Chapter Text
It was dark. It was damp. It was winter in Scotland.
And Crowley didn’t care for it.
Unfortunately for him, the Sinclair family, Barons of Roslin, had invited him to spend the Winter Solstice. ‘Twas fine. He’d stay for a bit. Not like he had much of a choice in the matter. He was there, after all, to keep an eye on little Henry, the youngest and only surviving child of the Sinclairs. Those were the instructions from Dagon, and Crowley intended to do his damnedest to follow them for once. He was already on thin ice, or whatever the infernal equivalent might be. Whatever merit he’d achieved at the height of the Black Death had already slithered away. Hell expected consistent gains, and Crowley had been given commendation after commendation for the gathering of souls he’d never even tempted in those awful plague years. But now, Hell expected more. Crowley had been informed, in no uncertain terms, that he’d better continue to assert himself as a proper demon if he intended to keep this gig as Hell’s correspondent on earth. Had to keep up the bad work. Harvest another bounty of souls for Satan, or whatever.
And if he didn’t? Well, that didn’t bear consideration. Couldn’t have some wanker from accounting replacing him.
So, for the time being, he was stuck in Roslin. Muddy little village just outside Edinburgh. Wouldn’t have been so bad really, if not for the perpetually gray sky or the clothes that never dried. Or the haggis. He could certainly do without the haggis.
He’d wiled away the afternoon curled up beside a crackling fire in the great hall of the Sinclair family’s ostentatious home, watching the servants come and go as they went about their business in the massive stone house. He’d caught more than a few juicy bits of gossip, mostly from the older serving women who knew how to blend into the tapestries when it benefited them.
Today was the Solstice. Darkest day of the year. And the Sinclairs had some favor they’d hinted at over and over again. Something they wanted Crowley to do for them on the first day of the new year.
Fine. Whatever it was, couldn’t be too awful, could it? Crowley’d do the thing and then bugger off for a week, just long enough to dry out, but not so long is absence would actually be noticed. Maybe he’d go looking for Aziraphale. Hadn’t seen him in…well, did it really matter? Something colder than the dank Scottish air tangled in his stomach. When was the last time he’d seen the angel? Aziraphale had left in a huff, that much he remembered. But that had been ages ago, before the plague had wiped out half the humans in Europe. Was the angel even still on earth? Crowley felt certain he was. For some reason he didn’t care to identify, he was confident that he’d know if Aziraphale had been called back to Heaven. Or, y’know, inconveniently discorporated.
No, the angel was still poking around on earth somewhere. Probably searching out good beer in a distant land not nearly as cold and wet and muddy as Scotland.
Crowley pushed up from the chair where he’d been lounging, and stretched in far too many directions for a mere human. Luckily, no actual humans peeked into the great hall at that moment, or they might have thought a very large snake had somehow made its way inside. The woolen blankets he’d layered atop himself slipped to the floor and he glanced at them reproachfully, thinking they ought to have folded themselves and been miraculously replaced on someone’s bed. He didn’t spare it another thought, as several heavy voices trailed down the narrow corridor into the hall. He recognized at least one of those voices as that of Sir William Sinclair, Lord of Roslin. He straightened the elegant burgundy tunic that hung across his shoulders and down past his thighs.
“Ah, Lord Crowley!” exclaimed Sir William, his fine, wispy hair sticking out at odd angles as though he’d just lost a fight with the wind.
William was of an age when men became vigilant to defend their own honor. He tried to hide the slight stoop of his shoulder and his uneven gait, but Crowley doubted he was the only one to notice such things. Still, William had a gravitas about him that commanded deference. His advisors followed closely behind, conversing amongst themselves in hushed voices.
“I have a favor to ask of you, lad. Surely, you are familiar with First Footing?”
Crowley opened his mouth to answer, but quickly snapped it shut. Humans had developed so many customs and practices over the millennia, and he realized with a jolt of confusion that he was not, in fact, familiar with the foot thing.
