A Matter of Convenience   von Hekateras
================================================================================
                      Kapitel 2: And your enemies closer
                      ----------------------------------


Dawn extended its lazy rays over the two riders.
“I spy with my little eye.... Er....”
“Angel, we've been over this. There's nothing here.”
“Er, something that begins with 'e'.”
“Really?”   Crowley glanced at him, intrigued, then looked around haplessly.
“Um.”   He peered at the distant, featureless horizon. “Is it the end of
this journey, by any chance?”
“I'm afraid not.”
“Pity.   Let's see.... E... eeee.... “ Crowley cast a suspicious gaze over
the   barren landscape, then looked speculatively at Aziraphale and gave him a  
sly grin. “Um. Eunuch?”
“Oh, very funny,” Aziraphale rolled his eyes, or came as close to it as an
angelic representative of Heaven could dare.
“Careful there, angel, I think you just used sarcasm. So what else, then? What
else is there in this Go- in this forsaken piece of land?”
“We're quite close to the boundaries of the Holy Land, actually.”
“Eeech.   That explains why it's been giving me the heebie-jeebies. So what?  
Maybe you're hallucinating. I don't see anything. There's nothing here,   angel.
Certainly nothing beginning with 'e'.”
The silence emanating from Aziraphale could only be called triumphant.
Crowley groaned. “Oh, come on, you're definitely hallucinating. What?”
Aziraphale held his silence a while longer.
“There is an eagle circling directly above us,” he said finally, as smugly
as he could manage.
Crowley   scowled as he looked up, then cursed. Then he looked again. “That's
a   vulture, actually,” he announced cheerfully. “It's been following us for
  a while now, it seems. So, you know, no 'e'.”
“A vulture?” Aziraphale blinked up at the sky. “Er, it looks terribly like
an eagle to me,” he insisted.
“How much longer, angel?”
“We   should be there very soon, I believe. I think you'll like it, the holy  
aura aside, of course. One of the acolytes is quite the hand at the   lute, when
he can get away with it, perhaps I might get him to show you –   on the
condition that you do nothing untoward, naturally, he's a very   nice lad and
I'd much prefer he stayed that way – he copies manuscripts   otherwise, you
see, very diligent, just hours and hours of careful work,   and such beautiful
penmanship...”
Aziraphale trailed off   when he realised Crowley was no longer beside him.
Pulling at the   reins, he stopped and twisted in the saddle. The demon was
standing up   in the stirrups a ways behind him, body tense and motionless,
nostrils   flaring and vague apprehension written across his face. The black
horse   shifted nervously back and forth.
“...What is it?” Aziraphale asked, his hand twitching to where his sword
should be.
Crowley turned to look at him, yellow eyes focusing suddenly. He breathed in
once, sharply. “Can't you smell it?”
Aziraphale hesitated, then carefully took a whiff, and a deeper one after that.
He swallowed and spurred his horse.
“Hey- wait up,” Crowley hissed, breaking into a gallop to catch up with the
angel.
Aziraphale   was motionless at the crest of the hill, his hands white-knuckled
on   the reins. The bay horse whinnied nervously and tried to pull its head  
free, without much success.
Crowley pulled his horse to a stop   next to him and took a long, hard look down
the slope. A gust of wind   hit him in the face, smoke burning his eyes. The
angel squinted but   didn't turn away.
They watched the vulture dive down. A murder of   crows dispersed in its path
with harsh cries. They settled down again   soon after, little black dots among
the pillars of grey.
Crowley bit his lip, shifting anxiously. “Uh, before you ask, I didn't have- I
mean, this wasn't-”
Aziraphale   breathed in sharply for the first time in minutes. “We need to
look for   survivors,” he said in a voice allowing no argument, then started
his   horse down the muddy, slippery path.
After several minutes, he   lost patience and slid out of the saddle, unfurled
his battered wings   and glided the rest of the way down. Crowley swore quietly
but followed   suit after giving his horse an apologetic pat.
His wings shaking   with effort, he touched down behind Aziraphale, who was
staring at what   had once been the main gate of the monastery's outer wall and
now   resembled a chunk of splinters and ash. Crows swarmed the piles of  
bodies outside and the pungent stench of burned and rotting flesh wafted  
through the air.
The angel stood still, head cocked and listening intently. It was very, very
quiet.
Aziraphale   stepped across the shattered gate and into the monastery's main
yard.   Crowley followed. He'd likewise stopped breathing but still had to fight
  the urge to gag.
He stumbled through piles of debris, then nearly   slipped, his foot giving way
to something in the mud. He scraped his   sole free of the object that had stuck
to it. “Crap,” he hissed,   recognising it as a tattered cloth doll, and
very carefully avoided   looking anywhere but straight ahead after that.
Not much was left.   The well had been soiled and partially buried, the stables
burned down.   Only the church and cloister remained, looming and implacable,  
weathered and charred with smoke.
“Hello?” The angel was standing   in the centre of the courtyard. His voice
carried far and sounded   vaguely lost. “Hello? Anybody? Ahem. Is there
anybody here?”
Crowley awkwardly shuffled closer, not knowing what to say.
“I   guess the wine's cancelled,” he blurted with a nervous laugh before he 
 could kick himself. Aziraphale turned to him sharply and stared, eyes   wide
and inhuman and cold as stone.
Crowley instinctively shrank   away, keeping his eyes on Aziraphale. Still as a
statue, not disturbed   even by the lightest rhythm of breath, gazing silent and
unblinking at   his adversary – this was an angel, alright.
“Maybe sssomeone hid in the church,” he offered weakly.
Aziraphale shifted and blinked, then nodded, brushing past him with newfound
purpose in his stride.
The   massive oaken double doors were intact, if smashed wide open. Crowley  
followed the angel, crossing the threshold of the church with   trepidation.
Whatever whiff of holy presence there might have been...   was still there,
actually, contrasting and overlapping with the aura of   death and destruction
in a most stomach-churning way. He buried the urge   to claw away at his skin
and stepped inside.
Up in Europe people   were starting to take the fancy approach to church
construction. Crowley   approved – he could easily see it blossoming into
outright decadence in   a century or two, and the irony would be hilarious.
This, however, was   an older building, squat and thick-walled and no-nonsense
down to the   last massive slab of coarse stone. High up in the walls were
small,   slit-like windows barely allowing light, and ideally even less  
permissive of arrows. Near the entrance, a heavy stone pedestal still   stood,
the water basin upon it undisturbed. Crowley edged around it   carefully.

“Aziraphale?” he called, peering into the dimness.   As he teetered down the
nave, glancing sideways between the   roughly-carved wooden benches, his vision
adjusted, exposing the   darkness to him with more clarity than he really wanted
at the moment.   Rats scuttled out past him. He swallowed and looked away.
“Aziraphale?”   he called again, his voice unsteady.
“Hmm? Yes, what?” the angel's voice answered. It sounded empty.
