Chapter Text
1. 1666, Pudding Lane, London.
He had meant to bless that bakery, not burn it down.
Well, technically, it wasn't him who burnt it down. He'd tempted Farriner into sleeping, or at the very least resting, because he looked exhausted. The next thing he knew, London was on fire and even his strongest miracles couldn't put it out. To make matters worse, the demon Hastur had come to Earth to join in. He loved a bit of arson, according to Crowley. He'd joined in. However, that included hellfire.
The angel had tried his best to flee from it, but Hastur, ever the bastard, was hot on his trail. Aziraphale leaned back against a wall, practically pinned into it. His miracles had stopped working. This was it. The end of the angel, Aziraphale. Perhaps he deserved it, he thought miserably, thinking of all the souls and livelihoods lost to this dreadful fire. The one he'd unintentionally started. This was to be his punishment, although if you asked Aziraphale, he deserved to see the aftermath of the living hell he'd caused.
Gleefully, Hastur let out a demonic laugh-
And that's when Crowley appeared, out of nowhere, and threw himself in front of Aziraphale. The hellfire which shot out of Hastur's fingertips did not affect him a jot. He quickly took Aziraphale's hand, and miracled them away, into Paris.
"Thank you, my dear."
"Shut up. Can't be a demon without having someone to thwart my wiles, can I? So don't go round thinking I did it for you."
"I would never."
"Hmm, sure. You owe me lunch."
"Of course. I've heard a new bakery opened here, last week-"
"No more bakeries, Aziraphale."
"Okay."
Thomas Farriner escaped arrest, and Robert Hubert was the one executed instead. Aziraphale was good at forgiveness, but this was the one thing he didn't feel capable of forgiving himself for. Sometimes, the weight of his guilt made him wish that Crowley hadn't rescued him after all.
Then he'd recognise how selfish he was being, and move on with his day. It was the only way.
2. 1888, Whitechapel, London
Not for the first time, Aziraphale had lost the coin toss.
Crowley was supposed to be tempting some of the men of London, and Aziraphale was meant to be performing a blessing for a poor family with a sickly child near by. Aziraphale was sure that Crowley was cheating at the coin toss, but he didn't push it. The other night had been the first time they'd met since their argument in 1862, and he was surprised they were still talking. Pleasantly surprised, but surprised nonetheless.
Anyway, that was how he'd found himself in Whitechapel on the 8th of September, 1888, in his female presentation, as a sex worker. Or should she say, herself.
A man in a dark coat approached her. She had to admit, she cut quite a fine figure-she was well-endowed, with long blonde curls, and bright blue eyes. She certainly admired those features on herself, anyway. No wonder he'd approached her.
She blinked and squinted through the dark. She didn't think this was one of males she was supposed to be tempting. She struggled to see properly in the dark, especially seeing as the gaslights didn't give one such a clear view of people. Still, there was no harm in taking on a new customer, right? As part of the ruse, pretending to be a human sex worker, instead of an angel doing a devil's work.
"What do they call you, you tempting creature?" the man asked, his voice low.
"E-"
"Eliza Crowley! There you are!" came a familiar voice. Aziraphale had to bite down on her lip to stop herself from gasping in shock. What the hell was happening? Crowley approached her, shaking her shoulders. "What are you doing? I told you, you cannot be out unaccompanied, let alone at this hour! I woke up and you were gone!"
"Who are you?" The man asked, suspiciously. Crowley levelled him with such a deep scowl that the man practically withered under his gaze.
"Her husband," Crowley snarled, before Aziraphale could protest. Crowley was always quick on his feet. "I am afraid she has fits of delirium, where she knows not whether she is dreaming or awake. Female hysteria, you know. She believes herself to be asleep, and she is yet to realise that she is awake. She is a dedicated and faithful wife otherwise."
The strange man glared at her, full of contempt. "Whore," he spat out. He turned to Crowley. "She should be taken to the asylum."
Crowley's arm slid around Aziraphale's waist protectively. He removed his glasses with his free hand, and looked at her with an overwhelming amount of love and affection in his eyes. If she didn't know any better, Aziraphale would have considered it genuine.
If only, she thought wistfully. Then, she realised that Crowley's eyes were on show, and her own eyes widened, but Crowley mouthed, 'trust me'. So, she did.
"I love her too much to do that to her, I'm afraid," Crowley responded, smiling, his arm still around Aziraphale's waist. Aziraphale's breath caught in her throat. The man backed away a little, Crowley's golden eyes scaring him.
"Must be going mad..." he muttered, shaking his head.
"Come on, my love. Let's get back home," Crowley replied, in a voice as sweet as honey, so unlike his usual gruff tone that it took her aback. He squeezed her waist, sending a jolt of electricity through her corporation, nodded politely to the mysterious man, and walked off.
Even once they were out of sight, Crowley didn't move his arm. "Crowley?" Aziraphale whispered, concerned that they were being followed. "What was that about?"
Crowley's face darkened. "Aziraphale, you don't want to know. I've only just found out. I got here as fast as I could."
"Crowley."
He let out a sigh. "Hell are going to be making space for this one," he muttered.
"That man?"
Crowley nodded. "Yes. He killed a woman, eight nights ago. He's going to kill another, tonight."
Aziraphale let out a cry, trying to pull herself out of Crowley's grip. "We have to stop him!"
"Aziraphale."
"It should have been me! I'll only discorporate."
Crowley frowned. "Yeah, and the paperwork would be a bloody nightmare. You don't know that they'd issue you with the same body! And you're so fond of the one you already have, you'd only bitch on about your new one endlessly. I wouldn't be able to stand that. Or worse, they'd get so pissed off, they wouldn't give you one, and I'd be bored out of my skull up here. I'd have to endure Michael." He shuddered for emphasis.
"But I can't let her die!" Aziraphale protested, tears in her eyes. She twisted out of Crowley's embrace and began to run off.
Out of frustration, Crowley grabbed her, pinning her against the nearest wall. "Angel, stop!" he shouted. "I know you're a protector, but you can't do this. Please. I tried, you know. Tried a miracle. Maybe you could try-but poor Annie isn't long for this world anyway. She's ill, from what I've heard, and dying, and she's lost one child. Gone Upstairs. One is in a disability institution, and the other is in France. Her husband is dead too. She has no will to live."
"That doesn't mean she deserves to die!"
Crowley loosened his grip on Aziraphale, his features softening. "And that doesn't mean she's not going to, Aziraphale," he pointed out, trying out the gentle approach. "It's not something we can stop." Aziraphale thought of Wee Morag, and she could tell that Crowley was thinking about her, too. The angel began to weep.
"Oh, Crowley..."
"Come here," he said, pulling her close to him. She embraced him back, still crying. He stroked her hair, holding her close. "Sh, now angel, it'll be okay," he murmured, over and over, until Aziraphale's body was no longer wracked with sobs.
Sadly, he'd go on to kill three other women, too, at least. They never did find the man. But he would go on, throughout history, to be known as Jack the Ripper.
And one of the many regrets Aziraphale would go on to have in his six-thousand year life.