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Early 1665 - London
Aziraphale’s heels clicked on the cobblestone street as dusk descended on London. Briny air wafted from the disturbed sea and the harbor's clamoring chaos echoed throughout the crowded streets. Dark shadows grew from alleys and cut sharp corners as the sun lowered in the sky, but the principality of Earth hummed a happy melody. The trip to Germany had been a great success. He had a dreadfully boring report to send upwards. However, it did not need to be tonight. He was more excited to share the tale with someone who would actually respect his efforts. And, perhaps, it will make up for his terrible misstep in 1650.
The streets weaved further into the growing city. Aziraphale felt light on his feet and anticipation stirred in his belly, which was also in dire need of indulgence. Perhaps a bit of roast, with pudding and tomatoes. After the flaky pastries of Germany, the lard-dense crusts of England weren’t tickling his fancy. However, his mouth was suddenly watering with a need to sink his teeth into something.
He shook his head and chuckled at himself. Patience was a virtue, Aziraphale knew, but it had never been a trait that came naturally to him. There were many wonderful tastes and sights and experiences in the world, all calling to be properly appreciated. He and Crowley understood this more than most humans. Together, they delighted in finding a new invention or chemistry that could enhance the natural splendor of the great gift of Earth that, technically, was not theirs to indulge in. There was so much they had yet to experience together…
His thoughts strayed.
The giddiness from earlier dropped heavy in his gut, twisting from excitement to nausea. The click of his heels scuffled as he lost the cadence of his steps. Aziraphale leaned against a damp wood wall and tried to calm his heart.
Desire, which came to him more naturally than patience, was not suitable for an angel, but Aziraphale continuously found himself in a battle with Want. It pushed the front lines of his convictions back, each step a new concession of his beatific resolve, and he could feel it getting closer to the dangerous cliff’s edge of Heaven’s retaliation.
Worse, it was getting closer to challenging the fundamental truths Aziraphale held as his understanding of existence: He was good, he was meant to do good things, and God was just.
To fight back against a point of no return, where his truths were challenged to a breaking point, he had come to terms with Want with limits. Joys to the senses, for the most part, were harmless in the fact that no harm had come down on him yet. So, he found no use in denying himself simple pleasures, and he was so fond of food, art, and good company. An angel perhaps shouldn't enjoy the little things and fine things, yet he did.
But beyond those little innocences towards dark things? The collateral damage that would cause was too depressing to think about.
His hands went through his routine on their own accord. They pulled down his striped coat, straightened his bow-tied cravat, then brushed imaginary wrinkles and soot. The thrumming of his blood slowed through each motion, smoothing away his thoughts like they were displayed on his person. From a street over, a woman called out in a thick accent, and her harsh voice finished grounding Aziraphale back to Earth. He rolled his neck and moved forward again, trying to remember to smile the way he had been just moments before.
They were to meet at a new place in a developing neighborhood that, as Crowley had put it, seemed to attract “interesting characters.” Their presence, should anyone care to give them more than a passing glance, would go unnoticed at every level. He walked on, checking over his shoulder every few minutes regardless, until he was at the busiest section of the newer section of Soho.
There was no signage above the doorway, however Aziraphale knew it was the right place. Crowley’s presence tickled the edge of his awareness, not unlike how someone understands instinctually when they are in danger. His natural smile spread wider as he stepped inside.
A tang of sharp, depthless juniper, dusty sawdust, and rich brown bread filled the currently unnamed tavern. It was crowded, as most places like these were, and Aziraphale focused on the roasty molasses in the air. He did not bother to look around, as Crowley had always found him, and instead made a show of approaching the bar to gain the patron’s attention.
“Hello!” the angel said, setting a well made and slightly worn cream top hat on the bar top. He stared at the hat for a fraction of a second before twisting it a degree to the right, then brought his attention back. “I believe this night calls for a-”
Before he could finish his sentence, the bartender set a plain glass half-filled with clear liquid in front of him.
Aziraphale sneered at the cup before remembering himself and smiling once again. “Apologies, however, I do not particularly enjoy the taste of gin.”
“You’d dislike the beer more,” the man answered.
“Pardon?”
“There’er two choices. Lager or gin.”
This time, Aziraphale's distaste stayed in his expression. Then, there was someone to his left, chiming into their conversation with an amused and exasperated tone. “Has the King formally cut off the French, then?”
Crowley…
The bartender snorted. “He ain't king yet, but he sure is making a fuss already. Brandy was expensive enough. Now, no one can seem to get a hold of any no matter what price. The boy hasn’t even taken over his mad father’s throne and is already up in arms about his God over their God, or what have you.”
“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale tried to ask.
The demon spoke past him once again, “And what God would you have, good sir?”