The   thing about churches built to be fortresses rather than works of art is  
that people tend to take shelter there when the going gets rough, when   it's
the last resort. It's the sort of place you might stick your most   precious
civilians in, if the enemy is rolling in and there's nothing   you can seem to
do to stop them.
Aziraphale was standing in front   of the altar. He was not looking up at the
crucifix or the mosaic up   high. His gaze was cast downwards, held flat on the
form of the   half-naked woman on the floor, dark tresses matted with blood and
her   bruised arms cradling a child.
“Aziraphale,' Crowley said quietly, cautiously wandering closer and stepping
over bodies.
When   he came to stand behind the angel, Aziraphale turned, finally looking  
up. Aziraphale blinked at him. “I'm surprised you can stand to be here,”  
he said.
Crowley's face twisted uneasily. “...Yeah, don't remind me. I'm this far away
from getting sick all over your pretty robes.”
“...Not... precisely what I meant,” Aziraphale said quietly, staring at
Crowley like he'd just seen him for the first time.
Crowley   laughed and flinched at how it sounded, echoing and far too loud in
the   tomb-like room. “I'm not about to start hugging any Bibles, I'll give  
you that. What now?”
Aziraphale's gaze turned distant. “I will   inspect the catacombs and the
cellar,” he said. “Stay here,” he added as   an afterthought.
Crowley jerked to a stop, then watched as the   angel made his way down a set of
worn stairs in the corner. “Yeah,” he   muttered. “Stay here with the...
with the bodies, okay. Great.”
He   perched on the corner of a bench, then slumped back against it.  
“Great,” he said again, absently. “Well, fine. Not like I want to be  
crawling around dank and closed spaces, anyway.”
He looked up at the ceiling. There were some spatters of blood there.
Impressive, really, when you got down to it.
He   looked at the crucifix instead. The roughly-hewn undernourished-looking  
figure nailed to it looked vaguely unhappy about its situation.
“And fat lot of good that did, buddy,” Crowley muttered.
He'd   been stepped on by a horse once, when he was drained and grubby and  
entirely too exhausted for limbs. It had been most unpleasant. Then he'd   found
himself being picked up and carried away and lowered gently into   thick grass,
when just about any form of smiting or otherwise calling in   a favour from
Daddy would have done. Odd thing to remember, really.
He heard slow, scuffling footsteps and looked down – no, not that far down,
and wow, that is a lot of blood – looked midway to where Aziraphale emerged.
“Did you find any...” Crowley started, then trailed off.
The   angel was alone. He was carrying a lute – holding it gently, one hand  
grasping the neck, the palm of the other supporting the back.
Not   looking at Crowley, the angel laid the lute onto the altar, then  
arranged the torn strings flat across it in an illusion of   functionality. His
face was blank.
“I believe we're done here,” he said absently, as if to no-one.
Crowley   blinked slowly as the angel stood still, his face cast unmoving
towards   the lute. “...Okay,” he said. “I'll just see myself out, then.
Get some   air or... or something.”
He turned and shuffled past the aisles, towards the exit yawning with the light
of dawn.
Just as someone stepped in from outside.

Crowley froze, the burst of relief vanishing as he stared at the   hulking
figure. The man was a soldier, cheap armour and wrappings grimy   and bloodied,
and holding in one hand a naked broadsword and in the   other a cloth sack that
clinked with something valuable when he dropped   it.
The man, for his part, took one look at the blood-smeared body   and the dark
wings and the yellow eyes emerging from the gloom, and   cried, “Demon!”
“Shit,” Crowley hissed, narrowly dodging a swipe   of the blade, then oofed
as the man's beefy fist caught him in the   kidneys. just before the edge of the
sword zinged across his ribs.
He   grunted with pain and tried to move, but stumbled over a corpse and   went
flying backward, landing painfully on his hips and elbows. Then he   looked up
and froze.
The man was gripping the rim of the water   basin on the pedestal beside him.
With a yellow-toothed grin, he swung   his arm around and flipped it forward.
Droplets raced through the air...
Golden wings fanned out, catching them.
Aziraphale folded them back, stepped around Crowley and advanced on the soldier,
who, to his credit, recovered quickly enough.
As   he did, Aziraphale noted his cheap, mercenary's armour, the worn   tabard,
the boots caked with mud. It wasn't uncommon to find stragglers –   deserters
- after the main raiding group has moved on – looting,   scavenging, finishing
off the wounded.
Most had the fortune not to run into Aziraphale.
He felt a cold serenity settle over him. He looked up at the man, and burned.
The   soldier cried out incredulously and jerked to motion, broadsword  
sweeping in a powerful arc. It occurred to Aziraphale then that he was  
unarmed.
He fought the impulse to swear, dodging the blow and   grabbing onto the
mercenary's sword arm, then wincing as the man   barrelled into him and slammed
him against the wall. The man stepped   back, jerking his sword from the angel's
grasp and levelling it to stab.   Aziraphale sent him flying to the ground with
a mighty buffet of a   wing, feathers following everywhere. Already the man was
picking himself   up, even as he struggled to push himself upright.
“Angel!”   he heard Crowley call, and turned in a heartbeat as the demon
sent   something skidding across the floor. He bent down and his fingers closed 
 around a hilt.
He spun sharply and caught the sword's blow on the   dagger's guard. If he were
human, such a move would never have held. As   it were, it had to settle for
looking functional but ridiculous.
The   broadsword's edge was bloodied, he realised as he forced him back, and  
it was not just the demon's blood he smelled on it. No mercenary worth   his
salt would leave his blade uncleaned too long. This meant a recent   kill –
more likely a coup de grâce.
Aziraphale breathed then, a   tight, controlled puffing of air out of nostrils.
He'd seen humans do   it. However it was meant to quell rage, it didn't seem to
work.
His   swordsmanship smooth and deadly – not only with the skill of the  
Heavenly Host but with the resourcefulness of one who has spent   centuries
learning from humans – Aziraphale attacked, dagger flashing to   and fro as he
danced around the mercenary in circles. The man panicked   and struck out,
overbalancing, and the angel took the opportunity to   knock the sword from his
hand and kick him across the waist.
The   man went sprawling to the ground, coughing painfully. He pulled himself  
to hands and knees and looked up, eyes widening when he saw Aziraphale   walking
toward him, dagger held loosely in his hand. It shone with   something not quite
fire but neither like the natural glint of light.
“Please,” the man rasped. “Don't...”
“You   should have fled with the others,” Aziraphale said coldly, his hand  
tightening on the grip. He watched with some satisfaction as the man's   eyes
widened in fear. He moved to strike...
The demon laughed, and he froze.
It   wasn't a particularly evil sort of laugh. It didn't sound malicious or  
mocking or gleeful. It was quiet and probably not meant for anyone's   ears,
halfway between a choke and a snort, and filled with the   bitterness of someone
who has seen it all.
Aziraphale blinked and swallowed against the taste of something hot and acrid
and oddly reminiscent of shame.
