Happy Holidays, Katarzi!
Title: Fractal
For: katarzi
Author: pasiphile
Fandom: Good Omens/Merlin crossover
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale, Merlin/Arthur
Rating: G
Prompt: Crowley still hasn't really forgiven Merlin for what he did to her all those years ago, but God knows that Crowley understands the things you do for love, sometimes. (Post-novel, Merlin seeks out Crowley and/or Aziraphale. The end of the world has come and gone, Merlin is looking for Arthur, and Crowley sympathized with Morgana but couldn't do anything to stop the sequence of events for whatever reason.)
History is relentless and brutal, patterns stamped out with no regard for the feelings of those caught beneath.
And he's seen this particular pattern before, the righteous slipping into something cruel, and the ruthless stumbling on because if they stop it means confronting what they've done. Ideals getting twisted beyond recognition, and pain and loneliness and confusion tearing someone apart.
Crowley looks at Morgana Pendagron and the fire in her eyes and the way she shakes when she yells you're wrong and all he can think of is the Morningstar and the air whistling past his ears as he fell. Sauntered. No matter how he got there, he still ended up Below.
And on the other side there's him - because there are always two sides, aren't there? - watching with cold unflinching determination, eyes the exact same shade of blue Michael's had been.
Patterns and repetition.
Dear Someone, he needs a drink.
***
The sun came as a shock after the chill of Albion. He'd forgotten how this felt, the burning heat and the crunch of sand beneath his feet. It took him straight back to when he first walked - well, slithered, to be precise - on Earth, how surprised he had been at the night and the day and the temperatures and the light, all so different from either heaven or hell. Better, more real.
He squinted in the bright light and found what he was looking for in the shade of a small building. Aziraphale was never that difficult to find: people tended to remember the strange grey-eyed man with the messy hair and the large bag full of parchment. And if that failed, he just had to find the nearest library, or library-like place.
The angel hadn't noticed him yet, engrossed as he was in whatever scroll he'd managed to find this time. It gave Crowley the opportunity to study him unobserved.
He still remembered those early days, when they both still hadn't quite found out how human bodies worked. Aziraphale had kept sending people into ecstasy because of his accidental unearthly beauty, and Crowley had been continually tripping over his feet and trying to shake the feeling that he had too little joints.
And now - Aziraphale was bent down over his scroll, hair mussed, the bridge of his nose peeling with sunburn, face smudged with dust. He looked more human than most humans did.
“Ah, it's you,” Aziraphale said when Crowley approached. He glanced up. “It's been a while.”
“Couple of decades, yes.” Crowley sat down cross-legged next to Aziraphale and reached for the scroll. “What's this, then?”
“Holy script.”
Crowley quickly pulled his hand back.
“Ah, yes, forgot about that,” Aziraphale said, a little sheepish. “Sorry.”
“So what's it like?” Crowley asked, nodding at the scroll. “Mad prophecies again?”
Aziraphale shrugged. “Oh, you know. Full of contradictions and strange metaphors. Humans trying to make sense of something they can't fully understand, it's bound to be a little strange.” He smiled. “Who can blame them, really? And their efforts are quite charming, really.”
Crowley hummed, looking away. Contradictory and strange it may be, it was still holy, which meant it made his eyes water if he looked at it for too long.
He could feel Aziraphale watching him. Hang around with someone for a couple of thousand years and they start to know your moods. Doesn't matter how hard he tried to hide them, Aziraphale always knew.
“Are you quite alright, my dear?” Aziraphale asked.
“I...”
He could just stay silent, change the subject. Aziraphale wouldn't push, not if he made it obvious he didn't want to talk about it. Or he could just try and explain, because if there was one being who could understand...
He glanced at Aziraphale. “Do you remember Ruth and Naomi?”
“Of course I remember,” Aziraphale said testily. “You know that. Why...” And he trailed off, comprehension dawning. “Oh.”