The sly smirk under a red, natty mustache grew on Crowley's face. As it did, the warmth left the man’s cheeks. “You aren’t with the Church, are you?” he asked, his voice evasively low.
Crowley snickered. “Oh, definitely not.”
After another long moment, the bartender swallowed and confessed. “As I figure,” he stumbled over his words, “It’s supposed to be the same God everywhere, ain’t it?”
The demon's delighted smile faded as the angel’s grew, and Aziraphale said, “Good lad.”
“Yeah, well,” Crowley conceded, unable to toy with the human any longer, “Just ‘cause She’s everywhere doesn’t mean She’s paying any attention.”
The bartender’s exasperation and hesitation heightened. Aziraphale held up his hands, interrupting any thought the man might have held about refusing them service. “No drink for me, then. But, I would love some bread, with butter and honey, if you have it.”
With a cheerless nod, the bartender turned to his task, then Crowley finally turned to him. His long fingers found the crook of Aziraphale's arm and pulled him in to speak in his ear. It wasn’t much. Just a fraction of an inch, and more conspiratorial than intimate, but it was enough to make his head spin and stomach drop. All at once he was very mindful of the span of time since they had last been in each others’ company and keenly aware of how exposed they were, triggering the familiar self-conscious dread of being watched. Aziraphale tensed, Crowley noticed, and jerked his hand away.
“Go find a table,” he said stiffly. “I’ll be there in a bit.”
In response, Aziraphale awkwardly pointed in no specific direction and nodded, eager to gain some distance in order to catch his breath. It was conflicting, but Crowley had always inspired conflict in him. Aziraphale could never get himself to name why he sought it out.
It wasn’t necessarily difficult to find a table, however, Aziraphale took his time to find one that could meet his needs, all while not allowing himself to “inspire” the current occupants to leave. He did not want to take Heaven’s notice, not quite yet. It could benefit him for the powers that be to believe he was still in Germany, still on his special project and not look too hard at London for a while. Nowadays, the cities changed so quickly, and he would not mind time to reacquaint himself with whatever humans would surprise them with next.
After a few moments, he found a small setup near a window. He drew the curtain halfway and sat down. Then, he got up to push a nearby table away just enough to give him comfort. When he sat down again, he assessed his options then decided to sit on the opposite side. He could see every entrance, but could easily turn his head away if needed. The window provided both security and alleviated the feeling of being trapped. Aziraphale peeked out the curtain across the street. At the corner on a bare plot of land, a group of men gathered around a fire, keeping off the chill of the early-Spring night, laughing and sharing a bottle between them.
In the next moment, a glass thudded gently on the table. Aziraphale first turned to Crowley, as a habit, to smile in thanks before remembering he had not ordered a drink. Then, he turned towards the offering and paused.
A beautifully etched crystal snifter of brandy settled in front of him. Its warm faceted colors, lent from the unsteady candlelight, danced in prismatic patterns on the wood.
Crowley sat and arranged himself in no discernibly comfortable way. Aziraphale stared at the gift in front of him.
He did not actually fear being seen together. It was the danger of being witnessed during one of these moments when he was taken off guard: when it was obvious, whatever "it" was.
The unacknowledged gestures and the hints of friendship were small steps towards something unnamed and inching further into the territory of questions he should not be asking. He did not care to know how Crowley convinced the bartender to break into his secret stash. He wanted to know why.
He wanted it said aloud.
Again, he fought with want, but this was wanting of a condemned thing. A forbidden thing. The demon currently looking around the room in a faked nonchalance was the epitome of forbidden things and he had seen first-hand what a little bite of the proscribed could ruin. He stared at the mahogany liquor, and could see the cliff’s edge just beyond the answer he desired that would doom them both.
Aziraphale swallowed down the nausea and took a deep breath. In light of that, what harm could simply enjoying the brandy cause?
Still focused on the glass and avoiding Crowley’s shaded eyes, Aziraphale said, “Do you think it should come to another war? I seem to step into one everywhere I go nowadays.”
“That’s just humans. But, in this case, with the French? Over gin?” Crowley shook his head. “Nah, they just have too much corn, not conviction. Besides, they’re too busy fighting themselves.”
As if on cue, a small fight broke out across the room. The harmless scuffle caused some alarm, but mostly cheers. Aziraphale criticized, “You sure chose an interesting location.”
“I thought you enjoyed the artsy neighborhoods. You dragged me to Southwark for years.”
“That was for the Globe Theater. Speaking of, I would like to make it over the river now that I’m back.”
The lounging demon was quiet for a moment, letting the pause speak for him before saying, “You haven’t heard, then?”
Aziraphale was already pouting. “They didn’t! They had just recovered from the fire!”
