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Aziraphale was having a very strange evening.
Well. His conception of what was strange was rather skewed; he’d seen thousands of lifetimes of strangeness, he’d seen the birth of peculiarity itself. He rather expected strange things to happen, although it was nice when they didn’t, because then there was a higher chance of him just having a nice, uneventful day.
But then again, sometimes he was the source of the peculiar happenings, and in those cases it was quite alright because he usually used it for The Good Of Mankind. Okay, and maybe also for The Good of His Lunch Plans at The Ritz. Or The Good of His Afternoon Spent in the Miraculously Empty Park.
But still: good. Heaven couldn’t fault him for that. It was just his job.
However, the particular strangeness that occurred that day was mostly strange from the perspective of a completely normal human shopkeeper, which, as far as most people were concerned, he was. If he truly was merely Mr. A. Z. Fell, he would likely be questioning his sanity right about then. He might even be scared. But being what he was, he was not scared.
Instead, he was quite put out.
It started around sunset. Aziraphale was enjoying a light dinner at a tiny, lamp-lit restaurant a few blocks from his bookshop. He was tucking in to a meal of chicken piccata and a lovely white wine, basking in the warm glow and the solitude of his seat by the picture window, when a man outside caught his eye.
He looked unassuming enough, with a puff of graying curls and a leather jacket. Aziraphale watched the man like he watched everyone else, idly wondering about their lives, making up little fantasies and stories about them. He was an interesting little subject for people-watching.
But something about the way the man carried himself set off a tiny, ringing alarm in Aziraphale’s mind. The gray-haired man slouched in the shadow of an alley, watching. Azriaphale had read about the way big cats hunt, lurking just out of sight before pouncing to silently rip their prey to shreds. Something about the gray-haired man reminded him of that— two thin shoulders raised, two eyes glowing with watchful focus, two hands tucked in his black leather pockets, out of sight.
Aziraphale squinted. The way the shadows dropped across the man’s face was wrong, too. There were far too many wrinkles and folds— criss-crossing the bridge of his nose, rippling across his forehead, shading his eyes.
His eyes— they really did have the strangest sheen to them. Almost like where they should have been white, they were yellow, like Crowley’s snake eyes. Except, of course, Crowley wore it better. Or, well. You know, it suited him. Something like that. Anyway.
Aziraphale ate his dinner slowly, glancing back at the alley every so often. He crossed his fingers under the table, hoping that this wouldn’t be some kind of demon activity he would have to Thwart.
Yes, technically, it was his job. But he so loathed being bothered by it. It was much easier not to Thwart. That’s why he loved Crowley— or, rather, he loved having Crowley as his adversary. It made things much easier, having their little agreement.
But Aziraphale watched, readying himself to dispense some money on the table and rush out into the street to Foil the Nefarious Plans of the Damned. Or something or rather.
Then, as soon as the sun slid beneath the horizon, the man stepped out into the street.
The angel blinked. Where previously the man’s face had been marred with strange shadows, he now looked much more average in the orange cloud of the streetlight. He was just a thirties-something man, with whites in his eyes and a slight slouch.
And yet.
Against his will, Aziraphale was on alert. He eyed the man suspiciously as he slunk down the street, shifting his eyes around, searching. Aziraphale gripped his fork so hard, the edge of it dug into his hand. Then, as he feared, he watched as the man eyed a young woman walking down the street, and followed her into an alley.
Aziraphale let out a quick sigh and dropped the fork onto the table. Employed Servant of the Forces of Evil or not, this man was likely up to no good. The angel tossed some crumpled bills onto the table (way more than he actually owed), pushed himself up out of his chair with a wooden scrape, and rushed out the front door.
He only managed to make it halfway across the cobblestone street, though, when he heard it: a huge grunt, and a slight puff. Before he could step onto the opposite sidewalk, the girl emerged again, panting slightly and brushing off her sleeve.
“My goodness,” Aziraphale sputtered, “Are you quite alright, miss?”
Up close, he saw that she was no more than a teenager, with wide gray eyes and a petite build. She reached up and tied her blonde hair up into a high ponytail.
“Am I—?” she started. She glanced backwards into the alley, like it hadn’t occurred to her that anything of note had happened there. “Oh. Um, yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.” American, Aziraphale noted.
“Ah, jolly good,” Aziraphale sighed, granting her what he hoped was a comforting smile. “I just— I noticed that chap follow you into the alley, and— well, out of caution, I feared the worst.”
“Oh, yeah,” the girl responded, eyes shifting to the side, “Nothing nefarious in the slightest. We just had a little chat. And then he, um… left.” She nodded, as if affirming this to herself. “Had some business to attend to elsewhere.”
Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “Really?” Aziraphale asked, glancing over her shoulder, “He left? Out of an alley that—” he peered over the top of her head “—appears to end in a rather solid brick wall?”