Of the two of them, Aziraphale was definitely the most - most detached, if that was the word. He seemed to find it easy to take a historian's distant dispassionate viewpoint. And yet even Aziraphale got involved too, sometimes, as he had with Naomi and Ruth and their loyal loving kindness.
“Yes, oh.” Crowley looked down, fingers pulling at a loose thread in his clothing.
“I'm sorry,” Aziraphale said carefully.
“It's funny, isn't it?” Crowley mused. “A lifespan of a handful of decades, you would think that it would be hard to get attached to them. That they wouldn't leave a - a mark, an imprint, like that. That they would be forgettable.”
“Maybe that's the point. They know they have only so much time, so they try to get all out of it they can.”
Crowley stared at the horizon. Dusk was starting to fall, and desert sunsets were always almost ridiculously beautiful.
“Remember when we first saw this?” Crowley said after a while. He nodded at the indigo-and-violet sky, the burning orange of the setting sun.
“Yes.”
He looked aside, at Aziraphale's concerned frown. Crowley smiled wryly. “No need to worry about me, angel.”
“Really?”
Crowley looked down at his knees. Damn Aziraphale and his perceptiveness.
“You're welcome to stay with me, if you want. I have a nice little house here, and a bed I never use. And - “ Crowley caught Aziraphale's little smile from the corner of his eye. “I've a few amphoras of quite excellent wine lying around waiting for a good occasion to be opened.”
“Thanks, but...” He looked back at Aziraphale's familiar face, his hesitant smile. “Well, why not,” he said, slightly grudgingly.
“Splendid.”
He stayed where he was. The sun was almost completely down now, just a small edge of fiery red lighting up the horizon. Aziraphale scooted a little closer, shoulders touching.
After a while, a warm hand covered his.
***
When Crowley first started to spend time on Earth, he'd been very surprised to find there were - well, more things between heaven and earth than just angels and demons. Sidhe in Eire and Albion, Alfar in the North, strange creatures and almost godlike beings.
And sometimes plain old humans, born just like all of them but somehow not dying after their four-score-and-ten. Crowley learned to recognise them: there is always something about them that shines through, hints at something extraordinary.
So, anyway, he's not that surprised when about a century after Noble Queen Guinevere's death he walks into a tavern and notices an old man with stark blue eyes, sitting at a small table at the back. The publican, when questioned, tells him the man calls himself Emrys and has been coming here for a few weeks.
He considers going over, talking to him. Emrys' blue eyes find his, even beneath the shadow of Crowley's broad-rimmed hat.
Crowley turns and leaves him behind in his dark lonely corner. There's nothing he has to say to him, after all.
And if he's here, that means she'll be out there somewhere, as well. Although she won't be as well off as him, of course.
The losing side never is.
***
Crowley looked up at the Abbey and chewed his lip. As far as church-associated buildings went, abbeys were doable. If he somehow accidentally managed to walk into the chapel he'd probably get a nasty rash - again - but the main building shouldn't be too bad. And if he needed a moment of peace from all the devoutness he could always hide in the refectory for a bit: something about good food tended to make even the most devoted believer forget his principles for a bit.
He pulled the bell chord. A couple of moments later a young rosy-cheeked acolyte opened the small door set in the large gates.
Crowley pulled his cloak closer around him to ward off the cold. “I'm here to see brother Aziraphale.”
The boy blinked in surprise. “No one ever comes to see brother Azira - oh.” The boy's eyes widened, and he peered a little closer at Crowley, who tried to hide deeper in his cowl. “Of course,” the boy continued. “He said you might come.”
“Did he?”
The lad stepped aside and ushered Crowley in. “He's in the library.”
Crowley grinned. “Really? What a surprise.”
He followed the boy down the hallways. It was an old building, meaning the floors already had that convex look from all the kneeling, the shuffling feet. There was a certain aura of holiness and devotion in the air, and it was making Crowley's skin itch.
Luckily that mostly evaporated when he stepped inside the library. The devotion here was of a different nature, and quite a bit more profane.
