Happy Holidays, Htebazytook!
Title: Three score barrels and a match
Author: aviss
Recipient: htebazytook
Rating: G
Prompt: Crowley/Aziraphale, a very London centric story, any rating
Summary: Remember, remember the 5th of November. In which Crowley stumbles upon a plot and enlists Aziraphale to thwart it.
Author Notes: I was going to try my hand at romance with London as a backdrop, but we got the assignment at the beginning of November, with Bonfire night happening all around me, and I could see Crowley right in the middle… so this happened. I hope you like it. Thanks to the mods for doing this another year, and to the darlings (you know who you are) for listening to me rant and helping me with this.
Remember, remember the fifth of November
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
I see no reason, why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, guy, t'was his intent
To blow up king and parliament.
Three score barrels were laid below
To prove old England's overthrow.
By God's mercy he was catch'd
With a darkened lantern and burning match.
So, holler boys, holler boys, Let the bells ring.
Holler boys, holler boys, God save the king.
And what shall we do with him?
Burn him!
September 14th, 1605
It was cold and dark outside, the thick fog rolling from the river giving an eerie cast to the place, the smell of horseshit and rotten meat clogging the air even before he opened the door to the tavern. Inside, the stink was compounded by that of unwashed people and alcohol, the heat of the hearth and candles making it only slightly more inviting than the idea of standing outside.
Crowley slipped inside and found a table in the corner, practically hidden from sight, where he could indulge in an easy temptation or two. These kind of places, though not really to Crowley's taste, were perfect for it; most of the patrons looked as if they were already planning to join the ranks of the damned willingly, like the group of men huddled in a table not far from Crowley. Their clothes set them above the normal patrons of the tavern, and they were huddled together, talking in whispers and constantly looking around.
Everything in them screamed up to no good. The only reason nobody was paying any attention to them was that the rest of the patrons appeared to be involved in their own plotting.
"On the next opening, then," one of the men was saying, his voice barely above a whisper. "We've already secured the house next door, and we can start moving the barrels next week."
"I don't know that we'll have enough time to set everything, Robert," another one said, his eyes darting around the tavern as if trying to find out whether someone was eavesdropping on them. "And how will we get that much powder?"
"I have a contact…" the door opened then, as if summoned by Robert's words and a tall and dark figure slipped inside. Crowley had to fight the impulse to hide under his table to avoid being seen, instead he slumped slightly over his drink, as if he was already in his cups, and hoped his corner was really dark enough. Advancing towards the conspirator's table was Hastur, the rest of the patrons giving him a wide berth probably without being conscious of the reason. Even without the knowledge of his demonic condition, Hastur looked menacing and unpleasant, like something you might find lurking in a dark corner of a graveyard, which was exactly what he was. "Here he is. Guido, this is the friend I as telling you about, the one with enough powder to blow up the House of the Lords."
Oh, Bless.
...
September 25th, 1605
The small bookshop was located in Charing Cross, next to a boutique that had the most beautiful silks imported from India, and surrounded by other bookshops and publishing firms. It was rarely open, and had little on the way of customers and visitors, though that didn't seem to bother the owner, who was always unfailingly polite and helpful and nice.
It had been passed down a family line in the past century, or so people presumed, though nobody had ever seen the nice Mr. Ziraphale in the company of a wife. Or of anyone for that matter. But he had been there for a long time, and so had the shop, thus it must have been passed from father to son or uncle to nephew. It was the only thing that made sense.
It was to this little shop that Crowley finally went.
He had been thinking of nothing but what he'd overheard, and the implications of its success. Anything in which Hastur was involved promised to be very unpleasant, and this time was no different. Crowley would never dare intervene, Hastur was a Duke of Hell and bravery had never been one of Crowley’s many flaws, but were the conspirators to succeed in assassinating the King it wasn't unthinkable that the retribution would be bloody. Crowley had been in Paris during St Bartholomew's massacre, had been unable to indulge in sleep for a decade afterwards. He'd rather not see a repeat in London.