The girl glanced back, then turned back around, face painted with guilt. She smothered it quickly, but not quickly enough. “Yeah, um, well, turns out he… was actually a… rock climber. Weirdly.” She tittered nervously. "You should’ve seen him, I mean, he was really climbing, and then he was, um, gone, and um, yeah.” Then, she proceeded to nod. For far too long.
“Right,” Aziraphle murmured. He took one last glance at the little nook of concrete and brick behind her. In the growing darkness, he just barely made out a pile of what appeared to be ashes scattering the ground. They shifted in the light breeze.
“Well, anyway,” she girl continued apologetically, “I’ve got to get back to my hotel. I’m here on a school trip, and if I’m not there soon, my teacher’s gonna wig.”
“Of course,” Aziraphale replied distractedly, vaguely wondering what it means when one ‘wigs.’
The girl fiddled with a small cross strung around her neck with a fine silver chain. “Okay.” She tucked her hair behind both ears. “Thanks again.” She turned to leave, then turned back one more time, as if searching for the magic words to made Aziraphale stop squinting at her like that. “Bye.”
She turned and left, and the angel watched. Aziraphale was no expert in reading people, but he’d been around for beyond long enough to know when someone was lying to him. In fact, he was no stranger to lying himself, and he had enough self-awareness to realize that he did it just as badly as she did.
So the question was: what did this girl have to hide? And, even more perplexingly, how did she make a full-grown man disappear in a shallow one-way alley? It was like a tantalizing magic trick, the kind where the sleight of hand seems just about impossible. But Aziraphale knew a thing or two about magic tricks, and he couldn’t let go of the urge to figure this one out.
On his walk back to the bookshop that night, Aziraphale thought he saw that same twisted face in the shadows, sneering at him from just beyond the lamplights’ touch. But each time he glanced back for a clearer look, smooth faces greeted him, watching him right back with burning intensity.
He hurried home, his heart flitting like a hummingbird in his chest. Sure, any damage they inflicted upon him wouldn’t be permanent. But the paperwork? Massive headache. He’d much rather avoid it.
As soon as he reached the double doors of his shop, he yanked them open and shut them firmly behind him, leaning in relief against the glass. With a flick of his wrist, he ensured that the sign out front was flipped to say “VERY CLOSED,” grabbed a candle and a box of matches, and he strode into the depths of his shop.
Among the stacks, he ran a light finger along the rows and rows of titles. Their rough, papery surfaces comforted him, anchoring him firmly back in his world. He pulled out a book on creatures of the night, flipping through the pages. Wrinkled faces… yellow eyes… disappearing into dust… it was all very peculiar, indeed.
He froze, fingers pinching the page he’d been turning. A shadow lurked in the corner of his eye, blocking the end of the row of shelves. Aziraphale turned his head slowly— caught a gleam of yellow—
“Aaargh!” He cried, throwing the book as hard as he could. The book sailed past the figure’s head, smacking heftily into the wall behind them.
“Faauuugh!” snarled the shadow, “For Hell’s sake, angel!”
Aziraphale perked up. “Cr— Crowley?”
The figure stepped forward. A very peeved-looking demon scowled at Aziraphale, long, rusty waves gleaming in the candle light. “Of course it’s me. It’s always me. For the love of Satan, who’d you think it was?”
“Oh dear.” Aziraphale shook his head, pushing past Crowley to collect his book. As he picked it up from the floor, he stroked the bent pages mournfully. “I do believe I’m a tad jumpy at the moment. Strange things have been happening tonight.” He rifled through the pages, searching for the page he was on previously. “Very strange.”
“Strange like my strange or strange like your strange?” Crowley questioned, pushing his dark glasses up on top of his head.
“Your strange, I believe,” Aziraphale answered with a pointed look, “People walking around with yellow eyes… following girls into alleys… disappearing from said alleys…”
“Well,” Crowley muttered defensively, “Now, ‘yellow eyes,’ you say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” Aziraphale shot back, flapping a hand, “After all, people who have eyes like yours are likely to be… well, quite frankly, on the side that stirs up trouble.”
Crowley snorted derisively. “Right.”
The angel shut the book with a frustrated fwomp. “Well, I’m sorry, but you must admit that I’m right.” He bustled over to the shelf, set down the old book, and yanked a new one out. “And anyway, the color of the eyes is not the focus of my concern. The fact that intrigues me most is that I saw one of them follow a girl, a human girl, as far as I could tell, into an alley—“
Crowley made a noise like “mmph,” pulling a face like swallowing a lemon.
“—and she walked right out again completely fine,” Aziraphale continued, thumbing through the pages, “And not only was she fine, but the man-like being that followed her had simply… vanished. Into thin air.” He sighed. “Do you have any idea what it could have been?”