Crowley shrugged.
“But the Queen loved the company,” the angel argued back.
“That was half a century ago and the Queen’s not around anymore, case you haven’t noticed. It's gotten too crowded over there anyways.
“It is getting crowded,” Aziraphale agreed. “You should have seen the ship I came in on. Even the rats were anxious to get to land. But that’s beside the point. What objections could anyone possibly have against Shakespeare?”
“Puritans; censoring art in the name of public decency. Oppression through the sterilization of artistic expression.” Crowley raised his glass in a mock toast. “Should I be thanking your side or taking the credit for mine?”
In a huff, Aziraphale at last took up his balloon-shaped crystal glass and brought it to his lips instead of answering the question. He earned a smirk for his annoyance, and Aziraphale finally took full notice of how Crowley was presenting themselves nowadays.
His clothes constantly shifted with the times, faster than the humans themselves did. Currently, his hair was long and curled at the ends, and a thin, groomed mustache enhanced the movements of his broad and dangerous smile. The long lines of his coat stretched instead of bunched around the waist like Aziraphale’s own. Small pops of crimson stood out like a playful joke along the collar and lining, as if his true nature could be discerned by anyone should they care to look past the surface level.
A plate was brought to them, and he took the opportunity to shift the conversation back to humans.
“It is just a shame,” Aziraphale said, setting the glass down gently and preparing a slice of bread for himself.
Instinctually, Crowley shifted closer, resting his elbows on the table. “I agree, but I wouldn’t worry. When one door closes, another opens and all that.”
Aziraphale cocked his eyebrow in question, and the demon answered by gesturing around themselves.
“You believe so?” the angel asked while spinning thin lines of honey in deliberate patterns on the buttered slice. “That this… Soho will be the next artistic hub of England?”
“Well,” Crowley said, stretching the vowels out long like a snake on a sun-baked rock, “I don't know. You can never guess where from and which one of Them will be the next Shakespeare, or Michelangelo…”
“Or Vermeer.”
“Ah, contemporary. How about Kant? He’s pretty popular now, too.”
“Oh, I do not care for him much,” Aziraphale said, then brought the bread to his mouth. Instantly, the sweet honey played nicely with the brandy still on his tongue. Sweet was nice, but short-lived, and a moment later the harsher roast of molasses pushed to the edge of being too bitter. Then, fresh velvet butter quelled the assault, leaving faint traces behind on his lips. This type of bread was not chewy, but dense, and as the individual aspects of the bite came together, the brandy shone through again. Cherries and a promise of summer flitted on his tongue before it all faded away.
Crowley had not answered, not yet. He watched, and waited. Aziraphale fooled himself into believing it was out of respect for their conversation. That did not explain why he could not bring himself to keep his eyes on Crowley while he watched him eat.
Finally, Crowley said, “Really? I would've figured Heaven emissary on Earth would be all about Truth Above All.” He was teasing him. Crowley knew of every little lie he had ever told, even to himself. Tonight, for some reason, he was pushing Aziraphale into a corner.
Aziraphale pursed his lips and sat up straighter. “On the contrary, it should be Love Above All, including love thy neighbor. Hardly lends itself as a moral argument when you would doom thy neighbor to save your own conscience. Little mistruths could be good, if they benefit the whole.” He took another sip of his French brandy, avoiding the hard eyes behind dark glasses.
“According to our man Manny Kant,” Crowley countered, his tone slow and measured, “when everyone lies, then no one can trust anyone.”
“That would be the problem with absolutes, then. Not everyone lies, and not all lies are too terrible.”
Crowley's smile grew big, his teeth in full view even under the silly mustache he sported. Then, his tongue discreetly tasted the air.
“Can we not?” Aziraphale scolded.
“Not what?”
“Play whatever game you are setting up.”
Flame-lit lamp light flickered and the shadows swayed. These were small movements, but still more than the angel and the demon made. They held the eye contact and argued without saying a word.
At last, Crowley held up hands, acquiescing to the request if not the argument.
Aziraphale began to prepare another slice of bread. “You’re in a mood tonight.”
“A mood?” Crowley sounded absolutely affronted.
“Quite. First, with the man tending bar, and now with all your needling. We haven’t been in each other’s company for five minutes and already you are behaving like a sanctimonious fiend.”
“Says the angel.”
Said angel lifted his chin and tightened his lips. Forgetting his hesitation earlier, he stared Crowley down and took a harsh, quick bite of his bread, clearly not enjoying it as much as the first. This time, it was Crowley who looked away.
“Stones in a glass house is’ll I’m saying,” Crowley muttered.