He might not be able to intervene, but the Angel could. If there was a ploy from below, it was his job to thwart it.
Crowley didn't bother with the sign that said the shop was closed, or with the fact that the door was locked. It wasn't, for him.
"We're closed," Aziraphale's voice, more snappish that any of his neighbours had probably ever heard, reached him first, closely followed by the angel entering the shop from the back room. His annoyed expression cleared the instant he took a look at Crowley. "You look terrible my dear, come inside and let me prepare you a cup of tea."
Crowley followed him, allowing Aziraphale to take him to the back of the shop.
"Don't bother with the tea, I need something stronger." Aziraphale raised both eyebrows but didn't comment on it, the cup in his hand seamlessly turning into a tall glass filled with blood red wine before he passed it to Crowley, looking at him expectantly. He took a fortifying sip of his wine, barely noticing the excellent vintage, and opened his mouth. "When is the State Opening of Parliament?"
…
November 5th, 1605
The bonfire illuminated the entire square, the people jeering and shouting, wordless cries almost drowned under the crackle of the fire. Most of them didn't know, or didn't much care, the reason for the celebration, just that they had been told they had to because someone wanted their King dead and they had failed.
In all his millennia on Earth, Crowley still had to see humans turn down a party, whatever the reason.
Crowley did know the entire story, and though he felt like celebrating as well, he wasn't in the mood for such rowdy festivities. He had another destination in mind.
He navigated his way through the crowd, crossing to the other side of the square and niftily avoiding the fire and the rest of the people.
Crowley opened the door to the bookshop uncaring of the closed sign and how late it was.
"I was expecting you earlier." Aziraphale was standing next to the window, staring out at the square, eyes fixed on the bonfire. He had a pensive expression on his face, the light of the fire creating sharp contrasts on his otherwise soft features.
"I was watching the celebrations." This wasn't the only square where a bonfire was burning brightly, the only place where people were reveling in the life of one they would be cursing again in a day. "There is much to rejoice today." The plot had failed, the King would live and the revolt had been avoided. Catholics and Protestants still hated each other, something Crowley found incredibly ironic considering they both had the same God, and that they both were destined to end up in the same Hell if they insisted on murdering one another in God's name.
Aziraphale turned to look at him. "I would have thought your side wanted it to happen."
Crowley shrugged, looking away from Aziraphale intense gaze. "They do. I don't."
"So you made sure I knew what was happening in time to thwart it. What would have happened if they had found what you were up to?"
"Nothing good, I imagine." He shrugged again, thought he felt everything but relaxed. "I was in Paris last time the Catholics and the Protestants decided to kill one another because of their religion. It’s not something I’d ever want to see happening in London." He could still remember the cries and the smell of blood and death, overpowering even in a city as filthy and stinky as Paris. It had reminded Crowley too much of Hell.
Aziraphale nodded, finally moving away from the window. "We'll drink to that then." He headed to the back of the shop. "Are you coming, dear? I have a very nice wine waiting for us."
With a last look at the bonfire outside, Crowley followed him.
...
January 31st, 1606
The crowd filling the Palace Yard was loud and cheerful and set Crowley's teeth on edge. It was moments like this when he wondered why they bothered with the whole temptation thing; people as a whole was a lot nastier and more bloodthirsty than anything inhabiting Hell.
"I dislike public executions as much as you do, my dear, which is the reason I avoid them." Crowley turned in the direction of the voice to see Aziraphale standing next to him, a disapproving frown on his face. It wasn't directed at him but the gallows, the noose hanging empty awaiting the arrival of the condemned men.
“Considering we were the ones responsible for their capture, I thought I owed them to at least watch,” Crowley said with a shrug, eyes fixed on the entrance to the yard where people was converging expectantly.