“Well, first of all, ouch.” Crowley grabbed a book at random and started flipping through the pages, not looking at them. “How dare you assume I would just know about anything with— with yellow eyes and doing strange things in alleys and—“
“Oh, do stop with that,” Aziraphale snapped, “You know I don’t mean anything about you as an individual. You’re—“ he gestured vaguely with one hand, looking down at the page “—different from the people on your side of things.”
“My side of things,” Crowley grumbled, flipping his glasses back down onto his nose, “Right.”
Aziraphale looked up, watching his own troubled expression in the reflection of his friend’s glasses. He sighed, closing the book gently and hugging it to his chest. “I’m sorry if I offended you, Crowley. I— you know that I— I mean, with you, of all people—” He shook his head, incapable of finding the right words. Exhaustion hung like sopping laundry on a clothesline in his mind. He needed a rest. “I just need your help. Please?”
“Look,” Crowley said, giving up on the book and shoving it haphazardly back onto the shelf, “I don’t know anything about it. Haven’t been chatting it up with my… coworkers lately. Don’t know much about the… Looming Plans of the Damned or… whatever.” He shrugged, but it looked more like a twitch. “I dunno, speaking in capital letters is your thing.”
The candle sputtered between them, bathing them in a warm, secret light that felt separate from the black world outside the windows. Aziraphale rubbed the space between his eyes and nodded.
“Right,” he replied, “Of course. Well, perhaps tomorrow you can help me research and… figure out this whole mysterious affair.”
“Right.” Crowley pushed past him, heading for the front door, “I’ll be here at eleven. And I’ll bring breakfast. See you.”
“O— oh,” Aziraphale sputtered, caught off guard by the kind gesture wrapped in gruff dismissiveness, “Thank— thank you. Oh— and um, Crowley?”
Crowley paused, on hand on the door handle. He had faded back into a silhouette again, shifting in front of the faint light of street lamps, his features nearly indistinguishable. “Yeah?” His voice had taken on that soft lilt that only came out in little moments, when he forgets to be disgruntled.
Aziraphale inhaled deeply. “Do be careful out there.”
The shadow of Crowley stared back for a moment, his facial expression lost in the dim evening.After a moment, he cleared his throat and grumbled, “’Course I will be. And anyway, anything that’s out there should be careful of me. Right, ’cause, you know it’s…” His dark hands gestured around the air like startled crows. “Well, point is, I can handle myself. No need to get your bowtie in a twist.”
Azirphale considered mentioning that his bowtie was always in a twist; it was, after all, a tie. But he decided tonight, he wasn’t in the mood for quips. He merely nodded and muttered “good, jolly good” under his breath.
Then he watched Crowley open the door and slip away into the night.
***
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Absolute idiocy. To think— well, he wasn’t great with thinking, was he? It was always just going about his never-ending life, causing trouble when he could, watching trouble unfold whether he’d caused it or not, scheming. That was it, wasn’t it? He didn’t think. He merely schemed.
And when he schemed up the idea that he’d show up in the bookshop and ask that stupid angel to go grab a drink with him, he hadn’t thought that he would get put right back in his place as The Bad Guy within minutes of having a bloody conversation with him. Before he could even ask the question.
Not that it was an important question. Just drinks. It wasn’t even a scheme, really. A scheme to do what? Nothing. Exactly.
Crowley took a swig from a bottle of red wine that he had picked up from an abandoned table at an Italian restaurant. See, he could have a drink just fine without Aziraphale. Take that.
Something nagged at the back of Crowley’s mind, but his frustrated thoughts raged too loudly to hear it. It was probably nothing. A minuscule insect prickling at the back of his neck. Maybe a fly.
The thought of flies brought out a growl. He was just another creeping, hand-rubbing fly to the angel, wasn’t he? After all this time, did Aziraphale really still associate him, Crowley, with Beelzebub, with those simpering fools Hastur and Liger, with every unimaginative, foot-shuffling demon in Hell? When it came down to it, did the angel really still divvy up the universe into his own side, and Crowley’s?
Not that Crowley wanted to be on the— retch —‘good’ side. Bunch of hypocrites and ninnies. But it would be nice not to be considered other by just about everyone, even by the only being who… who…
The nagging feeling nipped at him again. Crowley glanced around, his vision draped in the gauzy haze of the wine. Was he making things up?
Or maybe, he considered as a shadow shifted just outside the glow of the streetlights, the angel had been right to be concerned about Crowley walking home alone.
“Ah, for Satan’s sake,” Crowley murmured, thoroughly pissed. Great. Now he had to sober up and deal with this. This is just faboo.