Aziraphale was sitting at a small table, one of his soft fingers running delicately over a beautifully illuminated manuscript. “Evening, Crowley,” he said calmly, not looking up.
Crowley walked over and sat down on the other side of Aziraphale's table. He folded his arms and leaned forward. “I have news for you,” he said cheerfully.
“Really?” Aziraphale still didn't look up from what evidently had to be very interesting reading. “Do tell.”
“Does the name Gutenberg mean anything to you?” Crowley continued gleefully.
“Not as such, no.”
“Then you really haven't been outside for at least two decades. Thought as much.”
Aziraphale looked up from his manuscript with a long-suffering sigh. “Is this going anywhere, my dear? Or are you simply here to irritate me?”
“He invented something called a printing press.”
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “And what does it do?”
Crowley explained. Aziraphale listened with growing fascination.
“But do you realise what that means, dear boy?” he asked, when Crowley had finished.
“I can imagine, yeah. 's Why I came over to tell you. They're all over Europe, and last I heard they were planning on printing a book in English.”
“Books,” Aziraphale sighed happily.
“Yep. No more transcribing errors. no more months of copying by hand.. I'm starting to wonder what the monks are going to do with all their suddenly free time.”
“Pray, probably,” Aziraphale said absently. His eyes went back to the manuscript. “One does feel a certain amount of - of regret, I suppose. Nostalgia.” His fingertips caressed the page. “There's something comforting about knowing someone sat down and wrote each letter with great care.”
Crowley shrugged. “That's progress. The world keeps changing, and I, for one, am grateful. It makes things interesting. So what's this one?・ he added, nodding at the manuscript.
“Hm? Ah, it's called The hoole booke of kyng Arthur and of his noble knyghtes of the rounde table.”
Crowley felt his smile slip. “Ah,” he said.
Aziraphale didn't seem to notice. “Yet another retelling, although he's been quite creative with the source material. Translated the French stories and then added a few things, changed a few others...” He trailed off, finally noticing Crowley's face. “Is something wrong?
Crowley's eyes had spotted a line. For my sistir Morgan le Fay by hir false crauftis made the to agr・ to hir fals lustis,・ he read out. What do they say about her, then?”
“Apparently she learned witchcraft in a nunnery - ”
“What?” Crowley sat up and nearly slid off his chair. “A nunnery? Really? But that was before - ”
Aziraphale shrugged. “It would hardly be the first time, would it? They're always finding some way to insert God into the old pagan stories.”
“But they're also implying nunneries teach witchcraft,” Crowley pointed out with some relish.
“Ah, yes. Hm. Do they?”
“How would I know?” Crowley said, holding his hand to his chest in injury. “Nuns make me sneeze.”
Aziraphale closed the book and laid it aside. Crowley watched him warily. He had that look on his face again, half worried, half determined. Aziraphale might give off the air of being too obsessed with his scrolls and manuscripts to have much attention for anything else, but if there was anything Crowley had learned the last few centuries, it was that Aziraphale was a lot more shrewd than he appeared to be.
“You knew her, didn't you?” Aziraphale asked. “Them?”
“Yes.” Crowley looked down at the manuscript. “You were on the other side of the continent at the time.”
“What were they like?”
Crowley closed his eyes, suddenly awash with the memories. Time didn't do much to erase them, he had found out. Maybe it was different for humans, maybe they got the mercy of memories fading.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale prompted.
Crowley rubbed his forehead. “Young,” he said, and suddenly he felt the centuries pressing down on his shoulders.
***
There's a tavern in Bruges in the first decade of the 15th century, and a young man hidden in the shadows.
There's a ship to the Americas in the eighteen-hundreds and an old man with a long white beard leaning on the railing in the wind, staring at the coast ahead with something like longing.
There's a battlefield and falling bombs and a lieutenant with an expression on his face that's much too old and weary for a face that unlined.
The face may change, skip from boy to man to grandfather, but the eyes are always the same. Blue, harsh and unforgiving, unless when sparks fly and they turn the same colour as Crowley's.
There's something pleading in them, but Crowley ignores him every time.