Aziraphale didn’t say anything, just moved a bit closer to him. The hurdles dragging the condemned arrived, the level of noise in the yard rising as the people noticed them. "The kinds of tortures men come up with…"
"I believe we're more conservative in Hell, I have not seen this particular sort of punishment before." It was impossible to keep the dismay and distaste from his voice, and he didn't even bother to try. "As most of the people here today will eventually find out."
They watched as the men were taken from the hurdles and dragged, half dead already, to the scaffolding where the hangman was waiting for them. "Let's go somewhere else, Angel. You're right, we don't need to watch this."
The didn't even bother to walk, one instant they were in the middle of Westminster and the next they were inside Aziraphale's shop, a bottle of wine and two glasses already full waiting for them on top of the table.
"Did your side contact you about this?" Aziraphale asked, grabbing one of the glasses and sitting on the lone chair there. Another one appeared for Crowley to sit, and he took the other glass and drank deeply from it.
"You mean if I got in trouble? No, it's known that Heaven has an operative in this city. An especially cunning and well-informed one at that. And it wasn't one of my wiles you thwarted; I wasn't even supposed to know about it. Did you hear anything from your side?"
"I got a commendation." Aziraphale appeared bashful at that and Crowley smiled at that and raised his glass.
"We'll drink to that, then."
…
November 5th, 2013
There were fireworks illuminating the night sky all over London, most of the people completely ignoring them in their rush to get somewhere or do something. There were also people watching the displays, their faces illuminated in a way that was strangely reminiscent of the bonfire light Crowley had seen on people's faces that first time all those years ago.
And like that time, most of them didn't even know the reason, or the origin of the celebration. Or hadn't known before a movie had made the face of Guy Fawkes into a mask and turned it into popular culture.
"I knew you'd be here."
Crowley turned to see Aziraphale standing next to him. It had been more than four hundred years since the first Bonfire night, kings had come and gone, London had changed and burned and been reconstructed again. The world had almost ended and still each year, if he was in London, Crowley went outside to watch the fireworks.
And Aziraphale always found him.
“I was waiting for you.”
…
~end~
Happy Holidays, htebazytook, from your Secret Writer!
Author: aviss
Recipient: htebazytook
Rating: G
Prompt: Crowley/Aziraphale, a very London centric story, any rating
Summary: Remember, remember the 5th of November. In which Crowley stumbles upon a plot and enlists Aziraphale to thwart it.
Author Notes: I was going to try my hand at romance with London as a backdrop, but we got the assignment at the beginning of November, with Bonfire night happening all around me, and I could see Crowley right in the middle… so this happened. I hope you like it. Thanks to the mods for doing this another year, and to the darlings (you know who you are) for listening to me rant and helping me with this.
Remember, remember the fifth of November
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
I see no reason, why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, guy, t'was his intent
To blow up king and parliament.
Three score barrels were laid below
To prove old England's overthrow.
By God's mercy he was catch'd
With a darkened lantern and burning match.
So, holler boys, holler boys, Let the bells ring.
Holler boys, holler boys, God save the king.
And what shall we do with him?
Burn him!
September 14th, 1605
It was cold and dark outside, the thick fog rolling from the river giving an eerie cast to the place, the smell of horseshit and rotten meat clogging the air even before he opened the door to the tavern. Inside, the stink was compounded by that of unwashed people and alcohol, the heat of the hearth and candles making it only slightly more inviting than the idea of standing outside.
Crowley slipped inside and found a table in the corner, practically hidden from sight, where he could indulge in an easy temptation or two. These kind of places, though not really to Crowley's taste, were perfect for it; most of the patrons looked as if they were already planning to join the ranks of the damned willingly, like the group of men huddled in a table not far from Crowley. Their clothes set them above the normal patrons of the tavern, and they were huddled together, talking in whispers and constantly looking around.
Everything in them screamed up to no good. The only reason nobody was paying any attention to them was that the rest of the patrons appeared to be involved in their own plotting.
"On the next opening, then," one of the men was saying, his voice barely above a whisper. "We've already secured the house next door, and we can start moving the barrels next week."