His   eyes stinging, he stepped forward and touched the man on his forehead.  
His eyes rolled back in his head and he toppled down, unconscious.
Aziraphale found himself breathing raggedly, his body shaking. His fingers
shifted restlessly on the dagger's familiar hilt.
He blinked again and raised the weapon, turning the hilt to the light.
It had a little ruby in it.
His breathing stilled. Very slowly, he turned to look at the demon, still seated
awkwardly on the floor.
“...Oh shit. Shit,”   Crowley gulped, golden eyes wide. He scrambled back,
legs kicking   against the floor and hands groping blindly behind him for a
weapon.   They landed on a stiff body and he flinched, jerking them back  
hurriedly.
“You lied to me,” Aziraphale said flatly, uncertain as he was about why he
was taking this personally.
Crowley stopped moving and stared back at him in apprehension. Then he gulped
and smiled nervously. “Technically, no. I did drop it, though I picked it up
later. And it did fall down, roughly at the same time I did. And it's true
enough that it could still have been on that tower and okay, yeah, really not
the point, I get that...” he rambled frantically.
“Were   you planning to stab me in the back all this time, then?” Aziraphale
  wondered absently, his fingers shifting across the hilt.
Crowley's face twisted in a grimace and he bit his lip. “No, I... Look , I
wasn't... I just... Bless it! It's just the way these things always turn out in
the end, alright? No sense in getting caught bloody unprepared,” he added
glumly.
Aziraphale   stiffened and inched closer, wings and body still aflame with his  
essence. The demon seemed about to start scrambling away again but   stopped
himself, hands splayed taut across the flagstones. “Fine then,”   he grinned
humourlessly, “Go on. 'Get on with it,' and everything, like   you meant to at
the ssstart. Sssee you later," he snapped, then added to   himself in a laughing
whisper, chest shaking, “Great, just great. Back   to Hell, then.”
Aziraphale stopped. He looked at the demon,   sitting with his legs stretched
out in pools of blood and grime, dark   wings battered and messy, head bowed.
His expression softened. His   fingers relaxed and he lowered the dagger,
letting it hang limply from   his hand. He folded his wings. The burning glow
faded.
Crowley looked up, eyes wide.
“Don't   be daft,” Aziraphale said. “It would be highly unsporting to
attack you   with the very weapon I only reclaimed at your courtesy.”
Crowley's face closed up. His eyes flitted ever-so-briefly to the unconscious
mercenary on the floor.
Aziraphale's   throat tightened and he struggled with the inexplicable urge to
lower   his eyes. “I'll not be judged by the likes of you,” he said stiffly.
  Seeing the demon tense again, he sighed and slid the dagger back into   the
empty sheath at his hip, shifting his posture to 'at ease'.
“I haven't actually said   anything,” the demon protested glumly. He watched
Aziraphale for a   moment, then grabbed a bench for support and pulled himself
to his feet.
Aziraphale wandered past him, walking slowly to the altar. A rat was chewing on
the lute. He swatted at it in fury.
“I was   going to give it back, you know,” Crowley called after him. He was 
 standing in the entrance, leaning against the heavy door. “If... y'know.   If
it had worked out.”
Aziraphale nodded silently. Crowley hesitated a bit, then sauntered out.
Outside,   the sky had brightened to a gangrene yellow-blue, and the fresh
breeze   brought fresh waves of stench from all over the monastery.
“Right,” Crowley said, shaking himself. He began to shuffle towards the
exit, kicking at debris that got in his way.
After a while, he stopped.
He turned to look at the empty doorway of the church. There was no hint of
movement save for the scuffling of vermin.
After another while, he sighed again, and trudged back to it.
He peeked inside.
The   angel stood still and silent in front of the altar, a lone figure  
amongst the bodies - staring, as far as he could tell, into nothing. It   was a
thoroughly miserable sight.
“Hey,” Crowley said softly.
Aziraphale didn't turn but his body shifted to attention. “You're still
here?” he asked.
“Yeah, I'm...” he broke off, not sure what he was, exactly. “You're just
gonna stand there?”
The angel looked at him oddly. Then he turned and disappeared back down into the
cellars.
“...Er.   Right,” Crowley muttered. He hovered in the entrance, torn between
  following and staying on the side of marginally fresher air. He realised  
he'd started breathing again. It was an unnervingly difficult habit to   break.
The mercenary lay where he had fallen, untouched. Unless   you counted the rats,
of course, but they had plenty of other things to   do.
He nearly flinched when Aziraphale turned up again, brushing   past him and
striding away from the church in determination. Crowley   scrambled after him
and the angel slowed, allowing him to catch up.
“Where are we going?” Crowley asked.
“Just... away from here,” the angel said, mouth quirking in faint
amusement.
“Uh-huh,”   Crowley snorted, then paused. The angel was holding a bottle of
wine in   one hand and two wooden goblets in another, hugging both to his chest 
 as he walked.
“You...” Crowley started and found himself stuttering. “You're still going
through with that?”
This   time the angel did smile, the corners of his mouth turning up in a way  
that looked pained and bitter and not at all at home on his face.
“Apparently so, yes.”
They   walked until the ground beneath was no longer grimy and trodden flat by  
hundreds of feet. They trekked up another hill, balancing with their   wings and
gripping each other for support when needed, until they   reached the top – a
flat plateau with a view of the surrounding plains   and crop fields that looked
almost idyllic if you didn't squint. The air   was fresh here and the ground
patchy with grass. Up on the crest, a   lone tree resided.
They plopped down beneath it.
Crowley   groaned gratefully and kicked off his boots, wriggling his toes into
the   grass. He wished he had the energy to miracle himself clean. Or a   stream
nearby. Although, truth be told, there was something of a line to   be drawn
between drinking with the enemy and bathing together, as much   as he could try
and pretend that several thousand years of human habits   hadn't rubbed off on
him.
Beside him, Aziraphale sat down   carefully with his legs crossed, then patted
down the grass and set the   two goblets on top in a strangely formal gesture.
“Do I even want to know where you found that?” Crowley asked, looking at
them apprehensively.
“I believe you can answer that question for yourself,” the angel said, and
he snorted in agreement.
Crowley watched the angel struggle with the cork for a moment, then held out his
hand. “Give me that.”
He   took the bottle and pulled out the cork with his teeth, spitting it   away.
The angel held up the goblets and Crowley poured, taking care not   to spill.
Some of it sloshed over anyway. The tremors in his hand were   probably due to
exhaustion.
Crowley raised the goblet. “Cheers,” he said.
Aziraphale nodded, his gaze lost somewhere in the space in front of him.
They lifted the goblets and downed them as one.
Crowley   peered mournfully into the empty cup, then down at the bottle. “'S
not   nearly enough in there to get properly drunk, though. Or... at all,  
really.”
“It's just as well,” the angel mumbled. “It's best we stay alert.”