With a shudder, all the alcohol left his body. As he glanced around, he noticed more lurking figures, watching from the darkness. Their presence hummed in the air, impatient and hungry. Crowley balled his hands into fists.
“Alright,” Crowley announced loudly, “If you’re planning on— on, I dunno, eating my flesh or making my bones into a necklace or something twisted like that, I got two words for you: good luck.” He paused, listening. “Oh, and four more words: let’s get this over with.”
“That’s five words.”
Crowley whirled around. Behind him stood a girl. She was short and blonde, with wide gray eyes and an upturned nose. Her face was awash in youthful boredom, the kind of world-weary look that came over teenagers when adults lectured them. But her stance, Crowley noted, was tense as a live wire. She was ready for something.
“Right,” he amended, “Well, see, it’s a bit hard to count when you’re busy being witty.”
“I think I missed that part,” she retorted, sweeping her eyes around the street. The figures hadn’t moved much, but now they growled lightly, leaning slightly forward.
“What part?” Crowley glanced around, too. He counted four figures, maybe more.
“The part where you were being witty.”
A figure lunged. Crowley reached out, but before he could act, the girl swung out an arm. Crowley caught a glimpse of a sharp wooden stick before it connected with the person’s abdomen with an abrupt stab. A moment of tense stillness followed, the figure stiff and wide-eyed, before they leaned back— and puff.
Vanished. Into thin air, as Aziraphale had said.
“You need to go,” the girl instructed Crowley as a woman slunk toward them, “Now.”
Crowley squinted at the approaching woman’s face, wrinkled and contorted into a permanent sneer. Her teeth were ivory knives. Absently, he shook his head.
The girl took a swing with her stick as another attacker closed in on her other side. He knocked her sideways, making her miss— but she was back up on her feet again before Crowley could blink. She swung a fist, knocking the man down. The woman grabbed her arm, pulling the girl in close with a vice-like grip.
“Oh, Christ,” Crowley let out. “I mean— erk— whatever—”
He lunged forward and grabbed the woman, trying to pull her off. She struggled violently, clawing at Crowley’s sleeve with talon-like nails, but he struggled to hold her, desperately trying to keep her off the girl.
But why? mused a voice in his head. He told it to shut up.
The girl rolled out of the way, agile as a cat. Before she could bound back up to standing, the man on the ground gripped her ankle, yanking her down again.
“Oof,” she grunted. One foot shot out, kicking the man in the head and sending him rolling onto his side with a yelp. She scrambled to his side, stake raised. Before he could move, she plunged it into his torso. Puff— he, too, disintegrated.
The woman in Crowley’s arms wiggled fiercely, managing to twist sideways. Her head craned in toward him awkwardly, her mouth half-open and frothing with saliva. Crowley eyed those blade-sharp teeth. A vampire. That explains a few things.
“Why are you still here?” the girl demanded. She grabbed the female vampire by one shoulder and, impossibly, threw her over her shoulder like a sack of apples. The woman slammed into the ground a few meters away, groaning. In the distance, Crowley spied the others who had been watching the fight running, seemingly making the wise choice to avoid the scary teenager with the stick.
“Well— see—” Crowley’s mouth opened and closed noncommittally for a moment. What was he still doing here? He should just let her struggle, shouldn’t he? That was his job— to let people suffer. Not let, even. To cause it. Theoretically, he should be on the vampires’ side in all this.
Well. That’s never really been how he’s operated, anyway. He wasn’t one for theoreticals.
“Hold on, let me deal with this,” the girl groaned, nodding sideways toward the vampire struggling to peel herself off the ground. “then we’ll chat.”
She ran to meet the creature on the ground with a swinging punch, then slammed the stake in. Puff— gone. The girl crouched for a moment on the ground, breathing heavily as she stared down at the ashes. Crowley watched. He wanted to turn and leave before she had the chance to say anything. He’d done good, it seemed, and the thought of it made him want to tear his hair out.
Good. Who was to say what he’d done was good? Maybe those vampires had families. Maybe he’d prevented several vampires from going home to their houses in the suburbs, where their spouses and children waited patiently for them to return from a day’s work, and would be devastated to see them gone. Maybe he’d really done something bad, something truly devastating.
He let out a heavy sigh. The thought didn’t help, it only made him sad.
“Okay,” the girl sighed, finally standing up and flicking her bangs out of her eyes. She pointed an accusing finger at Crowley. “You. You did something stupid. Something good, that I appreciate, but something stupid.”
Good. Ugh. In defense, Crowley shrugged. “I wasn’t being good, per se, I was just, mmm… serving my own interests. Interests you wouldn’t know anything about. Young lady.” He tacked on this last part in an attempt to be condescending, but he just ended up sounding weirdly parental in a way that made his stomach curdle.
