Chapter Text
A lonesome angel in the frock of a friar strides down the middle aisle of the ornate cathedral, cutting a path between the rows upon rows of ornate pews. The smell of camphor wood, and the lingering residue of frankincense and myrrh incense fills his nostrils. Colored geometric shapes gleam across the floor from the stained glass windows lining the walls.
Finally, Aziraphale reaches the sanctuary after an obnoxiously long walk, where a familiar figure stands next to the altar and below the quite frankly imposing golden cross towering above all else in the vicinity.
“Ah, Aziraphale!” The archangel Gabriel, clad in voluminous white robes and a finely embroidered golden and purple stole, greets the angel. Light that somewhat inexplicably, given that it is already evening, shines down in rays from the vaulted ceiling above, cutting a makeshift spotlight in the overly decorated room. “You’ve arrived!”
“Gabriel,” Aziraphale returns the greeting uneasily, but as usual, the Archangel does not seem to notice, or at least not have any regard for it.
“Let me tell you, you are going to love this assignment. It’s quite the doozy.” Gabriel says conspiratorially with a steeple of his fingers. “And we saved it just for you! To be honest, I’m jealous.”
“Oh good! So then, we’re finally going to be allowed to intervene in this awful plague business? Such a menace returning so soon after that first outbreak surely isn’t a part of the divine pl-”
“Pfft, what? No! It’s even better!” He leans in with a knowing, facetious smile, eyebrows raised. “And who wants to deal with boring old sick people, anyway? Maybe they should try not being sick!”
“O-Oh. Hm.” The other angel offers a thin, pinched smile in return, if you could call it that.
“I’m sure you’re aware of the little heresy problem we’ve been dealing with as of late. The rest of us simply have our hands full returning the wandering flock to the pen- What else is new, am I right?-”
Aziraphale, struggling not to tune out his superior, finds himself gazing up at the middle section of a stained glass triptych high up on the wall. His eyes meet with a small lamb’s where it sits in the robed lap below it.
When he returns to focus, Gabriel is mercifully finishing up his long winded direction.
“-and so that’s why you get the very special opportunity to investigate some very interesting rumors about some crazy person raising bloodthirsty corpses from the dead! We can’t just have any unsanctioned rube wandering in off the farm and playing at making the next Lazarus, after all- Or worse, Hell being involved.”
“Ah- Right! Of course.”
Once night has fallen, Aziraphale departs for the suspicious location he’s been tasked to investigate. The walk to the rundown cathedral in question is remarkably different than the relatively clean and safe street he walked along earlier.
This part of the city is littered with rundown buildings, and a non-zero number of impoverished residents slowly succumbing to the effects of the black death, crammed into alleyways and forgotten. Many of the people left here have been turned out by their own flesh and blood, left to die alone for the sake of sparing the rest of their kin.
Only one thought rings in his mind, the same thought that has haunted him these last few years, like a reverberation of a bell tolling a call to prayer; Why does Heaven allow this to happen?
There must be a reason, Aziphirale tries to convince himself. Surely…
Finally, the angel arrives at his destination; what seems to have once been a functioning cathedral, but now has been reduced to disrepair and rot. Despite the holes forming in the structure itself, all of the windows and doors are blocked over with nailed-on planks of wood. Aziraphale walks around to the back entrance, slinking through discarded trash and mystery liquids he would prefer not to think too hard on the origin of, assuming that it will be easier to dislodge the barrier off of a smaller entrance.
Once he has given up trying to get in by mundane means, Aziraphale relents with a sigh, and after making sure no one is in sight, simply miracles the boards off the door.
He lets himself in, the door creaking and threatening to fall off its hinges completely.
The most peculiar thing that hits him as soon as opening the door is the eerie green lighting. It seems to be emanating from a large fireplace along the back wall. The strange, almost unnatural green of the flames casts a sickly hue across everything in the room, making the shadows long.