Normally, this would be the moment where one of them pushed the other away, whether that be Aziraphale holding himself above the demon, or Crowley reminding the angel that their arrangement was a fragile, fickle thing that could be taken away at any moment. Right now, neither of those would do. Outside and across the way, laughter gathered around the fire in the empty lot. The night was mild and almost inviting. In fact, it would be easy to walk away and come back around to this conversation at another time. Perhaps when the set up and circumstances were better.
“So, have you been back in England long?” Aziraphale asked instead, fiddling with a few crumbs that had fallen off his plate.
Crowley did not answer right away. He was slouched in feigned apathy, with only his hands gripping the arm rests betraying him. He had been waiting for the blow that would drive them away again for who knew how long. After the disaster from their last meeting fifteen years ago, it was no shock. Aziraphale could have been dancing an apology this whole time and still not have felt forgiven. But, at Aziraphale's attempt at small talk, Crowley began to relax. He had been expecting to be left behind. Instead, was being met in the middle, which seemed to be more effective than a thousand apology curtsies.
His tongue flicked out again, testing the air, then he answered. “For a bit. Been wrapping up a little side project.”
“I see, I hope it wasn’t anything particularly,” Aziraphale paused, grasping for the right word that wouldn’t come off as an insult. “Flashy.”
Crowley smirked. “Nah, Hell doesn’t know and Heaven wouldn’ve even noticed. Not yet, at least.”
He was being elusive, even protective of whatever he had been up to. Aziraphale knew the demon enjoyed plans that took ages to come to fruition. He had been that way since Before. The only difference now was his careful reticence. What he revealed and who to was a matter of strategy. He had learned to keep his ideas close to his chest until they could serve him best. On the surface, it seemed opportunistic, but Aziraphale knew it was actually about survival. Crowley, of course, would be safer if he didn’t play with plans and create engines that annoyed thousands of humans over long periods of time. But then, he would not be him, and there was only so much Crowley could acquiesce before finding a loophole to slither through.
It was also the perfect segue. “Well, if there is no immediate thwarting needed, then I would like to share that I, too, have been on my own little side project.” By the time he finished speaking, Aziraphale was beaming.
Crowley deflated a little. “Wh-wh-... without Heaven’s approval?”
Aziraphale nodded and sat up straighter. “I will report it all, of course, but I do not think they will object once they see the results.” He lifted his glass.
The demon mimicked the gesture automatically. “Where was all this at, then?”
“Nuremberg," Aziraphale answered, then attempted to address the confusion in Crowley's eyes. "In Germany.”
“I know where Nuremberg is!" he bit out. "Had to hide out there for a while after one of our agreements.”
“From Hell?”
“From humans.”
The angel wrinkled his nose. “They could not have possibly posed a threat. But it sounds like whatever your devilish plans were had laid down the stones to your path into danger.”
“Oh, it wasn’t the temptation that pissed them off.”
“What?”
Crowley fiddled with the end of his long, pointed mustache. “Doing good seems to piss a lot of dangerous people off, is all.”
Aziraphale's expression sunk into a subtle smugness with haughty ease. “Well, then it seems that would be the right thing to do, then.”
Crowley did not respond at first, letting another calculated smile stretch in the pause. “I didn’t say Bad People, I said Dangerous.”
He frowned. “You’re being tetchy.”
Crowley’s smile reached his hidden eyes. “First sanctimonious, and now tetchy? I should hold mass.”
“Hell forbid.”
The tavern was suddenly filled with a short, delighted laugh from Crowley. But no, maybe not the tavern, because most of the other patrons barely noticed. Aziraphale’s own chest had swelled at Crowley’s amusement, like it was attempting to capture it under his ribs and ration out over long stretches of time, feeding a small flame that he was not supposed to even have lit.
On the battlefield in his mind, where he fought on two fronts against his wants and Heaven’s wrath, Aziraphale felt himself slide just a fraction further towards the edge.
If the conflict showed on his face, Crowley did not notice. “But anyways, what was your Nuremberg experience?”
His manicured fingers reached to straighten an already perfectly placed bow-tied cravat. “Right, yes, well, I’ve spent the last decade there and, fortunately for me, it really is a lovely area.”
Crowley’s brows lifted from behind his glasses. “Ten years is quite a long time for a blessing.”
“It would be for a blessing. This was more akin to a beatific inspiration.”
His sly grin twisted at the corners. “Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of those.” He took a long draw from his glass. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”
At first, Aziraphale was confused, but when he finally understood the implication he clicked his tongue and tutted, “You know that is not what I meant.”
“Do I, though?”
He ignored the bait and picked up his glass in turn, not surprised to find it filled once again. “I refuse to acknowledge that accusation. Do you remember Babylonia?”
Crowley’s leg began fidgeting under the table. “Yeah, sure.”