She approached him, hands on hips. “Well, whatever the reason, it was stupid. And dangerous. You could have been killed. Those guys…” She shook her head. “they don’t mess around.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Crowley grumbled dismissively, “Takes more than a vampire to do me in.”
The girl startled, looking up at him in alarm. “Va— uh, what did you just say?”
“Vampires?” Crowley squinted. “They’re vampires, right? Pointy little teeth?” He mimed fangs with his fingers. “Easily done in by stakes?”
Blinking in disbelief, the girl regarded at him with new interest. “Yeah,” she said slowly, “though most people don’t believe it right away like that.”
Crowley shrugged. “Not much I won’t believe at this point. Been around a long time.” He sniffed.
“Right.” The girl still watched him with a hint of suspicion, but eventually she said, “Right, okay, well, thank for your help…?”
“Oh— uh, Crowley.”
“Crowley.” She nodded. “I’m Buffy.”
The demon nodded. The weight of the word good, which had been taunting him for the whole conversation, was getting heavy. He needed another drink, and a long night’s rest. “Right. Well. Goodnight, and good luck with all your—” he waved a vague hand “—slayage. Ta.”
And he turned away and walked into the darkness, trying very hard not to worry about the teenage girl walking alone in central London by herself at night.
***
When the front door’s bell tinkled at nine-thirty the next morning, Aziraphale shouted “we’re closed!” on instinct. He didn’t even look up from the book he was holding.
“’S me,” answered a rumpled voice.
“Oh— Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed in relief. He looked up as the demon slunk into view around the edge of a shelf, a paper bag heavy in his hand. “You’re early.”
“Brought breakfast burritos,” Crowley grumbled, plopping the bag down on a nearby stool, “They’re from the place you don’t like, though. With the weird sauce.”
“Oh, um, yes, well, that’s alright,” Aziraphale answered with a nervous smile.
He watched his companion’s face for traces of hostility from the conversation that he had bungled so carelessly last night. Crowley’s mouth was tense at the edges, his eyes still shrouded by his dark glasses. It was hard to tell if he was upset with Aziraphale, or if he had simply drank too much and forgotten to miracle his hangover away.
“Alright, well,” Aziraphale began, pushing the heavy tome towards Crowley, “I’ve been up since dawn researching, trying to find any information I could about beings who turn to ashes, and—”
“Vampires,” Crowley cut in.
“Well, yes, actually, that is one possibility I found,” the angel continued, “Some others include—“
“Not a possibility,” interrupted Crowley again, taking off his glasses. His canary-colored eyes were bloodshot at the very edges. “A fact. Met ’em last night.”
Aziraphale gaped. “You— you met them?”
The demon nodded, pursing his lips. “Also met your alley girl. She fought them off. Seemed like a bit of an expert.”
Aziraphale furrowed his brow, slowly closing his book. There goes hours of thorough investigation. Not that he minded. He’d been meaning to reread One Hundred and One Fascinating Facts about The Creatures of Hell for some time now.
“An expert vampire killer,” Aziraphale mused, “I think I read about that once. The Slayer, I believe they call her.”
“Yeah, well, looks like there was a whole slew of vampires that wanted to slay her,” Crowley replied.
Aziraphale smiled. “I see what you did there. Slayer. Slay-her. Very humorous.”
“Yes, I’m a font of mirth.” Crowley sniffed disinterestedly. “Anyhoo, looks like she’s not of any interest to us.” Something in his voice indicated a turn of his heel, an impending exit.
The angle floundered. “Well, why not?”
“Why not what?”
“Well, why wouldn’t it involve us?” he reasoned slowly, “She is involved with activities that concern the interests of Good and Evil.”
“Hrnk.”
“And I feel that, us being the representatives on Earth of said forces, we should—” he gestured grandly as if conducting an orchestra, searching for the right words “—step in, to some capacity. Align ourselves accordingly, as it were.”
“Align ourselves accordingly?” Crowley sneered, squinting at Aziraphale like he’d swallowed a toad.
“Not that you have to assist the vampires!” Aziraphale backtracked, desperate to steer away from the path that last night’s conversation had taken, “Just— just, maybe, I could assist this Slayer—”
“Buffy,” Crowley supplied.
“Assist Buffy,” the angel nodded, “and— wait. How do you know her name?”
“She asked me mine,” the demon shrugged defensively.
“You spoke with her?” Aziraphale questioned in disbelief.
“You did, too.”
“Yes, but… it was a brief interaction.” Realization began to dawn in the angel’s mind. “You— did you help her fight of the vampires?”
Crowley lolled his head to the side, looking over at the shelf beside him with a sudden, desperate interest in the encyclopedias. “Weeell… I might of, mmm… might of given her a wee bit of a leg up in the fight. Just to stir things up.”
Aziraphale placed a hand on his hip, pursing his lips against a smile. “You helped her.”
