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Captain Anthony J. Crowley woke languidly.
It was a luxury to have a moment to blink awake, to feel the sheets that encompassed him, and to bask in the sunlight that dappled through the thin curtains. He stretched, letting out a pleased hum as the feeling of a good night's rest travelled through his muscles, melting the last of the weariness into the cot and leaving him content.
Crowley didn’t get a lot of slow mornings, each day bringing forth a new challenge whether it was a surprise storm or a surprise attack or a surprise game of ‘Scare the Captain Awake’ or… come to think of it, maybe he should get better at predicting the surprises. The Sea was a mystery but even She had Her repetitive motions that pulled them through the weeks for there were only so many storms they could go through before remembering to make sure the cutlery wasn’t left on the table after dinner lest it disappear into the corners as The Eden braced herself against the crashing tide.
It was the quiet that made him tense. Slow mornings didn't mean quiet mornings; that was an impossibility on a ship with a raucous crew. Quiet meant there was something amiss, something that had him rise from his bed with an arm already outstretched for his sword and-
He didn’t scream. He didn't scream.
It was a yelp at the very most, a botched swear at the very least. No one on The Seven Seas could say he, The Red Serpent, Captain of The Eden, screamed when he saw the life-size portrait of one Commander Aziraphale Fell looming over his bed. No one except the sniggering voice in the corner.
“Adam,” Crowley growled, steel lacing the name, almost as sharp as his sabre if not for the fondness that snuck out of his throat around his crew. “I will put you on deck scrubbing duties for a week. Need I remind you how bloody difficult it was to remove the seaweed last time we crossed Straus?”
“Captain!” The cabin boy protested, a head of brown curls revealing itself from behind the loftily held painting. Crowley must've been truly knocked out if he didn't hear Adam drag it into his quarters and bump it against every floorboard.
“Should’ve thought of your chores before pulling something like that,” he countered, swinging himself out of the cot and pushing aside the painting – not before Adam heaved it up again, threatening to tip himself over under the weight of it. It was practically his height. “Where did you get that?”
Adam grinned, finally setting the damned thing down. “Bought it! Apparently, Fell’s ship got raided a couple nights past.”
He slipped on his pair of shades – at least that’s what he’d been calling them. Wensleydale insisted they should be sunglasses and that was a ludicrous title – hiding the way his eyes widened. He kept the rest of his expression neutral to some degree but couldn’t stop the dread slowly lining his insides, fingernails digging sharp crescents into his palm. “By who?”
“Ah.” Adam's brow furrowed. “New crew. They haven't been vetted yet.”
If this was their way of establishing themselves, then they were already a sinking ship. Anybody who gave a damn about the Pirate Code, which was any pirate worth staying on the Seas, knew not to bother Fell's ship. Crowley had made sure of that.
Now this? After everything it had taken to assuage Aziraphale's doubts about the Arrangement? After Crowley had promised he'd be fine? Well, if She didn't wreck the ship then he would.
“Captain?”
Crowley blinked. Adam was staring at him, curious and worried. There was something in the downturned bow of his lips that Crowley could only recall appearing whenever Aziraphale was brought up. He still hadn’t managed to parse out what it meant and at this point, if he were to admit it, he was too chicken to ask.
“Navy pricks shouldn’t keep portraits of themselves anyhow,” Crowley said, slithering past the second unasked question with practised ease. He snatched up the top discarded on the floor and started shoo-ing Adam out of the room before he got any more inquisitive looks.
“Pepper overhead some sailors talking at the bar in Jarts. Fell's been assigned pirate duty.”
He raised an eyebrow, giving Adam a final push out the door. “Bit broad.”
Adam shrugged, planting his feet right in front of the doorway. “Either way, we might run into him.”
“He’s heading towards Straus as well!” Pepper’s unmistakable voice winded down the staircase Adam refused to use. “He’s not pursuing us but…”
“Better careful than captured,” Crowley muttered, plans already forming. There was no denying the fact that he’d rather run into Aziraphale than not, but pretences had to be kept, both around the Navy (truth) and his own crew (an excuse). Though their increasing encounters could be easily explained away by the faux rivalry they’d built, being The Red Serpent came with a reputation. While he wasn’t on top of the food chain – The Horned Devil took that spot easily – he was still feared and that fear caused most to keep a wide berth around The Eden.
“Before you ask, captain, Anathema said the skies will remain clear,” Pepper supplied, ever so helpful, now on the first step of the stairs. Which reminded him that he still had the remnants of sleep to wash off and if he didn’t escape into his cabin before she made it all the way down, he’d never slip from both their grasps.
“Keep on course. If his stuff made it to Jarts before he had the chance to snatch it up we’re ahead of them. We go through Straus and towards Sohoth. Resupply and circle around.” Then, addressing Adam, “Get Eric to send a message to Beez. Ask them if Michael is still patrolling the north. I don’t want to get cornered by both Fell and her.”