Nevertheless, he replied, “Footing! Yes, of course ‘m familiar with it. Do it all the time.” He cleared his throat. “Out of curiosity, do you…erm…how long will you be needing my foot?”
William’s brows drew together for the briefest moment before he burst into laughter. “Aye, Crowley, y’always did have a bit of the devil about ye.” He looked like he might just reach out and clap the demon’s shoulder.
Crowley made a non-commital noise in the back of his throat and grinned.
William continued, “You’re the right sort. A good omen, if ever I’ve seen one. It’s only right you should be the first to step over the threshold and bring us all fortune in the new year.”
Crowley nearly choked. “Good omen, you say?” But the Lord of Roslin was already retreating toward his chambers, advisors in tow, his booming presence echoing off the thick stone walls. The demon was left standing alone in the center of the great hall, wondering what in the nine circles First Footing might be. He shivered against the pervasive cold. He was there to bring good fortune, but knowing how things tended to go with demonic interventions, anything the humans thought would bring luck had just as much of a chance to go sour should Crowley get involved.
Wasn’t like the blessings he had no trouble performing in Aziraphale’s stead. He could see to one of those in his sleep, and the angel could tempt as well, if not better, than Hell’s finest. Crowley preened to no one but himself. Course the angel was a grade A tempter. He’d learned from the very best. But that was different. Blessings and temptations had more to do with pointing a human in the right direction. Or the wrong direction. Crowley supposed it just came down to how you looked at it.
Point was, Crowley wasn’t about to go cocking up whatever Pagan ritual these humans had going by getting his infernal fingers all over it. He was supposed to make sure Henry grew up safe and sound and if that meant removing himself from the picture for a bit (possibly removing himself to somewhere that included white sandy beaches and palm trees), then that’s what he’d have to do. Pity the angel wasn’t there. Probably would have been the ideal candidate to bring luck and fortune to the Sinclair household in the coming year.
***
Crowley skulked from the shadows of the great hall, slithering from one patch of darkness to the next. He’d waited for the lull after the meal when everyone was sleepy and full and drunk. It was still too damn cold and wet and he dreaded what it would feel like once he actually got outside. Not one for this much rain, him. Give him a gentle shower, just enough to wash the dust from your doorstep, but not days and days of actual rain. Reminded him of—well, he didn’t like it, was all.
He skirted a rough-hewn corridor, the fine weave of his tunic catching on the craggy stones. He’d need to grab something heavier before he slipped into the night, so he turned left into the servant’s quarters, where he hoped to find something suitable. Maybe he was lucky, because there, on a bench, was one of Sir William’s traveling cloaks. He recognized it from a hunting trip several weeks ago. It didn’t have the panache he usually expected from his garments, but it would have to do. Snagging the cloak, he wrapped himself up tightly, scurried to the back door, and stepped out into the nearly-horizontal rain.
Crowley trudged, blessedly unseen, over the small footbridge that crossed the slushy creek between the Roslins’ property and the rest of the village. Not that he wanted to keep a positive outlook, or anything, but William’s traveling cloak, unfashionable as it may have been, was doing an excellent job of protecting him from the weather. Still, he needed to get away from the village. Put some distance between himself and the Sinclair family so they’d have to find someone else’s foot to use for their holiday ritual.
Maybe the solution here was to simply snap his fingers and draw up a lick of demonic energy. Be easy enough to transport himself and his foot somewhere warm and dry for a few days. But then again, a miracle that size would attract too much attention. Nah, ‘twas better to steal a horse from some nobody in town and ride through the wretched rain til he found a tavern where he could shelter for a day or two. Much as the idea of a mediterranean holiday was tempting, he really couldn’t afford to be committing miracles helter skelter. He’d head just far enough south that he’d have a chance to thaw his frozen bones and avoid the foot thing, then return to check up on Henry.
Just as he was about to duck into the stable, something bumped into him from behind.
“Sir Crowley, is that ye?” asked a pitchy tenor. (At least that was what Crowley thought the voice was asking, but it was so garbled with alcohol, he was making allowances.)