"I don't know that we'll have enough time to set everything, Robert," another one said, his eyes darting around the tavern as if trying to find out whether someone was eavesdropping on them. "And how will we get that much powder?"
"I have a contact…" the door opened then, as if summoned by Robert's words and a tall and dark figure slipped inside. Crowley had to fight the impulse to hide under his table to avoid being seen, instead he slumped slightly over his drink, as if he was already in his cups, and hoped his corner was really dark enough. Advancing towards the conspirator's table was Hastur, the rest of the patrons giving him a wide berth probably without being conscious of the reason. Even without the knowledge of his demonic condition, Hastur looked menacing and unpleasant, like something you might find lurking in a dark corner of a graveyard, which was exactly what he was. "Here he is. Guido, this is the friend I as telling you about, the one with enough powder to blow up the House of the Lords."
Oh, Bless.
...
September 25th, 1605
The small bookshop was located in Charing Cross, next to a boutique that had the most beautiful silks imported from India, and surrounded by other bookshops and publishing firms. It was rarely open, and had little on the way of customers and visitors, though that didn't seem to bother the owner, who was always unfailingly polite and helpful and nice.
It had been passed down a family line in the past century, or so people presumed, though nobody had ever seen the nice Mr. Ziraphale in the company of a wife. Or of anyone for that matter. But he had been there for a long time, and so had the shop, thus it must have been passed from father to son or uncle to nephew. It was the only thing that made sense.
It was to this little shop that Crowley finally went.
He had been thinking of nothing but what he'd overheard, and the implications of its success. Anything in which Hastur was involved promised to be very unpleasant, and this time was no different. Crowley would never dare intervene, Hastur was a Duke of Hell and bravery had never been one of Crowley’s many flaws, but were the conspirators to succeed in assassinating the King it wasn't unthinkable that the retribution would be bloody. Crowley had been in Paris during St Bartholomew's massacre, had been unable to indulge in sleep for a decade afterwards. He'd rather not see a repeat in London.
He might not be able to intervene, but the Angel could. If there was a ploy from below, it was his job to thwart it.
Crowley didn't bother with the sign that said the shop was closed, or with the fact that the door was locked. It wasn't, for him.
"We're closed," Aziraphale's voice, more snappish that any of his neighbours had probably ever heard, reached him first, closely followed by the angel entering the shop from the back room. His annoyed expression cleared the instant he took a look at Crowley. "You look terrible my dear, come inside and let me prepare you a cup of tea."
Crowley followed him, allowing Aziraphale to take him to the back of the shop.
"Don't bother with the tea, I need something stronger." Aziraphale raised both eyebrows but didn't comment on it, the cup in his hand seamlessly turning into a tall glass filled with blood red wine before he passed it to Crowley, looking at him expectantly. He took a fortifying sip of his wine, barely noticing the excellent vintage, and opened his mouth. "When is the State Opening of Parliament?"
…
November 5th, 1605
The bonfire illuminated the entire square, the people jeering and shouting, wordless cries almost drowned under the crackle of the fire. Most of them didn't know, or didn't much care, the reason for the celebration, just that they had been told they had to because someone wanted their King dead and they had failed.
In all his millennia on Earth, Crowley still had to see humans turn down a party, whatever the reason.
Crowley did know the entire story, and though he felt like celebrating as well, he wasn't in the mood for such rowdy festivities. He had another destination in mind.
He navigated his way through the crowd, crossing to the other side of the square and niftily avoiding the fire and the rest of the people.
Crowley opened the door to the bookshop uncaring of the closed sign and how late it was.
"I was expecting you earlier." Aziraphale was standing next to the window, staring out at the square, eyes fixed on the bonfire. He had a pensive expression on his face, the light of the fire creating sharp contrasts on his otherwise soft features.