***
“Sometimes I really don't understand how you manage, angel.”
“I was perfectly happy with my little television set, I'll have you know,” Aziraphale said peevishly.
“Black and white. I mean, really.” He glared at the new TV, which for some reason was refusing to cooperate. Maybe Aziraphale's holy aura was interfering with Crowley's demonic influence. “And just one channel.”
“I don't need more,” the angel said defensively. “Just the news and the weather, and the occasional documentary.”
“The times are changing, angel. A couple of years and they'll have a channel with nothing but documentaries, you'll see.” He got down on his knees and plugged the wire in. “There. Anything?”
“Still nothing.”
“Really? Then I'll just have to - ”
The bell jangled. Crowley exchanged a look with Aziraphale. “I thought the store was locked?”
“It was.” He frowned and went to the front of the shop. “Can I help you?” Crowley could hear him ask.
Crowley got up from his knees and trailed after Aziraphale, who was talking to a young man in a leather jacket and a red scarf. Crowley paused in the doorway and cocked his head. There was something familiar about him...
“ - more mystical, older books,” the boy was saying.
“I'm afraid I only sell antiques here, but there are a few shops further down the road if you're looking for something, something...” Aziraphale looked over his shoulder. “What's it called again, dear?”
“New age.”
And the boy looked up and his eyes met Crowley's. They were still exactly as blue and sharp as he remembered them.
“You,” Merlin said, surprised.
Aziraphale looked between them in confusion. “Do you know each other?”
“I wouldn't say that,” Crowley said coolly. “Our paths crossed.”
“Merlin,” the boy blurted. “That's - I'm Merlin.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale said, eyes widening. He turned to the boy. “Really? The Merlin?”
“Lost the beard, then?” Crowley added.
Merlin looked deeply uncomfortable.”I didn't mean to - I was just here because someone... Never mind.” He turned and left the shop in a hurry.
Aziraphale turned to Crowley and raised an eyebrow. “Would you care to explain that, my dear?”
Crowley looked away. He didn't really feel like dragging the whole story up again, but... Well, having an outsider's perspective might help, possibly. And it's not like simply not talking about it had helped any.
“He was a sorcerer,” he started, uneasily. Aziraphale gave him an encouraging smile. “And... and so was Morgana. And they both chose a different side. Merlin kept quiet and tried to - I don't even know what he tried. And Morgana...”
He looked away, suddenly unable to bear Aziraphale's patient look. “She fought. Made a few wrong decisions, and... And it went wrong.”
Silence. He glanced at Aziraphale, who looked oddly thoughtful. “And you chose her side?” the angel asked.
Crowley shrugged awkwardly. “It's not like I could do anything, is it? Doesn't really matter which side I sympathised with.”
“Except to you.”
Another silence. Crowley started fiddling with his sleeve.
“Crowley...” Aziraphale started.
“Yes?”
“You said you didn't know what Merlin tried to do. I realise it's none of my business, but... Shouldn't you ask him, then?”
He stared at Aziraphale.
”It's worth a try, my dear,” Aziraphale added gently.
Crowley grimaced. He hated it when Aziraphale was right like that.
***
Crowley found Merlin in a chip shop, not that far away from Aziraphale's bookshop. He was standing at the till, fumbling with coins. He blended straight in, nothing about him suggested he was several centuries older than anyone in the shop. Funny how someone so powerful could still look so harmless.
He took his chips with a quiet thanks, and nearly dropped them when he saw Crowley. He went over to Crowley and leaned in. “I don't want to fight you,” he said quietly, the but I will if I have to, implicit in his tone, the way he held himself. Suddenly the centuries did show on his face.
“Well, good,” Crowley said, grinning wide. “Because neither do I.” He kicked out a chair and sat down on another one, facing him.
Merlin frowned and sat down as well. “Then why - ”
“I want to ask you something.”
“Yeah?” Merlin's eyes seemed to grow sharper. For once, Crowley was very grateful for the protection of his sunglasses. “Go ahead, then.”