They nodded and disappeared above deck to relay their respective messages to the rest of the crew. Crowley rubbed at his eyes, the peace of the morning long behind him as he slipped back into his room, only to be faced by the forgotten portrait.
Commander Fell looked up at him, features schooled into an appropriate expression of seriousness but the painter had managed to capture the smile lines that had first surprised Crowley all those years ago; there were only a handful of times that he’d seen his beatific smile and he’d treasured each one. The blue coat was oh-so different from the cream-coloured getups he’d seen him in whenever they caught each other outside of work. He never understood how Aziraphale had managed those scant breaks but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Angel, you better have a good explanation for this one.” He glared at the portrait but it held no heat. If there was anything amiss, he was sure Aziraphale would have reached out by now. The Navy and pirates alike loomed over their feeble…friendship, and Aziraphale was hell-bent on exercising as much caution as possible, hence the drawer of letters written in pretty cursive on paper that cost far too much, all signed off under a pseudonym; Angel. It would be fine. They'd slip around Michael, avoid Aziraphale – because Crowley was sure any more encounters, especially after a raid, would put Gabriel hounding down on both of them – and host a pleasant welcome for the new crew. He'd better make sure there was enough gunfire on board first, for that last one.
With that optimistic train of thought, he cast one final (fond) look at the painting and set about to start another day.
Two Days Ago
“I want you to bring in The Red Serpent.”
Aziraphale was decidedly in trouble.
Getting his ship raided by- by miscreants was bad enough but getting called in by Gabriel? There were only so many stressors he could handle. Oh, and the note had come in just when he’d been getting settled in with his latest acquisition – a rather well-worn edition of poems by François Villon. Any thoughts he'd been entertaining on how quickly he could wrap this up to return to his cosy chair had been completely thrown overboard. Perhaps he should’ve brought that Furfur captain back instead of driving them all off – albeit not fast enough as they'd managed to pluck anything that looked valuable to their admittedly untrained eye. It wasn’t much of a loss but getting raided at port rather than the more expected sea raid had dutifully knocked Aziraphale's rationality askew; rationality which he did have for one didn’t become Commander just by sitting around and reading books, even if he had wished it had been that easy.
“We’ve had a bounty on his head for long enough,” Gabriel continued, mistaking Aziraphale’s silence for compliance. “Nothing has come out of it. Any… pirate crew we’ve tried to employ takes jail time over apprehending him. And the few that do take us up on our generous offer end up indisposed. So I thought, well if we want a job done right, we must do it ourselves. And who better to spearhead this operation than you, Fell?”
“Me?” Aziraphale said weakly. He was glad that, for once, Admiral Gabriel had decided to conduct this meeting in private. While being trapped in the man’s quarters was less than ideal, it was better than his every reaction being scrutinised to Heaven and beyond by everybody else. Gabriel was too busy looking at a point beyond Aziraphale’s face to notice the steadily rising discomfort that had Aziraphale discreetly wiping away the sweat on his palms against his thighs.
“Of course, Fell! You knew him from…” The admiral paused here, mouth set in a thin line, eyes dragging back to meet Aziraphale’s who was mostly successful in not averting his gaze. “His brief time in the Navy, correct?”
“Ah. I suppose. Brief meetings – briefer than his time here.” He twisted the gold signet ring on his pinky finger. Crowley must've heard about the raid already. He should’ve been more careful but the lack of anything happening since their Agreement had made him lower his guard significantly. “I don’t think I qualify-”
“None of that, commander.” Gabriel slipped a wanted poster across the exquisite mahogany desk that probably cost more than a third of Aziraphale’s literature collection. He looked down at it, Crowley’s face peering up at him, scowl prominent and eyes blazing in righteous fury. The only thing that was off was his nose, which he’d heard Crowley bemoan enough about to know how much it annoyed the pirate. He bit back his smile at the memory of a drunken night when Crowley had snatched up the poster and lamented about it for the next half hour.
“You’ve gone against him and made it out alive, that speaks for itself.” Well, they never really fought to kill in all their chance meetings. “I know you only patrol but I’m assigning you on this. Last we heard, he was heading towards the Straus Channel. Bring him in Commander Fell; you might be looking at a promotion.”
Climbing the ranks was not an appealing proposition; it never had been despite his family’s insistence. Though the way Gabriel said it left no room for refusal, smile just a touch stretched. Aziraphale nodded, and Gabriel handed him the poster (“Just in case”) before he turned and tried to limit himself to a hurried walk rather than the run that threatened to push him out of the room. As soon as the door shut behind him, he sagged against it, looking down at Crowley’s face on the crumpled poster. “Oh dear. This is going to be a problem.”