“...What for?” Crowley glanced at him sideways. Aziraphale didn't answer.
Crowley   took the bottle and poured himself another, then did the same for  
Aziraphale. He took a careful, measured sip. “You weren't pulling my leg  
back there,” he said, humming appreciately. “This ain't half bad.” He  
realised the angel had turned to look at him, face blank. “What?”
“I'm fairly certain I don't pull people's legs, Crowley,” the angel said
seriously.
Crowley   goggled at him for a moment, then snorted, shaking his head. “”Sss
a   figure of speech, angel. And you're plenty smart enough to figure out   what
I meant. Unlike some of you other bastards. Couldn't recognise a   metaphor if
it metaphored up to 'em and bit them like a... like a...   like a simile of some
kind. No offense.”
Aziraphale stared in fascination, cocking his head. “Are you... are you making
yourself drunk?
“I'm   improvising.” Crowley lifted the goblet to his lips and flicked his  
tongue out briefly, tasting. Then he took another delicate sip. “'Sss   besst
of both worldsss. Good year,” he added graciously.
Aziraphale stared into his own cup. “...Yes,” he said. “I suppose it
is.”
Silence reigned for a moment as they both mentally tiptoed around the rest of
the day so far.
“Hey,”   Crowley said finally. Aziraphale turned to look at him. “Hey...
You   don't want to... bury them, or something?” he asked, jerking his head  
sideways.
Aziraphale looked sad, his gaze distant. “...Their souls are elsewhere by now.
We of all people should know that, Crowley.”
“...Yeah. Guess so.”
Crowley took the bottle and pointedly refilled Aziraphale's cup. The angel
looked at him questioningly.
“Hey,   you're the one who came up with the drinking idea, might as well  
indulge,” Crowley said defensively. “Threw me for a loop, by the way.   Well
done with that.”
Aziraphale frowned thoughtfully. He slowly   unfurled his wings, flexing them,
his palms cradling the goblet.   Somewhere on the tree above them, a bird
chirped.
“This is nice,” the angel said eventually.
“Nice?”
“Mmm, yes.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“I   just can't help but think... It's a shame we can't ever seem to hold a  
civil conversation for long, don't you think? Always with the sides and   the...
the assignments. But it is only business, technically speaking. No sense in
letting it.... spill over.. into personal matters.”
“So much for 'nothing traitorous', huh?” Crowley muttered to himself.
“I'm sorry, what?”
Crowley   hissed, suddenly tense with exasperation. His hands shook, sloshing  
some of the wine out. “Just... You know what your people'd say if they  
caught you thinking like that, don't you?”
Aziraphale was silent.   His expression was far-away and unpleasant. “I
suppose it's a jolly good   thing my thoughts are my own, then,” he said
stiffly after a while,   then huffed. “Honestly, they're rather out of touch
at the best of   times, anyway. I don't see why I ought to be so worried about
what they think I should be doing with my time.”
“...What?” Crowley was staring at him.
Aziraphale turned to him, gaze solemn. “I, er, I don't pretend to imagine that
it's remotely similar to what you go through,” he began. “But, well... for
what it's worth, I don't enjoy it either. Going... Up There. When I have to.”
Crowley shook his head. “You're kidding, right? It's Heaven,” he added in a
whisper, speaking the word flatly and without the usual awed inflection.
“It   is rather high up,” Aziraphale said slowly, knitting his brow. “One 
 tends to... lose sight of what's important, I find, while up there.”
Crowley   stared at him some more, then grinned, incredulous. At Aziraphale's  
offended look, he chuckled, “Sssorry. It's just... It's funny. Pretty   much
anyone I could ask would say you usually sssee things better when you're on top
of the world, not worse.”
“...Not if what matters is the little things,” Aziraphale replied quietly.
“...Well. I'll drink to that,”   Crowley nodded and raised his goblet. He
clinked it against the   angel's, some of the wine sloshing over between cups.
He laughed   suddenly. “Didcha know? I mean, that'sss how it started. The
whole...   toast thing, I mean. Clinking glasses together. You'd have a dozen of
  people in the room all vaguely out for each other's blood, but only an   idiot
would try to poison the drink, ssee, if it all ended up sloshed   around like
that, anyway. Nothing breeds culture like paranoia, I tell   you.”
“...I suppose there's something to be said for the assurance of safety,”
Aziraphale said thoughtfully, sipping at his own wine.
Crowley   was quiet for a long time. Eventually he turned to the angel, face
open   and earnest. “Hey,” he said. “Can I ask you something?”
“I sincerely doubt I can stop you from trying.”
“Touché. No, but really... Indulge me. How come... How come you never used,
you know, that stuff?”
Aziraphale   looked to him in confusion. The demon's face was tense and  
apprehensive. He gestured again, jerking his head somewhere in the   direction
of the church.
“...Oh,” Aziraphale said. His face   clouded over in the way typical of
someone having trouble wrapping their   mind around something.
The demon leaned forward, eyes burning with wary curiosity. “I mean it. It's
not like you couldn't carry bucketfuls   around. And not the cheap, dirtside
little church stuff either, where   they just pop in a little cruficix and call
it a day and it sizzles and   stings a little. Hell, you could get some from the
Pope's own washing   basin, just snap your fingers and have it. It'd put me out
of commission   for centuries, at least. If not worse. All that, and I've never
seen   you use it. What gives, angel?”
“...I... I couldn't really   say...,” Aziraphale said, quiet and uncertain.
“I suppose it doesn't   seem... right, perhaps. Something so...
irrevocable.”
Crowley   slowly raised an eyebrow and held his gaze. He didn't gesture to the  
church, but he didn't have to. A thought formed between them, hanging   like a
lead weight.
Aziraphale's jaw tightened and he pulled away stiffly. “That man is a
murderer,” he said.
Crowley slumped and hissed out a laugh, bitter and sardonic. “And who bloody
well isn't?”
Aziraphale   looked away, his face twisting in something like pain. He groped
for   the bottle and unsteadily poured himself a full cup. The bottle wisely  
neglected to point out that it should have been empty three cups ago.
Aziraphale sniffed into his cup. “There's something backward about you
lecturing me about morality, don't you think?”
Crowley   sighed and let himself drop back, stretching flat across the grass.
His   dark wing brushed Aziraphale's. “Yeah, well, that's the new millennium  
for you. Backward.”
The watched the sun rise – the demon flat on his back and staring up at the
sky, the angel hunched over his drink.
Eventually Aziraphale turned his head, studying Crowley thoughtfully. “May I
ask you something?” he said quietly.
Crowley raised a quizzical eyebrow and snorted. “Bring it on, I'm sure I can't
stop you.”
“You... changed your name,” the angel said quietly, as if confiding a
secret.
“Yeah, ages ago now. What's your point?” the demon shrugged.
“I, er, I am not precisely getting at any particular point, per se. It is
only... It strikes me as a bit strange, that's all.”
“Me changing my name?”