“No—”
“Yes you did.”
“She was—! She was just a— a teenager—” Crowley argued “I— I mean, I couldn’t let her just— I mean— agh, yes, alright, I accidentally did something semi-good, happy?”
Aziraphale merely grinned. Watching Crowley try and fail to justify an undeniably good act was highly entertaining. A warmth burst in his belly, something akin to affection. From time to time, he got this sensation around Crowley. At first it had troubled him. But then he had learned to interpret it as simply an expression of his Unconditional Love for the Good in the World. By that logic, he merely felt it now because Crowley had happened to do something good. That was all. It made sense.
And the fact that he felt it around Crowley so often was simply because, well, Crowley was really not as bad as he liked to paint himself. Aziraphale saw the Good in Crowley. And it made him happy to be in the same world as him. Because of the Goodness, of course. Not because of the demon who it originated from. Naturally.
“Oh, quit grinning like that,” Crowley growled, “You’re insufferable, you know that?”
Aziraphale merely shrugged, turning away to put the book back on its shelf in the proper place.
The bell tinkled again, followed by several footsteps.
“We’re closed!” Aziraphale called out.
“Good,” came a young voice, “That way we can talk in private.”
Aziraphale exchanged a bewildered look with Crowley, who automatically whipped his glasses back onto his face. The angel hurried down the aisle of shelves and stopped when he caught sight of the three figures standing in the entrance of his shop.
“It’s you,” he remarked.
“Right back atcha.” Buffy crossed her arms, silhouetted by the cloudy morning light streaming through the front windows. Her companions, a meek looking redhead and a towering boy with stuck-out ears, gazed around the shop with raised eyebrows.
“Man,” said the boy, nodding his way further into the room, hands deep in his pockets, “Nice place. Very modern for this new fangled twentieth century we’ve just found ourselves in.”
“Giles would love it here,” remarked the redheaded girl, blinking around.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Aziraphale said icily, eyeing the boy with some distain, “Who are these fine young people you’ve brought with you?”
“First, I need you to tell me where the guy with the red hair is. I need to speak with him.”
“Present,” Crowley piped up. Aziraphale startled and turned to see the demon lurking just over his shoulder.
“Wait,” Aziraphale interjected, “How did you know to find him here?”
“I assumed he lived here,” Buffy answered, brow furrowed, “He helped me out with… something last night, and I wanted to be able to find him again, so I tailed him. He wandered around for a while and then he ended up here and just kind of stood outside, staring at the door. I thought he’d lost his keys or something.”
Slowly, Aziraphale turned to look at Crowley, who was staring at a fixed point somewhere above the vampire slayer’s head with a conspicuous lack of expression on his face.
“I… forgot something,” Crowley said incredibly slowly.
“Right,” the angel replied with an amused tremble in his voice, “And what was that, exactly?”
Still looking pointedly away from Aziraphale, Crowley murmured very faintly, “book.”
Aziraphale still eyed Crowley, waiting for him to look back again. In the resounding silence, Buffy exchanged a glance with her companions, eyebrows raised in bemusement.
Eventually, she said, “Okay… anyway.” She shook her head and pointed at the demon. “Crowley, right?”
Crowley nodded. “Unfortunately.”
“You’re going to help me out, Crowley.” Buffy raised her chin, once again assuming the assertive stance with which she’d entered the shop. “Because the person who usually helps me out with stuff isn’t here, so you’re my best bet.”
“Why me?”
“You’re the only person I’ve come across who seemed to be able to identify a…” She glanced warily at Aziraphale.
He sighed and held up placating hands. “Don’t worry, I know about you. You’re the Slayer, aren't you?”
“Man, did they advertise it in the papers or something?” remarked the boy. He stood by the desk, fiddling with a small bronze statue. Aziraphale gave him a Look, and the boy slowly released the trinket, looking sheepish.
“Crowley told me of his encounter with you last night,” Aziraphale explained, “and I myself did quite a lot of research after our small interaction in the alleyway.” He wagged a finger at her. “You know, you should really come up with more solid excuses. I was quite suspicious of you. And I’m not naturally suspicious in the slightest.”
Crowley made a disbelieving noise. Aziraphale pursed his lips and ignored him.
“The level of Giles that this man possesses is uncanny,” remarked the boy, gesturing towards Aziraphale.
“Fine, great,” Buffy continued on, ignoring him, “Why not? The more the merrier. What’s your name?”
“Ah… Mr. Fell,” the angel answered.
“Well, Mr. Fell,” Buffy replied, “It’s nice to know we’re on the same side. By the way, this is my team. This is Willow—” she nodded sideways at the redheaded girl, who gave a small wave “—and that’s Xander.” Xander nodded his chin, now pushing a model of the solar system with his finger and making it rotate slowly. Aziraphale took a deep breath, giving Xander yet another Look, which the boy didn’t seem to notice this time.
