraphale isn’t sure whether it started out as part of a fiendish plan to tempt more people with the demon drink or was just another way to indulge one of Crowley’s own favourite pastimes, but either way, he can’t deny it’s worked out very well indeed.
Dismissing the fleeting thought of clearing up, Aziraphale ignores the mess in favour of more pressing matters. Since making the decision to live (almost) miracle-free, they do most things the human way now so he’ll leave this for their cleaner to sort out (though he does send up a little prayer of thanks for the unflappable – and fortunately unshockable – Phyllis).
He can brew tea with his eyes closed but he has to don his reading glasses to use the coffee machine – overly-complicated new-fangled thing in black and chrome: another new thing he’s had to master – then, mug in each hand, he pushes the back door open with one foot and steps out into the garden.
Everything – everything – is blooming. Lavender and rosemary spill out over the path; salvias, verbena, poppies and some other things he doesn’t know the name of are flowering madly; jasmine and honeysuckle twine lushly along the garden walls, fighting for space with trained cherry and peach trees.
Aziraphale wanders on down the path, inhaling deeply for the sheer pleasure of it, past the patio and the espalier apples towards the greenhouse. He hears Crowley first – he’s clearly having some stern words with the young tomato plants – and feels a foolish, besotted smile spreading across his face as he catches sight of his partner.
Plant mister in one hand and secateurs in the other, Crowley is wrapped in the jade green silk kimono that had caught Aziraphale’s eye in a vintage shop on one of their forays into Brighton. It clashes horribly with his hair, which is at present standing up in unruly spikes, and Aziraphale can’t help finding the overall effect ridiculously endearing.
“Aha! Finally awake!” Crowley puts down the tools and peels off the purple gardening gloves (much to the relief of the quivering tomato plants). He reaches out a hand to take the proffered coffee with an appreciative hum.
“Thought I’d broken you.” The grin, over the rim of the mug, is devilishly mischievous, and Aziraphale feels himself pinkening.
Crowley has, of course, been teasing him ever since they first met, but the change in their relationship has lent it a whole new dimension. Another new thing to adjust to. Well, it’s been a year since they moved into the cottage together, but it still feels new. Them together.
Us.
Aziraphale takes his time with his tea before he clears his throat, primly.
“Not quite, darling,” he says with mild admonishment, setting his mug aside.
And, just because he can, he leans in and presses a kiss to Crowley’s silk-clad shoulder.
The next kiss, slower, more leisurely, is to the warm tender skin beneath Crowley’s ear. Aziraphale pulls back and entirely undermines his proper demeanour by raising an arch eyebrow and adding, voice low “– you’d be surprised at my reserves of stamina.”
Crowley laughs, abandoning his coffee mug to step in closer and wrap his arms around Aziraphale. “I should have known you’d be like this,” he says, with teasing affection. “That ox rib was a dead giveaway: once the dam bursts you’re insatiable.”
Once the dam bursts... An apt metaphor, Aziraphale supposes, all things considered. It had, after all, taken him six thousand years and the almost-Second Coming to finally realise that he could allow himself the one thing he never knew he always wanted.
“Only for you, my dear; only for you. But we do have rather a lot of time to make up for.”
And then they are quiet, except for some smothered laughter, as they kiss again; fitting together just as if God, in Her infinite wisdom, had designed them that way.
Warmth spreads in the greenhouse; the plants have stopped shuddering now and seem to be gently leaning in towards them, delicate tendrils curling in the air.
Before things become too heated Crowley eases back, his expression fond with just a glimmer of wonder, and runs a gentle thumb over the angel’s bottom lip. He spots the way Aziraphale is looking meaningfully and not a little hungrily at the potting bench, and Crowley snorts out a laugh.
“Oh no; no. Absolutely not. Last time I got splinters in some very uncomfortable places.”
Aziraphale abruptly stops and pulls away, looking alarmed.
“Lord! What time is it?” he demands, clutching at the space his fob watch usually hangs.
Somewhat derailed by the sharp change of direction, Crowley glances around cluelessly. “Um…er….I dunno know – about ten, maybe?”
“Oh fu—fudge! I’m supposed to be at the summer fête committee meeting in half-an-hour!”
“Ah. In that case, you might want to re-think your sartorial choices for today,” Crowley says helpfully.
“Yes. Right. Oh cripes!” Aziraphale flaps about on the spot for a moment, starts to take off his dressing gown, remembers he has nothing on under it and pulls it back on quickly; finally just grabs his empty mug and whirls around to go.
“Wait, wait – calm down and come here.” And Crowley, still laughing, reaches out to pull him back into a kiss: a benediction and a promise. Later.
“I can drop you off on my way to Unholy, if you like.” Crowley is saying, taking his hand as they both head up the path to the house at a less panicked pace. “I’m meeting some trade buyers after lunch and there are some vines on the east slopes that need a good talking to.”
And Aziraphale smiles, squeezing his hand.
Nothing lasts forever; they both know that. There is no such thing as happy-ever-after. Even now, finally free from the meddling of both Heaven and Hell, there are few certainties in the future which lies before them.
Eventually, their friends and neighbours will move on or pass on; or someone will notice that they don’t age and they may need to relocate and start over again. But as and when that day comes, they’ll face it together.
For now, this is their life: fragile and precious, with its small, everyday moments of joy.
This is them.
This is Us.