“Well, yes. How could you even... Why would you do something like that?”
“It was cramping my style. You try getting taken seriously with a name like
'Crawly'. It just didn't feel like me.”
“It is your name,” Aziraphale said furiously. “Of course it's you. Who
else would it be?”
“Fine, then, maybe it didn't feel like who I wanted to be. Does that make more
sense to you?”
Aziraphale   frowned. “I suppose so,” he said slowly. “It's only... I've
never heard   of any of our kind changing their name before. It would never have
  occurred to me in a thousand years.”
“Guess I'm a   pioneer, then,” Crowley said with a hint of smugness,
shutting his eyes.   After a few moments he opened them again, peeking at
Aziraphale in   curiosity. “...You've really been wondering about that all
this time?”
Aziraphale blushed. “Er, yes.” He fidgeted, fingers plucking idly at the
grass.
“...You   can be who you want if you really try, you know...” Crowley said  
quietly, staring at the sky. “”Sss not that hard. Don't have to get all  
your choices made for you.”
“I can't imagine your superiors being charitable toward that attitude,
either,” Aziraphale observed.
“That's   okay. I don't spend much time there, anyway,” Crowley said
casually.   His expression darkened. “When I can help it,” he added, looking
away   awkwardly.
Aziraphale wasn't sure what to say to that, so he   carefully took the demon's
cup and filled it to the brim. He looked   Crowley in the eyes and held it out
to him silently.
“Thanksss,” the demon grunted, sitting up to take it.
“You're welcome,” the angel echoed apologetically.
Crowley drank.
A   companionable silence reigned for a while. If they had been more  
attentive, they would have seen a shuffling figure making its way very   slowly
up the hill.
“You know,” Crowley said carefully after some   time, “If you wanna be
technical about it, we are, er, technically,   having a civil conversation right
now.”
The angel looked vaguely guilty. “It has crossed my mind, yes."
“I don't currently see any pressing reason for things to turn non-civil, do
you?”
“Not as such, no.”
“Good.”
Crowley   plopped down flat on his back again and forced himself to relax. It
was   surprisingly easy. You just needed to make your muscles go all limp   like
a doll's and close your eyes and wriggle your face into the grass.   He found
that the thought of the dagger with the little red ruby didn't   worry him quite
as much as the creepy-crawlies trying to crawl into his   ear canals. He
twitched and swatted in irritation at something tickling   its way up his cheek.
In approximately a minute or so, it would occur to   him that he might have been
tempting fate just a bit.
Suddenly, a   long, heavy moment settled in when he got the most awful sense of 
 premonition and his eyes flew open. He heard the angel make a slight   choking
sound.
“CROWLEY,” said a horrid voice behind him.
“Eep,” he said.
He   nearly fell over in his hurry to scramble up and turn to face the   voice.
The angel had stopped breathing and was staring wide-eyed at   something over
his shoulder. He spun.
“CROWLEY, ARE YOU THERE?”
A   dead body stood in front of him, largely unconcerned by its deadness.   It
had belonged to a villager, sometime before last night.
“Er... Yes. Hello,” Crowley swallowed. He made frantic shushing gestures to
Aziraphale.
“WHAT WAS THAT, CROWLEY?”
“Er, I mean, Lord. Hail Satan. Yeah.”
“WE HAVE NOTICED YOUR LOCATION. EXCELLENT WORK WITH THAT MONASTERY,
CROWLEY.”
“...Th-thanksss,   hehe,” Crowley swallowed, feeling ice run down his spine.
He heard   Aziraphale shift slightly. Suddenly, the dagger with the little ruby 
 didn't seem quite so irrelevant.
“YOUR WORK ON THE FORT HAS BEEN NOTED AS WELL.”
“Right, right...”
“WE HAVE ANOTHER ASSIGNMENT FOR YOU, CROWLEY.”
“Joy,” Crowley muttered dryly.
“YOUR   ENTHUSIASM IS REFRESHING. FIFTY MILES SOUTH OF HERE YOU WILL FIND A  
TOWN CALLED WATCHER'S REST IN THE LOCAL TONGUE. SEE TO IT THAT IT IS  
DESTROYED, ONE WAY OR ANOTHER.”
Crowley gulped, his throat going dry.
“IS THAT UNDERSTOOD, CROWLEY?”
“....Yeah. Uh. Lord.”
“EXCELLENT. WE AWAIT YOUR RESULTS EAGERLY, CROWLEY.”
“...Sure.”
“AHEM.”
“Hail Sssatan,” Crowley said lamely.
“INDEED.”
Whatever   unholy spark of life there had been in the body abruptly went out.
Its   knees buckled and it folded back spectacularly like a limp rag doll.
“Great,” Crowley breathed and struggled to his feet, shaking faintly.
“Just... great. Perfect. You try to get one moment of peace, try get to away
from the bodies, and whaddyou get? They end up coming to you,   the creepy
bastards...” He stumbled over to the corpse, blessed under   his breath,
stumbled back, pulled on his boots, walked over to the   corpse again and
proceeded to try and roll it down the hill by kicking   it with his toe.
“Crowley....”
“No.” He spun and pointed a shaking finger at the angel, who was on his
feet, watching him. “Don't you even ssstart. I told you, I had nothing to do
with what happened here. This sssort of thing always   happens. They go all,
Hello, Crowley, nice job on that miscellaneous   deed of horrific evil, Crowley,
and I just go Yeah thanks and pretend   it'sss not the first I've heard of it,
'cause all I did was hang around in the fifty-mile radius or ssssomething, but
some tool or another alwayssss ends up blaming demonic influence for whatever
crap the humans have come up with this time around, and who gets the credit if
not the resident demon, eh?”
He   was still rambling and kicking at the corpse by the time Aziraphale  
walked over to him, bent down, reverently traced a cross pattern onto   the
body, then lifted it and carried it to the steeper part of the   slope, where he
proceeded to let it topple down spectacularly.
They watched as it rolled down.
“Bit morbid, that,” Crowley muttered to himself, watching the limbs spin
around loosely in its descent.
He   shook himself, then wandered stiffly over to where he'd been sitting   and
let his legs give out under him. He searched the grass for the   discarded
bottle.
“I imagine it does make it easier to stay on their good side, though, doesn't
it?” the angel mused quietly behind him.
“They don't have   a good side,” Crowley grumbled. “Great, just great.
Amazing. Smashing.   Perfect. Just what I needed. Okie-dokey. Destroy. Yep.
Classic.”
He finally found the bottle and took a deep swig right out of it, not noticing
that it had, by that point, finally gone empty.
Aziraphale sat down in front of him.
“You... do not wish to do this,” he said slowly. It wasn't really a
question.
Crowley grinned. It looked more like a grimace. “Whatcha talkin' about? Of
courssssse   I wanna do this. It'ssss my job, innit? Of courssse I wanna do my
job.   Love my job. Great. Perfect. Ssssspreading mayhem and desssstruction.  