“Charmed,” the angel said, with his most painfully patient smile.
“Alright,” Buffy announced, marching forward until she stood directly in front of Aziraphale and Crowley, “Here’s the deal. I think the vampires of London are planning something. And they definitely know I’m here, and I’m kind of their number one enemy, so it might involve me. What I need is for you two—” she gestured toward the angel and the demon with an opening of her palms “—to help us gather as much intel on the vamps in this area as we can and to figure out what they’re planning. Sound like a fun Saturday?”
Aziraphale exchanged a look with Crowley, who shrugged and tilted his head back and forth.
“Alright,” the angel said decisively, “We’ll assist you. I only ask,” he added with a glance in Xander’s direction, “that you be careful with my books. Many of them are rare first editions.”
“God, it’s like we never left the Sunnydale High library,” Xander remarked under his breath.
Willow stepped forward, hovering just behind Buffy. “Do you have a computer we could use?”
Before Aziraphale could answer, Crowley snorted. “Does it look like he has a computer?”
Willow nodded. “I was afraid of that.”
Aziraphale sniffed, trying not to feel miffed. “This is a bookshop, not a computer laboratory. It’s not that I’ve anything against modern technology, I merely have no use for it.”
“Great,” Buffy sighed, “So we’ll be doing things the old-fashioned way. Lucky us.”
“Woah, ho, ho,” Xander said, holding up an engraving of Adam and Eve naked in the Garden of Eden. “Check it out.”
Aziraphale let out a very, very long sigh.
***
Watching Buffy research was a bit like watching a Jack Russell Terrier tied to a post. Her eyes stared down at the page, but her body acted like she was ready to get up and run any minute: her leg jogged so fast it was nearly a twitch and her fingers tapped against the table skittishly. Crowley wasn’t convinced that she was taking in a word that she read, and it didn’t help that she hadn’t actually turned the page in a solid six minutes.
This girl was a little too ready for action. Chronically ready. Despite himself, Crowley felt a tiny dollop of pity for her.
“Slayer girl,” Crowley said, leaning forward. He had long abandoned his attempts to make sense of the pompous language in the book he was slogging through. He had just read the word “hencetoforth,” which he was pretty sure wasn’t real. “Suppose we do discover whatever dirty deeds these vampires are up to… what’s the plan of action once we figure that out?”
Buffy sighed heavily. “We find their HQ, I kick their asses. Pretty simple, really.”
“Just you?”
“Just me,” Buffy answered firmly. Her fingers had stopped their nervous tapping. Now they had formed a fist. “I’m not here to put anyone in danger, any more than you already are in danger just by being around me. I don’t want you getting hurt on my behalf.”
Crowley leaned back in his chair. “Wouldn’t worry about that. Noble of you to be concerned and all, but trust me.” He flashed a tight smile. “I don’t get hurt easily.”
“Oh yeah?” Buffy replied with a raise of her eyebrow, “And what about your friend?” She nodded over Crowley’s shoulder, and he turned to see Aziraphale standing several feet away, furrowing his brow down at a book with that little pursed-lip thing he does. Crowley instinctively wrinkled his nose.
“Oh, him?” Crowley tried to keep his tone even. “Nah, he’s tougher than he looks. He and I have been through… a lot.”
“Right,” Buffy said slowly, squinting at him. “So you’ve said. But have you ever been through something like this? Demons in human bodies? You know, something completely soulless, with no mercy?” She shrugged. “It’s not exactly an everyday inconvenience.”
Crowley just watched her through his glasses, jaw tight. For a moment he wondered what would happen if he took them off right now, removing the only thing stopping her from meeting his eyes. How would she react? Would she ask for an explanation? Would she recoil? Or would be just stab him on the spot, no thought behind it, just pure instinct? Not that he could be taken out by a mere stabbing with a wooden stake. The demons inside the vampires were more fragile than him, much lower on Hell’s food chain.
But still. If she ran a stake through where his heart should be, it would hurt.
Satan, he hated to admit that. Why does he care about whether this random kid thinks he’s a soulless monster? He was a soulless monster, by definition. And proud of it. He was the most inventive, cunning soulless, merciless monster in the Nine Circles of Hell, and he was good at his job. In fact, he was so good at his job that he didn’t even have to do it most of the time. The humans did it for him. See, he was evil enough to let them ruin their own lives. That was more sinister than any demonic miracle he could conjure.
He knew he was good at being bad, and he wasn’t ashamed. He just couldn’t tell Buffy that. For reasons. Reasons that were probably related to his evildoing. Lying was a no-no according to the Bible, right? Right. He was lying to her, and that was his evil scheme. Right.