“Why are you still here?” Crowley asked bluntly.
Merlin continued to stare for maybe a minute. “I'm waiting,” he said at last. “They said Arthur would come back.” He frowned. “And if - when he does, I've got to be there. To help him.”
There was something odd in his voice. Determination, yes, but Crowley had always thought of Merlin as merciless, cold. That didn't add up with shaking voices, or the way his eyes shone.
And suddenly, after all those centuries, the penny dropped. “You did it for him, didn't you?” Crowley asked slowly. “Because you loved him.”
Merlin's mouth twisted. “Why else? I never wanted any of it, you know. Morgana. Mordred. I never - ” He looked up at the ceiling. “I just wanted to do best for him. For Arthur.”
“You poisoned her.”
“I had no choice.” He looked back at Crowley. “Either she died or everyone died. There wasn't a way out.”
Crowley looked outside. Snow was starting to fall, people were already slipping and cursing on the suddenly slick pavements.
“I just wanted to protect him,” Merlin said softly.
And look how that turned out, he almost said. He managed to swallow the words just in time - he wasn't that cruel. “Why were you at the shop?” he asked instead.
“I'm still looking for where Arthur is - is waiting.. I was told your friend might have a book that could help. About Old Magic.”
“Right. Well, I doubt it.” Crowley smiled. “The only books Aziraphale stocks these days are Infamous Bibles and the like. You'll have to look elsewhere.”
Merlin shrugged. “Then I will. It's not like I'm not used to it, by now.”
Crowley cocked his head and tried to imagine it. Waiting for century after century, looking and researching and being alone like that...
It was hard to think of Merlin as a ruthless traitor, now.
“Good luck with that,” Crowley said awkwardly. He stood up.
“I know where she is,” Merlin said suddenly.
Crowley paused and looked down.
“She's not dead,” Merlin continued. “I think she's waiting too. I haven't seen her, but... But she might want to see you.”
***
First there was an island and a temple, and then there was a church. Nowadays, it was young kids with band t-shirts and shops full of glowing crystals and leather-bound books and engraved wooden staffs. But beneath that - if you know how to look, know where to go - there was something old waiting, untouched by the outside world.
Crowley stepped through the mist, feeling the worlds shift around him. Even without Merlin's instructions he would have found his way: the whole place was heavy with old magic, reminding him of the old days, long before there were saints and bibles and churches.
She was waiting for him, her back to him, her dark hair cascading down her shoulders. She looked almost exactly the same as when he had first seen her. Merlin might skip around ages like a someone spinning a wheel of fortune, but it seemed Morgana stayed the same, frozen in time.
She didn't turn around when he approached, but then again, she was a Seer. Of course she knew.
He walked to her and stood at her side, in silence, watching the water surrounding the islands. For some reason he was reminded of Lilith and Delilah, and Eve. Women who made mistakes and paid for it, that's the way it's remembered, but what about throwing the first stone and all that?
“They write about you, you know,” he said.
“About how I'm an evil incestuous witch?” she asked, with a hint of laughter in her voice.
“Sometimes. And nowadays, sometimes about how you're the heroine.”
She didn't say anything else, just waited, giving off the same air of endless patience Aziraphale sometimes had.
Crowley swallowed, gathering his courage.
“Go on,” Morgana said, in the same slightly amused tone. “Ask.”
“Fine,” he said. “Have you forgiven him?”
“That's not the point.”
“Then what is?”
She looked at him. “Has he forgiven himself?”
And have you? Crowley thought of asking, but, well, that was none of his business, was it?
“He did what he did out of love,” she added, frowning. “It took me a long time before I saw that. That he did it for the same reasons I did.”
“That doesn't make it right, though, does it?” Crowley said sharply.
“No, that's just the way it is. But,” she smiled. “Not all choices made for love are bad ones, are they?”
She looked at him sideways, green eyes glittering, and Crowley was suddenly reminded of Aziraphale when he was drunk and cheerful.