“And Greece about, oh, it would have been about 2,000 years now. My, how time flies by.”
The demon’s long, quick fingers tapped against the glass and he made a muffled sound that could have been interrupted as confirmation.
Aziraphale was setting up his good news, reminding Crowley of how long he had worked towards this human progression of science.
“Egypt, as well,” the angel continued, “And that incredibly intelligent human from Mesopotamia.”
A biting breeze blew through the tavern and threatened to extinguish most of the lights in the room. It was over in a blink and had no discernable source, but Aziraphale knew. The flash of horror on Crowley’s face was proof enough.
"Aziraphale, what have you done?"
“Good lord,” he responded, unsure of how else to.
The clicking of Crowley's fingers against the crystal quickened like a countdown winding down. “You’re talking about the method of exhaustion, right? Indivisables? The damned heuristical mathematics?” He hissed from clenched teeth. “I thought you weren’t in the mood for games.”
“This isn’t a game. I’m not… I’m afraid I don’t quite understand your change in attitude.”
Crowley leaned forward, past the midway point of the table, and close enough that Aziraphale could distinguish his lurid yellow eyes wide and searching. He could smell the brandy’s dark, woody fruit of sunshine's promise on his breath.
“Who. Did. You. Inspire. In. Nuremberg.”
It wasn’t a question, it was a hunt. Aziraphale felt himself in the crosshairs.
“Liebniz. Gottfried Leibniz.”
The ordinary sounds of the humans going about their night had been chiming just out of his awareness, but in the cold silence that followed, they were twisted and loud. Crowley had not moved away in the minute or uncomfortable millennia that spanned between them. He was still just a breath away, but neither of them remembered to do so. The only sign Crowley was still in his corporation was the squeaking, harsh grinding of his teeth.
Aziraphale huffed and pulled the lacey end of his sleeves straight. “If you are going to throw a fit about it-”
“Leibniz!” Crowley practically shouted. The sharp pronunciation of the scientist’s name acted as a jabbing reflection of his own injury.
“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “Don’t know why that has made you so angry.”
“Leibniz!” Crowley said again, almost dumbly. “And you called me tetchy!” His whole body was almost vibrating. If they were alone, he probably would have started pacing on the ceiling.
“Oh, he is not as bad as-”
“I’ve been working on Newton for years, and you come here and tell me-”
“Isn’t that the apple fellow?”
“Ages on Earth, and way too long in Cambridge in the company of Sir Issac, getting these favored idiots to understand the fluxions and fluents, and you sail back to England to tell me that German pomp knows how to do it all?” The shadows of the tavern had grown, darkened, and subconsciously pushed the humans into their own little circles of light and away from their conversation.
“Well, that’s not quite-”
“You can’t just understand the infinitesimal! That would take-!”
The angel raised a haughty eyebrow and the fight soured in Crowley.
“Right,” the demon said, his voice laced with sardonic venom. “A miracle.”
“It was more of a nudge. You make it sound cheap,” Aziraphale argued and picked up his glass again.
“It’s cheating!”
“I have already said I am not playing a game!”
A loud squeak jarred the already thick tension as Crowley flung himself back against his chair, scowling. Then he stared out the window into the dark London sky speckled with rare, glimmering stars.
Aziraphale fought against the urge to slam his glass as he returned it to the table. It still made a resounding thump. If it had been full, it would have spilled. “Leibniz is not some idiot who could not fathom the concept, and neither am I.”
His mortal enemy groaned with the exasperation one could only possess if it had been developed over eons. “I never said-”
“He is extremely knowledgeable,” Aziraphale said.
“He’s an idealist,” Crowley said, his eyes obviously rolling behind his glasses.
“He’s devout.”
“And you think that helps?”
It was the angel’s turn to slouch. His back hit the uncushioned chair and his eyes found the now-gone-cold bread left uneaten on his plate. He frowned. It would not be as good now. He had spoiled it.
Crowley’s voice was barely over a whisper. “Why would you do this?”
He could not say why. He could not even admit to it himself. So, he lied. “I thought you had given up on it. And if that was the case, then that would mean Hell did not approve.”
“They don’t.”
His eyes snapped back to Crowley. Under the weak lights, he seemed made up of a jumble of sharp, contrasting shapes. But just under the surface, Aziraphale knew he stood on the liminal edge of their prospective sides, deliberately trying to blur the lines. “What?”
“They don’t like it,” the demon repeated. “But they will.”
The hope of an enjoyable evening withered, and perhaps it had just been wishful thinking all along. “I don’t understand.”
“No, Aziraphale, I don’t understand. What was in it for you?”