“Nah, ‘snot Crawleigh. Bugger’s wit the lord up at the big house.”
A rough hand yanked the hood down from his head and Crowley nearly yelped.
“Aye! Told ye ‘twas Master Crawleigh. Sir, yer stayin’ for the First Footing, aren’t ye?”
“You and yer lovely dark hair are bound to bring us luck in the new year.”
Crowley backed away. He’d been around enough drunken mortals to know better than to try to overpower them with physical force. Humans could be wicked strong and scrappy and entirely unhinged under the influence of alcohol, and these humans were sloshed. It had nothing to do with Crowley being weak. Obviously not. He had Hell’s power at his disposal any ol’ time he wanted to tap into it. Just hadn’t quite gotten to that point yet. Besides, it was easier to bewitch than to throw a punch.
He turned to face the crowd, curling his lips in what he knew to be a charming smile. He was just about to open his mouth to address the little assembly of rain-soaked humans, when he caught sight of a tuft of bright hair peeking out from under someone’s hat.
“‘Ziraphale?” Crowley gaped. It was. Had to be. No one else had hair like that. A blessedly familiar pair of sharp gray-green eyes steadied him with a piercing stare and the next thing he knew, Crowley was being dragged by the hand into a narrow alley between the pub and some equally rundown outbuilding, while the humans groaned their annoyance to the night. The darkness was thick, shrouding both of them from view, but Aziraphale’s eyes shone so brightly, Crowley could have sworn they were filled with starlight.
“Angel?”
“What the Hell are you doing here?”
“Might ask you the same thing,” Crowley grumbled, shoving the thought about stars down into the pockets of his traveling cloak.
“I thought that was rather obvious,” Aziraphale growled. “I’m here to thwart you.”
“Ahh,” Crowley said cunningly.
Aziraphale crowded him against the side of the tavern, his whisper low and urgent, “You have to leave, Crowley. Before Gabriel gets here.”
“Gabriel?” asked Crowley, not at all distracted by the soft breath against his cheek.
“The Archangel Gabriel.”
“I know who Gabriel is.”
“Right. Of course.”
“What’s all this about?” the demon demanded, trying unsuccessfully to disentangle himself from Azirapahle’s hold. His eyes were finally beginning to adjust and he could just make out the turned up nose and the haughty mouth of the being before him.
Aziraphale, still pinning him in place, glanced around nervously as though Gabriel might pop into existence in the alley beside them. “Heaven doesn’t want your kind meddling in the affairs of this village,” he said after a moment, retraining his eyes on Crowley’s. “You really mustn’t take part in their ritual.”
“My kind?”
“What?”
“You said ‘my kind,’” Crowley answered harshly, biting out the “d” with extra venom.
“Oh, Crowley, you know what I mean. Demons. I can’t allow a demon to be the first guest in the Lord of Roslin’s home,” the angel prattled away, too distracted to notice how much the off-handed remark had stung. “You’d bring all manner of misfortune to the family and the boy…Harold, I believe… You see, he’s under my protection. He is of some importance to Heaven, and Gabriel intends to visit this very village first thing tomorrow to perform some sort of ritual to guarantee good fortune for the boy’s family.”
“It’s Henry.”
“What is?”
“The boy’s name. It’s Henry.”
“That’s what I said.”
“It’s not.”
Aziraphale bristled.
“Jus’ so happens Hell has me here...uh, meddling in the affairs of the same boy.”
“Crowley, you wouldn’t!”
“What wouldn’t I do?”
“I simply can’t allow you to harm the boy!”
“Nah, ‘m not here to hurt him. Hell also needs the boy safe and sound.”
“Oh.” Azirpahale’s teeth worried his bottom lip.
“Yah, oh,” Crowley mocked.
Aziraphale let go of his tunic and stepped back. “Well, in that case… Perhaps you should head out of town for a few days, just until Gabriel’s gone back to Heaven.”
Crowley straightened both his tunic and the heavy cloak he stolen…borrowed? Not a foot away from him, the angel was tangling his fingers in that anxious way he always did when he thought something was about to go very, very wrong.