"I was watching the celebrations." This wasn't the only square where a bonfire was burning brightly, the only place where people were reveling in the life of one they would be cursing again in a day. "There is much to rejoice today." The plot had failed, the King would live and the revolt had been avoided. Catholics and Protestants still hated each other, something Crowley found incredibly ironic considering they both had the same God, and that they both were destined to end up in the same Hell if they insisted on murdering one another in God's name.
Aziraphale turned to look at him. "I would have thought your side wanted it to happen."
Crowley shrugged, looking away from Aziraphale intense gaze. "They do. I don't."
"So you made sure I knew what was happening in time to thwart it. What would have happened if they had found what you were up to?"
"Nothing good, I imagine." He shrugged again, thought he felt everything but relaxed. "I was in Paris last time the Catholics and the Protestants decided to kill one another because of their religion. It’s not something I’d ever want to see happening in London." He could still remember the cries and the smell of blood and death, overpowering even in a city as filthy and stinky as Paris. It had reminded Crowley too much of Hell.
Aziraphale nodded, finally moving away from the window. "We'll drink to that then." He headed to the back of the shop. "Are you coming, dear? I have a very nice wine waiting for us."
With a last look at the bonfire outside, Crowley followed him.
...
January 31st, 1606
The crowd filling the Palace Yard was loud and cheerful and set Crowley's teeth on edge. It was moments like this when he wondered why they bothered with the whole temptation thing; people as a whole was a lot nastier and more bloodthirsty than anything inhabiting Hell.
"I dislike public executions as much as you do, my dear, which is the reason I avoid them." Crowley turned in the direction of the voice to see Aziraphale standing next to him, a disapproving frown on his face. It wasn't directed at him but the gallows, the noose hanging empty awaiting the arrival of the condemned men.
“Considering we were the ones responsible for their capture, I thought I owed them to at least watch,” Crowley said with a shrug, eyes fixed on the entrance to the yard where people was converging expectantly.
Aziraphale didn’t say anything, just moved a bit closer to him. The hurdles dragging the condemned arrived, the level of noise in the yard rising as the people noticed them. "The kinds of tortures men come up with…"
"I believe we're more conservative in Hell, I have not seen this particular sort of punishment before." It was impossible to keep the dismay and distaste from his voice, and he didn't even bother to try. "As most of the people here today will eventually find out."
They watched as the men were taken from the hurdles and dragged, half dead already, to the scaffolding where the hangman was waiting for them. "Let's go somewhere else, Angel. You're right, we don't need to watch this."
The didn't even bother to walk, one instant they were in the middle of Westminster and the next they were inside Aziraphale's shop, a bottle of wine and two glasses already full waiting for them on top of the table.
"Did your side contact you about this?" Aziraphale asked, grabbing one of the glasses and sitting on the lone chair there. Another one appeared for Crowley to sit, and he took the other glass and drank deeply from it.
"You mean if I got in trouble? No, it's known that Heaven has an operative in this city. An especially cunning and well-informed one at that. And it wasn't one of my wiles you thwarted; I wasn't even supposed to know about it. Did you hear anything from your side?"
"I got a commendation." Aziraphale appeared bashful at that and Crowley smiled at that and raised his glass.
"We'll drink to that, then."
…
November 5th, 2013
There were fireworks illuminating the night sky all over London, most of the people completely ignoring them in their rush to get somewhere or do something. There were also people watching the displays, their faces illuminated in a way that was strangely reminiscent of the bonfire light Crowley had seen on people's faces that first time all those years ago.
And like that time, most of them didn't even know the reason, or the origin of the celebration. Or hadn't known before a movie had made the face of Guy Fawkes into a mask and turned it into popular culture.
"I knew you'd be here."
Crowley turned to see Aziraphale standing next to him. It had been more than four hundred years since the first Bonfire night, kings had come and gone, London had changed and burned and been reconstructed again. The world had almost ended and still each year, if he was in London, Crowley went outside to watch the fireworks.
And Aziraphale always found him.
“I was waiting for you.”
…
~end~
Happy Holidays, htebazytook, from your Secret Writer!