Yep. Great. Evil. Excssssellent.” He fumbled for the bottle again,   finally
noticed that it was empty and tossed it aside with a hiss. He   buried his face
in his hands and clawed at his hair, his chest heaving.
Aziraphale's   brow furrowed. He'd read about sarcasm, of course, and could,
when   sufficiently provoked, choose to occasionally dabble in it himself, but  
had little experience with identifying it in the wild, as it were. He   was
beginning to suspect that the demon was far more prone to it, as   well as
outright denial, than he'd previously realised. In retrospect,   it put some of
the things he'd said over the centuries in a different   light and explained a
great deal.
“I'm an artisssst,” the demon   kept muttering. “I tempt people. It'ssss
an art. I ferret out their   hidden desiresssss and everything. Psssychology.
Dessssstroying things   is grunt work. I shouldn't have to do grunt work.  
It'sssss undignified. They could've just ssssent two dozen imps   insssstead,
but nooo, let'ssss heap it up on Crowley, shall we? He'll take care of it, sure
enough.”
The angel cleared his throat loudly. Crowley looked up at him in startlement.
“They, er, they didn't seem to know I was there,” Aziraphale said
tentatively.
Crowley's expression shifted. “Oh. No, no, I shouldn't think so. Would use up
way too much juice, if they could see as well."
“Well   then...” Aziraphale said slowly. “It occurs to me that, er. As an
agent   of Heaven, I have just found myself with unexpected access to enemy  
information, as it were. I would be remiss not to take advantage of the  
opportunity. See to it that evil wiles are thwarted, and all that,” he   added
bashfully.
Like watching a sunrise, Crowley's face very slowly transformed with
comprehension. He started grinning.
“I   probably ought to follow you and properly foil your efforts, you see,” 
 Aziraphale was saying. “It would, without doubt, be in the ultimate  
interest of my cause.”
Crowley laughed unsteadily, shaking his   head. He stared at the grass between
his feet. Then he got up. “I'm sure   I can't ssstop you,” he said, a trifle
giddily.
Aziraphale smiled.






Down at the foot of the hill, the stench didn't seem quite so oppressive now. It
felt like something you could put behind you.
“No,   I've got this,” Crowley said. “Watch.” For the second time that
day, he   shook his finger clean and whistled. This time, Aziraphale was  
expecting it.
The two horses they'd previously left behind on the   top of the other steep
rise came galloping from somewhere out of sight,   nearly running them over in
the process. They looked vaguely miffed.
“How did they get down?” Aziraphale asked.
“Beats me,” Crowley grinned. “No idea how they do it, they just do.”
He climbed into the saddle.
 
 
 
Minutes later, he looked back.
“You're taking this 'following' thing pretty seriously, aren't you?”
Aziraphale was   following him, by a technicality of around ten feet. “It
wouldn't do to   let you out of sight,” he said reasonably. “No telling what
kind of   mischief you might get up to.”
“'And your enemies closer', eh?”
“Quite.”
Crowley sighed. “Well, then. Fifty miles. This will take a while.”
It didn't, not really.
This   was mostly because, some two miles in, the landscape changed and they  
kept coming across the most diverse plants on the side of the road.   Aziraphale
turned out to have a nearly encyclopedic knowledge of them.   He also felt
compelled to share every bit of it, preferably while the   plant was still in
sight. It was a good thing he didn't need to breathe.
Crowley was having trouble keeping up with the steady litany.
“How'd you know all that, anyway?” he asked at some point.
“One   picks up things when living with the locals, you see. I'm sure your  
experience has been similar enough. Oh look, that one's called witch's   bane by
the Christians – no, no, the one with the small purple flowers,   look where
I'm pointing...”
During the trip, Crowley had, possibly, fallen asleep in the saddle. Once or
twice. The angel didn't seem to take offense.
By   the time they had put half the distance behind them, their wings had  
healed enough that they could safely tuck them back in. It seemed to   calm the
horses a fair bit.
Five miles from their destination, the inevitable wrench in the plan came
bearing down.
More specifically, it was shining down, as Crowley noticed when he stopped his
horse to ask the angel why he was lagging behind.
Out of the conveniently low clouds, a dust-laden, vaguely blue ray of sunlight
descended at an improbably upright angle.
The angel was bathed in blue light and was looking up in utter mortification.
“Aziraphale,” a voice rang out like the tolling of a thousand distant
bells.
“Er, yes,” the angel squeaked with as much dignity as possible.
“Cherub-... correction, Principality, yes?”
“...You don't really need to keep rubbing that in,” Aziraphale said
sulkily.
“We have work for you.”
“Jolly good,” Aziraphale sighed.
“Your enthusiasm is refreshing.”
Aziraphale twitched.
“There is a town southwest of here the locals call Watcher's Rest. It is most
fortuitous you are already in the vicinity.”
“Ah, yes.” Aziraphale brightened. “Worry not, I shall keep it safe.”
“...Keep what safe?”
“...The town, I assume?”
“Don't be presumptuous. We need that town razed to the ground.”
Aziraphale's smile flickered out.
“Is that understood?”
“Er.”
“Answer the question.”
“Er... ah, well, see... I suppose the issue is... why?”   Aziraphale asked.
An annoyed silence answered him. “Er, it is only, it   doesn't seem like our
usual modus operandi, I suppose,” he plunged on,   “What with... razing
towns to the ground.”
“It is not your duty to question your orders, Principality.”
Aziraphale swallowed. “Er, of course not. Even so, it may... help... in the
fulfillment of my orders... oh good God... if I were to know the reasoning
behind this... decision.”
There was a thoughtful silence.
“...The town has a spiritual significance,” the voice finally said. “It  
is the birthplace of one of the local beloved spiritual leaders, and   the
inhabitants of the area pride themselves on having never had it fall   into
enemy hands. Its elimination would further fan the spark of the   conflict and
ensure the spread of our cause and its glory.”
“...Of course,” the angel said stiffly.
“Do not disappoint us, Aziraphale.”
“I'll... I'll try not to,” he said grimly.

“See to it.”
The light remained. The silence turned expectant.
“Hail the Lord,” Aziraphale said sullenly.
“Quite.”
The light faded.
Aziraphale slowly let his hands unclench from around the reins.
“Well   then,” he said numbly, staring in front of him. “I suppose that  
explains why this area generates so much interest, at least.” He turned   and
looked around. “Crowley?”
The black horse was munching on grass and throwing suspicious looks at
Aziraphale. The saddle was empty.
“Er... Crowley? Oh dear...” the angel looked around wildly.
Movement caught his eye. He peered into the thick grass. Very slowly, a
terrified-looking serpentine head emerged out of it.
“Oh there you are,” the angel said with audible relief.
Crowley   shifted and stood on his legs again, brushing himself off. He was  
staring at Aziraphale in bewilderment. Aziraphale stared back.
“Y'know,” Crowley said finally, “I think I liked it better when we did
have contradicting orders.”