Inside, most of the vestiges of ever being a place of worship have been eroded away- the inside gutted out and now housing what seems to be some sort of heretical alchemical laboratory. A variety of bubbling liquids inhabit a swirling track of thin and twisting glass tubing and bulbs, making up a network of fragile looking equipment. A leatherbound journal, splayed open on the desk, has demonic looking writing scribbled across its pages.
Examining the journal, Aziraphale is unsure of what this Yersinia pestis is, but it sounds like a fitting name for a demon of great terror. Even reading the latin strikes up a bit of unease- he wouldn’t want to unknowingly give the entity power by reading its name.
In one corner of the room, there seems to be some sort of makeshift morgue.
And, as one would expect from a morgue, laid out on a slab next to the workstation, there is a body.
Aziraphale’s eyes warily come to rest on the nearby cadaver. Its toe pokes out from beneath the stained off-white sheet acting as its shroud. He approaches, hand trembling slightly as he pulls down the sheet.
The corpse is pale as a ghost, almost a sickly grey-purple tint to their complexion where blood has pooled under their skin. In stark contrast, blood has collected around their mouth and under their nostrils, and while most of it is darkened and crusted dry, there are some traces of fresh, red blood accumulating as well. Also of note is the awful, painfully swollen blistered lump on the side of the neck, and the blackened skin on the nose. The smell is unpleasant, to say the least.
Aziraphale cringes mournfully, replacing the shroud of the unfortunate soul. He is about to investigate the rest of the room, when he realizes he is no longer alone. He quickly swivels to look at the figure now standing behind him.
They are tall and lanky, their ominous form swallowed up by a wide, flowing black frock, the high cowl buttoned all the way up to the neck. Roomy sleeves frame gloved hands, and a wide brimmed hat sits upon their head. Secured by the hood is a stark black beak structure, studded around the edges with metal grommets. On the nose of the mask rests an inquisitively reflective set of dark goggles.
The mystery figure dislodges the long beaked mask on his face, revealing just enough of their features to be recognizable before fixing the mask back in its proper place. As the mask is shuffled round, he catches the faintest whiff of spice on the air- perhaps clove.
And of course, Aziraphale would recognize the flash of those eyes golden anywhere. How could he not?
“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims, trying and failing to not sound pleased with the revelation.
“Angel.” The muffled voice behind the mask is unmistakably familiar, even with the mask.
“What in Heaven’s name are you doing with all of this?”
“Just practicing a bit of preventative medicine.”
Crowley continues to work some esoteric process with the alchemical tools in the makeshift workspace. Aziraphale watches for a long moment, intrigued.
“...Don’t take this as unjust criticism, my dear,” He fusses with the tassels of the braided cord acting as the belt of his frock. “But, oh, well… it’s just that… isn’t it a bit…”
“Spit it out already. I’m busy- in case you didn’t notice.” Crowley flicks one of the many glass flasks on the table with the back of his index finger. It makes a dull clink, the bubbles in the green liquid agitated for a moment by the reverberation.
“Healing the sick- It simply doesn’t seem very demonic.” Aziraphale hisses the last word, as if the sounds themselves might come back and bite him. “Why would Hell have you be doing something like this?”
“Oh, this isn’t an order from Hell.” Crowley says simply, letting the implication that he’s doing this of his own accord be communicated without being said aloud. He uses a gloved hand to add one final touch of some mysterious powder to the potion in the mixing glass. He gives it a swirl, beak quirking to the side as he examines the mixture from behind his inlaid goggles.
“But then…” Aziraphale, rapidly running out of rebuttals, only has one thing left on his mind; “Why?”
“Why? Angel- All of this plague business - it’s just so boring. There’s more than enough suffering to keep Hell happy, sure, but it’s all the same groaning and shambling and lying about in heaps waiting to die; day in, day out. It gets old. And I don’t fancy myself another thousand year nap. So I’ve decided to put an end to it.”
“And how do you intend to do that?” Aziraphale’s eyes follow the route of the glass tubing on the workspace,
“Watch and see for yourself.”