The angel felt himself back on that lonely battlefield. The cliff’s drop was at his back and he didn’t dare to turn to look its way. He knew there would be something over the precipice, just out of reach, that he would risk falling to have it. He couldn’t risk acknowledging what it was.
Aziraphale quietly answered, “Metaphysics.”
That brought Crowley’s attention back fully to him and the corner of the world they occupied. “Metaphysics? That’s not even a real thing.”
“Well, what do you think we are?”
The wrinkles in Crowley’s brow deepened. “How- how do you mean?”
“Here we are,” Aziraphale reasoned, “with the ability to conjure from nothing and bend the laws of reality.”
“We are a reality!” Crowley was animated again, but it wasn’t with anger. There was a deeper reason driving it. “Here, now. Us two. This is real. They just don’t understand how.”
“That is my point. To them, we aren’t reality. We are Faith. This new advancement will help them understand. They will see how much they still don’t know and that there is more beauty out there then they could have ever imagined.”
“They’ll just feel insignificant,” Crowley said, slightly bitter.
“I disagree.” Aziraphale had been constructing this argument since he had decided to leave for Germany. Whatever the true motivations were did not matter, in the end, because this was a good thing for Heaven. He was good, and was meant to do good things just like this. “They will be able to look deep out into the stars and understand their importance and how loved they are.”
Crowley went for another sip of their seemingly never ending glasses “The stars?”
Yes .
“No! I believe they will look up at the endless expanse of stars-” your work “-and marvel. As humans look deeper into the stars and understand more, the truths about the metaphysical will bring them closer to Her.”
“The more they try to define and describe and develop metrics and measure, the further away they’ll run from faith.”
This was not how the conversation was supposed to go. He thought Crowley would find it amusing. He even thought, perhaps, that it would be penance for past mistakes. “Why can’t you understand? There is unfathomable beauty waiting to be observed at the corners of the universe. They will feel the love that went into every corner of the sky.”
A large carriage passed by their window, shifting the shadows that were casted from the newly built lamplights outside and revealed the hidden serpentine eyes. All of the petulant anger Aziraphale was interrupting from Crowley’s responses were visible in the deep creases of his frown, but the stress around his eyes told a different story. It was brief, but the angel was able to spot the deep-seated worry behind his glasses. It made him look sad.
As if caught, Crowley rubbed his face, mussing the pointed mustache with his intricate, laced sleeves. Then he growled low in his chest.
“That’s not gonna happen, Angel.” The indignation in his tone was gone. The conviction remained. “They will look into the vastness, and want to understand the motions of the world, and believe they can eventually wrap their heads around the truth of it all. Which is all bollocks, ‘cause not a one of us- Human or Metaphysical, knows what that is anyways. They will study deeper into space, and deeper into the smallest sparks that make up Creation, and look for answers of their own.”
A hint of understanding at the enormity of the problem Aziraphale had caused for himself stabbed a cold pang in his heart. “Oh no.”
Crowley nodded. “The humans won’t look up and marvel. They will wonder. They will question.”
“And doubt,” Aziraphale finished.
“Angel, the promise of understanding Creation is the ultimate temptation. They will compose equations that can track the motion of planets and the lifespans of stars. They will get to a point where they’ll observe the double-natured wavelengths of entanglement that we,” he gestured between the two of them, “exist at, but they will never get to a point where those two sciences can speak to each other. They’ll never be able to know the how and why. They’ll pursue it endlessly… And further away from Her.”
Now that he knew the end goal, Crowley’s plan was clear. Since the beginning he had been whispering wondrous ideas in humans’ ears. He never made any decision for them. That wasn’t how he worked. Most demons nudged or suggested to get others to do evil deeds. Now that he thought about it, angels did almost the same thing. He had nudged Leibniz. But Crowley didn’t have to. He seemed to understand the driving force of human nature at an intimate level. He did not need to nudge, only make the tools of their destruction available.
Aziraphale cleared his dry throat. “You are talking about inspiring atheists.”
Crowley reached for his glass, stopped, and thought better of it. His thumb tapped against the table instead. “It’s not a novel concept.”
“Alright then,” he acquiesced, then accused. “Atheists in mass, then.”
“Hell of an oxymoron,” Crowley quipped.
“And I will be held responsible for it.” The weak lights faded at their edges. The room shifted, and he felt his stomach tumble off balance. Physically, Aziraphale knew he was still sitting in a simple chair in an unnamed bar across from Hell’s Go-To Temptor. Mentally, he was back on that cragged, barren wasteland that he envisioned the raging war between who he was and who he was supposed to be. He could feel a spotlight on him, the accusation of turning thousands of humans away from God leaving him nowhere to hide. All the silly little allowances and little battles lost had pushed him to the exact spot he was most vulnerable. When Heaven finds out, it will be all they need to tip him over the edge.