Aziraphale laughed at that, quickly cutting himself off in embarrassment. He
fidgeted. “What do we do now?” he asked.
Slowly, a grin that was nothing if not mischievous spread across Crowley's
face.
“Well,”   he said lazily, sauntering close. “It occurs to me... as an
agent of   Hell... I would be remiss not to take advantage of the opportunity,  
wouldn't you say? Subvert the efforts of Heaven at every turn, and all  
that.”
Aziraphale smiled. “I dare you to try.”





The midday sun stood hot and scorching over the rooftops.
“Die,   foul demon!” Aziraphale cried dramatically and swept a
newly-procured   sword in an impressive glowing arc. He let his wings manifest
just   enough to draw gasps and shouts from the people down on the street.
“You're   overdoing it,” Crowley hissed, ducking the blow and bringing up
his own   scimitar – likewise newly-stolen, because you needed to have
standards   about this sort of thing. He let black smoke trail after his limbs
and   obscure what little he showed of his great sweeping wings. From a  
distance, it must have looked like the angel was fighting a piece of the   night
at high noon. He was sure it looked very impressive.
“I'm sorry, I don't have nearly as much experience in stage appearances as you
do,” the angel hissed under his breath.
“Don't   worry about it, just act natural. Your days are numbered,  
featherbrained tool of a dead god!” he added in a shriek. He tackled the  
angel and sent them sprawling across the rooftop, then aimed a foot at   his
head with just enough delay for Aziraphale to wriggle safely out of   the way.
“Get it? Featherbrained,” he whispered.
“Yes, yes, very clever, get thee behind me, spawn of Hell!”
“Better.”   Crowley realised he was fighting the urge to grin and gave up,
letting   it spread across his face in some semblance of a malicious leer.
The   angel snorted, promptly disguised it as a grimace of pain, and brought  
out his wings in full force, taking them both higher and higher along   the
rooftops to the towers of a modestly-sized castle.
Some time   later, there was a mutual beat of wings, a dramatic grapple, and
both   figures went toppling off a guard-tower, past the wall and down the side 
 of the cliff on which the town was situated.
A mighty stroke of wings at the last moment and they landed gently on the
ground, shifting themselves out of mortal sight.
Crowley   grinned, catching his breath, and looked up at the tower. “Seems
we've   just about come full circle here, don'tcha think?”
“Don't be silly,” Aziraphale smiled. “This landing went far more
smoothly.”
“Come on,” Crowley said, clapping the angel's shoulder. “Let's see what
they have up there. Drink's on me.”
The   wine was good, though not nearly as good as the bottle they'd had at   the
monastery. Sitting back in his chair, Crowley closed his eyes to the   steady
din of the voices in the tavern and stretched luxuriously.
He opened his eyes to see the angel watching him.
“Do you really think we'll get away with this?” Aziraphale said quietly,
leaning forward.
“Don't   see why not,” Crowley said. “'Sss not like our people and yours
are   pen-pals or anything.” He considered it for a long, alarmed moment, then
  shrugged. “That'd be just weird.”
“I suppose so.”
Aziraphale   looked away, watching the people in the tavern. “I've been here  
before,” he said. “I've even heard the story. Truly great man. Perhaps  
even saint material, one never knows. Ought to have realised it sooner,  
really.”
Crowley cocked his head at him. “You just know everything about these people,
don't you?”
“Oh, no,” said Aziraphale solemnly. “Not even close.”
“...The little things, eh?” Crowley said softly, smiling.
Aziraphale chuckled bashfully, drowning his response in the wine. He looked down
thoughtfully at it.
“You conjured the money to pay for this,” he said with soft accusation. “I
saw you.”
“Comes with the territory, angel,” Crowley shrugged.
Aziraphale frowned at him. “It's not proper.”
Crowley laughed. “You can pay next time, then.”
And froze, choking on the laugh.
He hesitantly raised his eyes to Aziraphale's. The angel stared back, turning
gears all but visible in his gaze.
There was a long, pregnant silence, and neither breathed.
“Maybe we could-”
“Perhaps there's a-”
“Ugh.” Crowley stopped, mortified.
“Oh, sorry, go on,” the angel blinked.
“Ngh. You first,” Crowley said cagily.
The   angel hesitated, then said, “It, er, it simply occurred to me we could  
make this sort of thing a more permanent sort of arrangement.”
Crowley swallowed. “Go on.”
“Well,   I... Not much else to it, really. Simply... when the occasion calls
for   it, when our respective superiors are acting slightly more out-of-touch  
with reality than is customary for them... It would be a form of damage  
control. And it would certainly save time and resources for both of us,   don't
you think? Particularly if we cut down on the time spent... Up   and Down There,
respectively. A matter of convenience, really.”
Crowley slowly blinked at him. “And the catch?”
The   angel looked at him thoughtfully. “I'm fairly certain I wouldn't be  
able to sell my soul even if I tried, if that's what you're getting at.”
The demon stared.
Aziraphale suddenly looked very embarrassed.
Crowley stared some more, then laughed incredulously, the tension draining out
of him. “That was an awful joke, angel.”
Aziraphale's face was red. He tried to hide it behind his drink.
“Seriously, though,” Crowley said. “What's the catch?”
Aziraphale gestured vaguely. “Well, I suppose we could agree to stay out of
each other's way...”
Crowley's face fell.
“...where legitimate work   is concerned, and all that. Minimise interference,
that sort of thing.   I, er. For my part, I'm willing to restrict my activity to
acceptable   bounds, if you do the same.”
Crowley leaned forward cautiously.   “We'd need to meet up occasionally,
though,” he said hopefully. “To...   compare notes, that sort of thing. The
odd favour or two, like with this   job. Or something.”
“Well, yes. Of course,” said Aziraphale.
Crowley smirked. “Deal.” Then he winced. “Sorry. Bad choice of words.
Agreed.”
He held out a hand with trepidation. Aziraphale glanced down at it, reached out
and shook it.
A moment passed.
He looked down at their clasped hands.
“I don't sense an aura of doom settling over me,” he observed. “That bodes
well, I suppose. What now?”
Crowley hesitantly let go, leaned back and raised his mug. “We get plastered.
Cheers.” He drank.
“Cheers,” Aziraphale said and let himself slump back bonelessly in his
chair.
He had a feeling it would be a tolerable century, after all.







Many   decades later, a dark-haired young man stiffly followed an older one  
through what passed for a hospital in this time and place.
Crowley was not enjoying the 13th century. The way current events were pointing,
the 14th was shaping up to be even worse.
“It   is an art, you see. A most delicate art,” the other man was saying. He
  was almost unnaturally tall, bald head stretched over with blotchy and  
weathered skin and a gaunt face that would have looked sickly if not for   the
unholy light shining in his eyes. “You would not believe the amount of
research involved. And the test runs, of course. One must never forget the test
runs.”
