Work Text:
Crowley had disappeared. He was not in his hotel, he had stopped calling round to the shop. He had not been seen in his club, nor in Aziraphale's. He had not visited any of his favourite haunts for weeks.
Aziraphale was beside himself with worry. At first he had been annoyed at a dinner invitation ignored, and Crowley's rudeness at not returning a letter. Then he had been suspicious, wondering what on earth the demon was up to that he couldn't tell Aziraphale his plans. Then, as it became clear that he was simply gone, Aziraphale had started to worry. Had Hell called him in for some reason? Was Heaven about to start asking some pointed questions about their acquaintance? Worse, had Heaven taken Crowley and was Hell about to come for him?
It was quite by accident that he found out what had happened. Aziraphale had long since given up reading the newspaper reports on the war, preferring to get accurate information from a contact he had in the War Office. The papers were just full of so much morale-boosting hot air, and they made him sick. Flipping through the paper to try and find reports on something other than the splendid show Our Boys were making, Aziraphale suddenly paused, and turned back two pages. He could have sworn -- he looked at the paragraph at the bottom of the page in disbelief. In among all the stories about splendid British lads fighting gallantly, there it was, a ridiculously puffed-up note on a young captain rescuing one of his men from No Man's Land. A Captain A. J. Crowley.
Aziraphale closed and folded the paper, and sat staring unseeing at the table. Crowley was in France. There was no doubt that it was him - he recognised Crowley's sense of humour in the statement that Captain Crowley had read Divinity at Oxford. He tried to think of Crowley, who so loved being warm and dry, in the cold mud of the trenches. Crowley, who wore sharply cut suits and snow-white shirts, dressed in dull khaki. Crowley, who loved music, hearing the whistle of shells. I have to get him home, Aziraphale thought, jumping up. He paused and sat again more slowly. Crowley would never have gone out there from choice. He must have been ordered by his superiors, and would be untouchable. Aziraphale pulled out a sheet of writing paper and wrote a brief note to his contact, asking for all information on Crowley and how he might get in contact with him. The response came the next day, and Aziraphale sat, pale and shaking, reading one line over and over. Crowley had put him down as next-of-kin.
As he couldn't get him home, Aziraphale did his best to care for Crowley from a distance. He denuded the shelves at Harrods and Fortnum and Masons of goods that would travel well. Rich meaty terrines, tins of lobster, hideously expensive jars of jam - 'It's the current situation, sir,' the assistant said. 'I'll take it all,' Aziraphale said grimly - tins of soup, tobacco, loaves of bread that Aziraphale a little guiltily miracled into staying fresh. And socks. Not that Crowley would need them, he could just make himself anything he needed, but it was the thought that counted.
He packed it all up and sat staring at the blank piece of paper on his table. He couldn't think of a single thing to say, which was stupid. They'd written plenty of letters to each other over the years. My dear Crowley, what on earth do you think you're playing at, you silly fool? He sighed and took out another sheet. Dear Crowley, I couldn't help but notice you've run away to play at soldiers. He crumpled it up and threw it in the wastepaper basket, and started again. Dear Crowley, I'm sending you a few things I thought you might like -- He kept the tone business-like and calm, telling Crowley what had been happening in England, some accurate information on the course of the war and an account of his own work. He filled page after page and kept all the things he wanted to say out of the letter. Please stay safe, don't do anything foolish, I've been so worried, come home. A short plea to stay out of trouble because of the difficulties in getting their superiors to authorise new equipment was as much as he allowed himself. He didn't want to spur Crowley into stubborn acts of foolhardy behaviour.
He looked at the box in distaste. It was like an act of charity for a distant acquaintance, sombre and well-meaning. He wanted Crowley to smile, to know that he was thought of as more than someone who needed food sent from home. He closed his eyes, thinking of what he could send Crowley that would be the right kind of message, then smiled. He thought hard, picturing the colour, the shine, the beautiful even shape. He smelled the scent of flowers and fruit on the same tree, and imagined what the taste would be, sweet at first with a sharp under taste that left the palate craving more. The texture would be crisp, and the juice would be clean and refreshing. He opened his eyes and looked at the red apple in his hand. It was as perfect as an earthly fruit could be. He hoped Crowley would appreciate the joke, and tucked it safely into the box. He took it all down to be posted that afternoon. It cleared out his entire budget till the end of the month, but he didn't care.
Every day after that he made a point of reading every scrap of information all the papers printed on the war. He always started with the casualty lists.