He barely heard Crowley calling for him.
On the fuzzy corner of his awareness, he could feel Crowley reach across the table in the same way one might realize a dangerous thing was approaching them. His sight was somewhere else, ready for an attack, but he could sense the demon’s hand inch closer. Those long, busy fingers were tentatively trying to find him, like searching in the dark. Then, the tips of his fingers must have settled on the base of his brandy glass. Aziraphale had not even noticed he was still holding on to it.
Crowley pressed gently against the base, attempting to bridge the planes between reality and the reality of Aziraphale’s situation. They weren’t touching, no, but the crystal was a thin, fragile, and important barrier between contact. It acknowledged that they shouldn’t and that Crowley wanted to all the same, even in just this small way in an attempt to settle him.
The angel fought to focus his eyes and found Crowley’s, his sunglasses discarded on the table. Though his defenses were up, the rare, exposed show of concern blindsided him. It was devious and clever and all the things he knew the demon to be.
“I- mhmm.” Aziraphale tried to speak, but his throat had closed up. Head still spinning, he closed his eyes to hide in the dark. Instead, he found himself back on that battlefield in his mind.
“Listen to me. Hey, come back. Atheists aren’t damned. You hear me? Usually, they aren’t bad people. They aren’t martyrs or war-wagers or other types that harm others.”
Crowley was trying to calm him by assuaging his guilt. It only strengthened his moral compunction that he had been thinking only of himself.
“If not to damn them,” Aziraphale choked out, “Why do it?”
With slow and deliberate movements, Crowley took his hand back and sat up straight. Of all of his mannerisms tonight, it was this that startled Aziraphale the most. He could not recall a time Crowley had sat with anything akin to posture. Not since the Fall, at least.
“They are just people asking questions.”
There was the driving force of the plan, the reason he could pursue it for as long as he had. Crowley had wanted to put a cosmic suggestion box at the end of every telescope and in the heart of every cell.
And Aziraphale had helped.
“I don’t,” he tried. Then he tried again. “I should do something about this.” He would fall and face the judgment of Heaven with who would care to listen to his apologies and logic. It did not matter that he was good and was meant to do good things. He would fall alone. And because God was just, he would deserve it.
“You should what?” Crowley asked, the tenderness of his comfort a moment earlier curling up on itself in defense. “Report me? Thwart me?”
“Yes. At least you would get all the credit for your hard work.” Leagues of angels were damning him as he stood alone. Hordes of demons beckoned him closer. He did not feel at home with either side. It was maddeningly cacophonic and Aziraphale could not tell which side was which. It didn't matter, it was all descending upon him.
“Damn the credit!" Crowley said, his insistence piercing through the veil of his panic. "I don’t care about the scoreboard! I care about-”
The world drowned out. He could not hear the rest of Crowley’s words. On that battlefield in his mind, the screams that surrounded him were instantly silenced as he felt a pressure against his back. The heat of something forbidden and comforting pressed him upright, their shoulder blades digging into his own, and kept him from the edge. His hand twitched with the need to reach behind him. He wanted to turn and look, but knew it impossible. They were shielding each other, one pushed towards damnation, the other towards absolution, and both outcomes were a sentence. Against the machinations of the warring sides, his devils were his only hope, and they dug in their heels together to meet in the middle.
When Aziraphale had refused to allow God to destroy Job’s children, he believed that would make him evil. It didn’t and he wasn’t. It was a good thing he did despite what God had decided. Crowley went against what was ordered of him, as well. But, Crowley was not good. Maybe, he was just right.
Aziraphale’s breathing slowed as a realization secured itself into his fundamental truths. It was one is should have recognized earlier. The evidence had been there since the beginning. If you break it apart into an infinite amount of questions, and derive an infinite mass of answers, you will find the proof of the whole. He had faith in Crowley not because he was good. Crowley was diabolical and conniving. He did bad things all the time, but he was not evil.
As an angel, he was meant to do good things. That was what he believed to have the strength to defy Heaven when they were misguided. Crowley’s plan might have been bad, and bitter, but it wasn’t evil. That could mean that what Aziraphale did was good. Humans were complex. Even if Crowley’s plan was successful, not all who looked into the vastness of space and to the microbiomes of their own self would shun Her creation. There would be so many who would witness truth and see God in it.
And God was just. Their motives were, of course, ineffable, but that does not mean infallible. This realization was a secret notion he had held since before the War and could barely give his mental awareness in fear of being misunderstood. Mistakes could be made, and a just God would be able to understand that. She probably just didn't quite understand how the situation on Earth had changed. How the Earth could change you. While it was not their place to suggest, angels were very good at offering convincing nudges, if given the chance and enough time.