A wash of self-disgust rose up in his throat. He ignored it.
“Hello? Earth to Crowley?” Buffy was waving a hand in front of the demon’s face.
“Hrnm?” Crowley said, “Oh, right, right, yeah, merciless demons. Gotcha.”
“You really are taking this much better than most people do,” Buffy remarked, turning the page of her book, “It’s strange. And I have questions about it.”
“’Snot strange,” Crowley grumbled, “My friend and I just… we encounter all that supernatural whatchamacallit all the time. It’s really common in London, really, everybody’s seen it all. Vampirism is very English.” He waved a vague hand while he said all this, feeling his words spiral out of his control and into the realms of obvious bullshittery.
“I’m just going to pretend I believe that and move on,” Buffy sighed, tugging her hair into a high ponytail on top of her head.
“Hey, Buffy.” Willow materialized beside her friend, clutching a book that was practically half her size. “I think I might have found something.”
Willow plopped the book with a satisfying wumph onto the table, sending dust flying. Buffy coughed and peered down at the brittle yellow pages.
“Let me guess,” Buffy quipped, “it’s some kind of ritual, and it’s happening tonight.”
“Close,” Willow replied brightly, “Actually, it looks like it’s a holiday of some kind, and it’s tomorrow.”
Buffy snapped her fingers. “That was my next guess.”
Crowley snorted.
Tucking her hair behind her ears, Willow continued, “It looks like tomorrow is the Kairos Celebration. Traditionally, it’s a day where vampires exact revenge, tie up loose ends, get back at the people who wronged them. It’s basically a whole holiday themed around vengeance. Seems like it’s a pretty big thing.”
Buffy let out a long sigh. “Hundreds of vampires all stabbing people in the back who stabbed them in the back? Doesn’t sound pretty.”
“Not at all.” Willow lowered herself into an empty chair at their table. She cast a glance at Crowley, looking nervous. Crowley raised his eyebrows.
“So,” the demon began, “what exactly’s the plan?”
“Stop them,” Buffy said simply.
Crowley tilted his head. “Doesn’t exactly seem plausible to stab every vampire in England in one night.”
“Well, I have to try,” Buffy huffed, rising from her chair. She began to pace. “Thousands of people will be in danger, and I’m the only one who can really do anything about it. But it’s not like I can be everywhere at once… it’s just… god, it’s impossible.”
“Okay, okay,” Crowley said, holding up a hand, “Why are you the only one who can do anything about it?”
“I can’t put you in danger,” Buffy repeated firmly, “I can’t put anybody in danger. I mean, the whole point is to prevent people from getting hurt! What’s the point of possibly getting you all hurt to achieve that?”
“It’s for a greater purpose, though,” Aziraphale cut in.
Crowley hadn’t noticed him wandering over, but now he hovered just behind Crowley’s chair. The demon craned his neck to look up at him. From that low angle, the light of the lamp above them made the angel’s white hair glow. The obvious metaphor annoyed Crowley, somewhat irrationally.
“I cannot condone putting your friends in danger without their knowing consent,” Aziraphale continued with a nod in Willow’s direction, “But I must say it doesn’t seem fair to burden only yourself with this task, even if you are the Slayer.”
“Yeah, well, fair or not, it’s my job,” Buffy replied, arms crossed.
“Have you guys found anything?” Xander emerged from around the corner of a bookshelf, squinting down at a book in his arms, “Because I found out that apparently, vampires’ fingers don’t prune up in water like human fingers, so clearly I’m making fabulous progress.”
“We already figured it out, Xander,” Buffy sighed, “Vampire holiday. Tomorrow. Gotta catch em’ all.”
“Ah, yes, vampire Pokemon,” Willow remarked with a small smile, “fun for all ages.”
“What is a ‘Pokemon’?” Aziraphale whispered to Crowley.
“Video game, I think,” Crowley replied.
“Oh great,” Xander said irritably, shutting the book in his hands with a loud slam, “So I’ve been reading this thing for an hour for no reason. Just how I wanted to spend this school trip. No, not seeing the sights of England, not picking up hot British babes, no, no, I’d like inhale pounds of dust while slowly getting a headache instead.”
Crowley felt Aziraphale grip the back of his chair. He smothered an entertained smile.
“Yeah, well, this isn’t my idea of a vacation, either,” Buffy huffed, “But it doesn’t matter right now. Right now, we need a game plan. Anyone got any ideas?”
Crowley looked up, exchanging a glance with Aziraphale. He raised his eyebrows. Aziraphale did that annoying little pursed-lip, head-tilt nod of his, like he was saying yes, I believe we must. Crowley rolled his eyes behind his glasses, even though he knew the angel was right.
Figuring he would probably come to greatly regret this, Crowley announced, “We’ve got an idea.”