“Test   runssss. Sure,” Crowley nodded along. He'd stopped feeling his toes
and   fingers some time ago, even though he kept curling them mechanically.  
All things considered, he really wasn't sure how to interpret that.
“It   must never spread too quickly, you see,” the man kept speaking in an  
educational timbre Crowley had come to be familiar with through a very  
different association. “Not while you are still ironing out the... ah...   all
the little details. It must never spread out of control during that... delicate
phase.”
Crowley nodded again. Somehow, he found himself speaking. “The, uh. Back in
the 6th and 7th. Didn't work out, then?”
“Oh   my, no. Far too unpredictable. And I can never get the progress rates  
just right, most infuriating, really... Let me show you what I mean.”
The   man stopped in front of one of the patients – an older woman with a  
fever-flushed face, sprawled on a grimy-looking mattress - and gestured   to the
apple-sized swellings in the armpits. “Fourteen days after first   contact and
counting.” He slowly walked to another patient, a muscular   man who was
babbling to himself, blood flecking the corners of his   mouth. “Three days,
here. Take note of the skin.”
Crowley looked at the lumps and the scattering of dark spots, almost like rose
petals.
“Ngh,” he said. “Three... three days?” he managed to grind out.
“Ah,   yes, you've noticed. Most inconsistent, no? I confess, I am somewhat  
neurotic about this sort of thing. Unpredictability drives me mad,   it does.
Which is not to say that the occasional surprise cannot be a   delight, of
course, why, that is how progress usually happens, don't you   think?”
“...Sure.” Crowley said. His throat was beginning to feel itchy and there
was a horrid pressure behind his eyes. He shuddered.
The   man gently grasped his shoulder and he flinched. “Take a look at this  
one,” the man said, steering him away. This time, it was a girl not   older
than seven. She wasn't on a cot. She was playing with a doll in   the corner,
skin peach-smooth and flushed with health. Crowley stared at   her.
“Downright conundrum, this one,” the man said quietly. “She   followed her
mother in, you see. Doesn't seem to have any other family,   the poor thing, so
I let her stay. Seven days and counting. Plenty, plenty   of exposure, and not a
mark on her, would you believe it? Sometimes   even your best isn't enough.”
He sighed, leaning forward with an   absorbed, predatory glint in his eyes.
“...Right.” Crowley said,   mostly to try and drown out the other sounds.
His chest felt heavy and   his body kept itching. He really wanted to be
anywhere else. Abruptly, he realised discorporating himself right then and there
would be a vast improvement. Hell really wasn't that bad, come to think of it.
But that wouldn't be fair to Aziraphale.
“I'm   sure you've encountered such problems yourself,” the man kept
speaking   softly. “Your occupation is, after all, likewise an art.” He
turned to   Crowley and smiled. “Say hello to your people for me, will you?
Pleasant   crowd, but they just can't think in numbers the way we two can, don't
  you think? Sometimes you just need to let your imagination fly and...   see
where the boundaries are.” He turned to Crowley and stepped close,  
whispering conspiratorially. “This one is going to be a beauty if I do   say
so myself. I've had a downright epiphany about it, too. Why, just   the other
century I was walking down the street, and there they are, all   just scuttling
underfoot...” he trailed off. “Ah, well, nevermind. I'm   sure you'd just as
rather enjoy the surprise yourself.”
Crowley twitched. “That's... that's okay, actually. I don't mind... advance
knowledge. Makes my... work... easier. Yeah.”
“Oh,   no, I really shouldn't, come to think of it. An artisan must never  
share their secrets.” He turned thoughtfully to the rows of cots,   smiling to
himself.
“Uh-huh,” Crowley grunted, then sniffed in   irritation at a tightness in
his nose. He affected a busy air and   casually edged towards the door. “I,
uh. Should be going. People... to   tempt, and all that. Thanks for the... the
tour. It was...” he paused.   “Made an impression. Yeah.” He swayed
slightly, shaking.
“Yes, yes, of course, I imagine you're terribly busy. So nice of you to
stumble in, I really don't get enough visitors these days,” the man said
mournfully.
“Right. Bye,” Crowley rasped and stumbled toward the door.
Before reaching it, he had to stop, screwing his eyes shut and quivering at the
irritating sensation.
He sneezed, loudly. His nose felt puffy and stuffed.
“Bless you,” the man called after him with a chuckle.
“Nggh,” Crowley said and bolted out the door.



Days later and half a continent away, he stumbled through the street, ambling
through the throngs of people.
The....   the symptoms seemed to be fading with distance as his own power  
reasserted itself, thank Someone, even if too slowly for his liking.   Crowley
did his best not to think about any of it.
“Watch it!” someone yelled, and Crowley barely dodged the horse that pushed
its way through the crowd.
Shaking   with adrenaline, he weaved and jostled his way to the edge of the  
stream of people and caught himself unsteadily on the wall. For a moment   he
leaned against it, eyes closed.
“Oh dear, are you alright?” a muffled voice spoke. Suddenly hands were
pulling him upright.
He looked up into a black, long-beaked mask.
Crowley squinted. “That you? What's with the bird get-up?”
“It   reduces probability of infection. I've been trying to get more of the  
local medicine men to wear them. Without much luck so far, I'm afraid.   No
centralised organisation at all.”
Aziraphale reached a   thick-gloved hand to pull the mask up. A tired face
looked down at   Crowley. The scent of herbs wafted toward him. “You look
awful,”   Aziraphale said. “Are you alright?”
Crowley laughed.
“I missssed you in Paris.”
The angel looked apologetic and started to speak.
“Never   mind, never mind,” Crowley gestured loosely. “We.. we need to...
go   ssssomewhere. Or sssomething. Compare notes. 'N I need a favour.”
“A favour?” the angel frowned at him. “Crowley, are you drunk?”
“Ssseven days and counting,” he hissed with a brittle grin. “And I really,
really need sssomeone to watch over me and make sure I'm not thrown out when I
get even more plastered and ssstart raving like a madman.”
“Crowley, what are you talking about?”
“The 14th is going to sssssuck,” Crowley said with determination.
“Possibly the 15th as well. It is going to suck, I tell you.”
“Now,   don't be unreasonable, you're just setting yourself up for a  
confirmation bias. Things have been looking up lately, why would the 14th be any
different?”
Crowley told him.
“...Oh,”   the angel said after a while. He looked pale. He stared at the
crowds   with a wide-eyed, apprehensive look, then grimaced when someone jostled
  him. He looked back to Crowley and bent close. “He's at it again, then?”
“Angel,” Crowley said, slumping in exhaustion. “Drink.”
Aziraphale gave him a wan smile.
“Of course, my dear,” he said and began to steer the demon away.
Rats scuttled underfoot.


The 14th century was going to be awful. Crowley was certain.
But with the right wine, and the right company...
...There might just be other centuries to see.
 


 
 
 

Hosted by Animexx e.V. (http://www.animexx.de)