Aziraphale knew he was good. He knew God was just. And, when he needed him, Crowley was his moral compass in the times he doubted. He could have faith that when they agreed, it was the right thing to do. The thought of it surprised him, as it wasn’t wholly unfamiliar. The being back to back with him in that damnable battle had been there all along. He had feared that going along with Heaven only as far as he could would be terribly lonely. In fact, that had not been the truth of it at all.
The Machiavellian edge to Crowley’s voice brought his mind back to Earth. “Aziraphale… Angel, did you send the report up?”
He shook his head, still looking a thousand miles away but at least he was fully back in his body again. Unfortunately, he was sick and unable to finish the fine brandy Crowley had been so gracious to gift him with.
“Perhaps it would be best if you didn’t.”
“Quite.”
“And my side will be none the wiser.”
“Won’t they be wondering about your side project?”
Crowley tried to shrug it off, but he looked more tense than he was trying to convey. “Nah. Well, maybe. I guess I’ll stay around here in London a bit longer. See what happens. 1665 could be my lucky year.”
“I did miss London,” Aziraphale answered, his voice gaining a small fraction of strength back with every word. “Terribly so. I was thinking I would stay a while, as well.” He found himself looking outside again at the empty lot. The abandoned fire was smoldering and its small crowd had gone. “Perhaps I’ll open a book shop.”
“A what? You would sell them?”
“Well, clever storage, then.” He couldn’t break his eyes away from the plans beginning to take shape in the dark space outside. “If I may suggest, it would also make things easier to coordinate in the future if you knew at least where I was.”
“Right…” Crowley said, the implication of the idea forming plans of his own. “Right. A home base. That’s not a bad idea.”
Aziraphale began to smile.
Then, Crowley continued, “Probably shouldn’t see each other for a while, though.”
The angel forced his face to not react. “The coincidence would be too obvious if they knew of our involvement,” he agreed. “If they were to discover we are in, uh, kahoots, it will only spell trouble.”
Disgust seeped into Crowley’s tone. “'Kahoots?’ Really?”
The mocking response earned Crowley another annoyed glare, and Aziraphale was comforted that he was able to. He felt grounded once again, back on Earth, and far away from any immediate threat.
The demon rolled his eyes and slid his dark shades back into place.
“So,” Aziraphale said. “Newton, then?”
“Yeah, he’s an alright fellow.” Crowley gripped his glass and swirled the brandy in an anxiously hypnotic spiral that threatened to breach the edge.
Aziraphale reached towards his own once more for a tentative sip. “Were you the one who dropped the apple on his head as well?”
He did not stop fidgeting with the drink, but he did finally grin. “Thought it was funny.”
“Appears more like a calling card,” the angel teased.
“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
The bartender began calling out for last rounds to the disgruntled moans of the few remaining humans. Aziraphale pursed his lips. “But, you are always meddling with things. Even the ones that you have no business meddling with.”
“Hypocrite."
If he was a good angel, the glowering stare that he leveled across the table would have frightened any other fiend back to Hell. “That was uncalled for.”
"Mmm," he muttered, but not in surrender. “Kant references Leibniz often, you know?"
“What?” Aziraphale asked.
“Yeup. Says his ideas inspire his own.”
They sat in silence again, listening to the not-so-quiet shuffle of mortals heading towards the exit and leaving them behind. The humans had forgotten them ages ago for their own safety. “What am I supposed to do with that information?”
Crowley shrugged again as if it was his favorite gesture in all creation. “What you will, I suppose.”
He sulked. “I’m not supposed to have my own will.”
“That’s the biggest lie they ever told us, Angel.”
Not wanting to darken his thoughts or get into another debate, Aziraphale said, “Perhaps an argument for Kantian ideals, then.”
“Hardly.” In a quick swoop, the glass reached the demon's mouth and the remaining liquor disappeared past his lips. “They’re both twats.”
Aziraphale was about to respond, but Crowley cut him off. “So! Nothing on the books. No reports to any head office. Newton will discover calculus for pure science, and Leibniz for the path closer to God. Both sides win, I guess, meaning neither side does.”
“Well, I don’t know. Perhaps one side will prevail, as it is supposed to.”
As if the thought of sitting another second was a fate worse than discorporating, Crowley was on his feet and stretching the tightness out of his shoulders. “The real question, then, is who will be famous for it?”
“Will they concern themselves with fame?” He thought of Crowley, who was willing to let go of a project thousands of years in the making, all because of his meddling.
“Well, two scientists from two separate places on Earth, both developing calculus at the same time," his tongue jutted passed his teeth and look down towards him. "Think of the scandal. I wonder who will win.”
Aziraphale answered, “We will, of course.”
.
The End
...