Crowley pulls down the shroud of the corpse on the table once more- and then promptly squeezes the person’s nostrils shut until their blood-crusted jaw sags open. Then, he unceremoniously pours a glug of the mixture, measured by eye, directly down the cadaver’s throat.
The supposed corpse lets out a bubbling, bloody cough, then a belabored rattle of a groan. Then, miraculously, it begins to breathe- the subtle rise and fall of their chest with shallow, spaced out breaths now obvious. Though they do not seem particularly lucid, they are unarguably, alive.
“Oh, Crowely- using miracles of all things to bring back the dead? That’s madness! And how are you managing to conceal the energy signature? It surely must still be drawing unwanted attention from down below… ”
“It’s no miracle.” Crowley sniffs the remaining mixture in the glass before plugging it with a cork. “And I’m not bringing back the dead. Just the nearly dead.”
“Then… just what is it that you’ve mixed up here, Crowley?”
The demon rises to his feet, black fabric billowing about the floor. Aziraphale can detect the coiled excitement in Crowley as he savors revealing the information- and perhaps even a small hint of pride, if the uncharacteristic way he squares his shoulders instead of his usual sulk is any indication.
Finally, he speaks:
“Antibiotics.”
There is a long pause. One of the glass cylinders drops with a dull clink, followed by the sound of it rolling to a slow stop on the surface of the rough hewn wooden desk.
“...Antibiotics…?” Aziraphale feels out the foreign word in his mouth.
“Yes. Like biotics, but, well, the other way.”
“Ah, some sort of curative? You were being truthful when you said medicine…”
The realization clicks into place for the angel.
“That must be it, then. The displaced skulking about pale and gaunt, the aversion to sunlight, the blood stains around the mouth. Loved ones returning from their assumed final demise.” Aziraphale concludes, stroking his chin. “ It’s why people think there are some sort of foul undead that feed on the blood of the living skulking about in the shadows. “... I-It doesn’t exactly explain any of the claims about garlic, per say, but most things are harmed by steel, if you really think about it-”
“Hmm. Skulking about, you said?” Crowley faintly grumbles behind his mask. Aziraphale can’t see it, but can imagine the deep furrow in Crowley’s brow from his voice. “...May have to hold them longer for observation from now on…”
“And the fireplace…? A minor miracle?”
“No. Probably old copper dust in the ashes.”
“Hmm… Well, as far as I’m concerned, as long as there are no more reports, the problem is solved.”
“May still get some lingering reports about blood fiends, what with the flagellants about the city.”
“What are we going to do about it?” Azirphale inquires.
“Hell if I know. But there’s a dusty old crate of communion wine in that basement that I could use help disposing of. It’s no Chateauneuf du Pape, but it isn’t vinegar yet. Probably.” A unseen, angular brow perks up over the tinted goggles obscuring his eyes. “Unless of course… you’d rather run back to Heaven and report me?”
“Oh, Crowley, you already know I plan on doing no such thing.”
Before he can second guess himself, Aziraphale finds himself seated in a partially destroyed armchair, looking down at the questionable iridescent sheen to the top of his wine. Opposite him is a reclining and unmasked Crowley, the angular lines of his features and the pushed up beak of his mask still bathed in verdigris light.
“I suppose it’s a good thing in the end, that you’ve intervened.” Aziraphale muses.
“Sometimes a bit of intervention is necessary.”
“Perhaps this way there won’t be a third wave.”
“Pfft, another plague as bad as this,” Crowley shakes his head, beak of his mask waving where it’s pushed up on his forehead. “Could you imagine that, Angel?”
“I’d prefer not to. `Not in a hundred years.”
“What about five hundred?” Crowley teases.
“Not even a thousand, thank you.”
After settling into a comfortable silence looking at the weakly crackling green flames of the fireplace, Aziraphale feels a gloved- and miraculously, unsoiled- glove covered hand come to rest on the top of his hand where it sits on the tatty armrest.
And he smiles.