“You’re right,” said Crowley.
“Come again?”
“Said you’re right. Please don’t make me repeat m’self. ‘S embarrassing,” he whined. “Look, that boy Henry is s’possed to grow up to cause all sorts of problems for the crown of England. Don’t know why I’m tellin’ you any of this, of course.”
“Of course,” the angel agreed.
“Hell needs him alive. Sent me here to make sure he’d stay that way,” Crowley boasted. “Only his father wants me to do some foot ceremony. Dunno what it is. They think it’ll give them good fortune. But I doubt it. So I’m bookin’ it far away as I can for a bit while the whole thing blows over.”
Aziraphale studied him suspiciously, his arched eyebrows knitted in an expression he usually reserved for his manuscripts. Silence settled uncomfortably and the rain subsided til it was no more than a pattering on the rooftops and a slow trickle down the folds of Crowley’s cloak. At last, the angel huffed a little breath and shook his head. “Then I suppose I ought to help you escape.”
“You could,” said Crowley with a little shiver that was entirely due to the cold. He liked the idea of running off with Aziraphale for a week or so. The angel was an excellent drinking companion and the only being in existence who could keep pace with Crowley’s spiraling conversational agenda. But if Aziraphale could take his place here…do the footing thing for him…might be for the best all the way around. “But I have a better idea.”
“Spare me.”
“No, it’s good. Listen. You should do the thing to bring them luck. Keep Gabriel out of the whole mess. Doesn’t need to muddy his boots down here on earth. I’ll introduce you to Sir William and tell him what an upstanding sort of…erm…person you are. Then all you hafta do is wave your hands around with the miracle thingy to bless the boy’s family. Then I’ll take you out for a drink. Bob’s your uncle.”
“I thought the boy’s name was Henry.”
“Never mind.”
“As much as I would also prefer to keep Gabriel well away from here…” He gestured meaningfully toward the demon… “I’m afraid that won’t work.”
“Which part of it? Seems foolproof.”
“It’s the villagers.”
“What about them?”
“They think I’m a harbinger of bad luck,” he muttered, not quite looking Crowley in the eye. He adjusted his shoulders, not in the usual wiggle to which Crowley was accustomed, but as though he were trying to stand up taller.
Crowley grimaced. “Why the Heaven would they think that?”
“It’s an old superstition,” he explained, turning to glance down the alley at the sound of the tavern door opening; the raucous singing from inside crescendoed until the door had shut again. “I can’t even fault them too severely," he said, clearly faulting them with every fiber of his ethereal being. “They’re still tetchy about the Viking invaders back in the eighth century and they’ve developed some, shall we say, stigmas about people with light-colored hair. One would think they’d let go of such an antiquated idea, but humans seem to be very adept at holding grudges.”
Crowley opened and closed his mouth, for once not quite sure what to say. Humans usually loved the angel, welcomed him into their homes with question. He’d been the guest of honor at more weddings than Crowley could number and had had countless newborn babes shoved into his arms because he looked so blessedly warm and soft and cuddly. People trusted Azirpahale. It was Crowley they usually eyed with suspicion.
“Seems a bit unfair,” he finally managed.
“Yes, well…”
Aziraphale was interrupted by a warbling, “Who’s down there?” shouted from the mouth of the alley by someone waving a lantern.
He looked at Crowley, his shocked eyes mirroring Crowley’s own panic. Without missing a beat, he placed a hand on Crowley’s shoulder and snapped his fingers.
Nothing happened.
“What the Hell?” Crowley asked no one in particular.
He tried, as well, clicking his fingers in a gesture so practiced he barely even noted doing it, attempting to draw up a small miracle from the Hell’s depths. Once again, nothing changed. They weren’t transported to that little pub in London they were both so fond of. They weren’t transported anywhere. They were left standing in a damp, cold, dead-end alley with a nosey villager waving a lantern in their general direction.
“Fuck,” said Aziraphale.
Crowley couldn’t have agreed more.