“Right,” he mumbled. “I should leave, shouldn't I?”
“You should,” Morgana said gravely.
He turned back to the mist, and then he hesitated and turned back.
“Yes?” Morgana asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Would you do it again?” he asked. “If you had the chance to do it again, would you do the same?”
She shrugged. “That's not the point, either.”
Patterns and repetition, and history like an unstoppable wave. Ineffable, Aziraphale would call it, and maybe he was right.
“Crowley.”
He looked up.
“It might look like it's the same over and over again.” She smiled. “But sometimes we get the chance to learn, and prevent it from happening again.”
But before he could ask what she meant, she turned away and disappeared into the swirling mist.
***
Aziraphale was waiting for him near the car, scarf flapping in the wind, looking immensely out of place amongst the kids and the new-agers.
“And?” he asked when he spotted Crowley. “Happy?”
“Not really.”
Aziraphale offered an arm. Crowley, grateful but slightly ashamed about it, took it, and together they walked back to the Bentley.
“But wiser,” Crowley added. “Maybe just a bit.”
“Well,” Aziraphale said, smiling. “That's good, isn't it?”
***
Years later he feels it again, the crushing tide of history, the sense of sides lining up for a fight.
He can't do anything about it, but, well, maybe he can. Or he can try, at least. He can scheme, and interfere, and do his best to prevent disaster this time around. It's not like he's alone in this, after all: Aziraphale is there every step of the way.
And when he takes a tire iron from his car and feels Aziraphale's warm hand against his, he thinks, for love.
It's a better reason than most, if you ask him.
~end~
Happy Holidays, katarzi, from your Secret Writer!
For: katarzi
Author: pasiphile
Fandom: Good Omens/Merlin crossover
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale, Merlin/Arthur
Rating: G
Prompt: Crowley still hasn't really forgiven Merlin for what he did to her all those years ago, but God knows that Crowley understands the things you do for love, sometimes. (Post-novel, Merlin seeks out Crowley and/or Aziraphale. The end of the world has come and gone, Merlin is looking for Arthur, and Crowley sympathized with Morgana but couldn't do anything to stop the sequence of events for whatever reason.)
History is relentless and brutal, patterns stamped out with no regard for the feelings of those caught beneath.
And he's seen this particular pattern before, the righteous slipping into something cruel, and the ruthless stumbling on because if they stop it means confronting what they've done. Ideals getting twisted beyond recognition, and pain and loneliness and confusion tearing someone apart.
Crowley looks at Morgana Pendagron and the fire in her eyes and the way she shakes when she yells you're wrong and all he can think of is the Morningstar and the air whistling past his ears as he fell. Sauntered. No matter how he got there, he still ended up Below.
And on the other side there's him - because there are always two sides, aren't there? - watching with cold unflinching determination, eyes the exact same shade of blue Michael's had been.
Patterns and repetition.
Dear Someone, he needs a drink.
***
The sun came as a shock after the chill of Albion. He'd forgotten how this felt, the burning heat and the crunch of sand beneath his feet. It took him straight back to when he first walked - well, slithered, to be precise - on Earth, how surprised he had been at the night and the day and the temperatures and the light, all so different from either heaven or hell. Better, more real.
He squinted in the bright light and found what he was looking for in the shade of a small building. Aziraphale was never that difficult to find: people tended to remember the strange grey-eyed man with the messy hair and the large bag full of parchment. And if that failed, he just had to find the nearest library, or library-like place.
The angel hadn't noticed him yet, engrossed as he was in whatever scroll he'd managed to find this time. It gave Crowley the opportunity to study him unobserved.
He still remembered those early days, when they both still hadn't quite found out how human bodies worked. Aziraphale had kept sending people into ecstasy because of his accidental unearthly beauty, and Crowley had been continually tripping over his feet and trying to shake the feeling that he had too little joints.
And now - Aziraphale was bent down over his scroll, hair mussed, the bridge of his nose peeling with sunburn, face smudged with dust. He looked more human than most humans did.
“Ah, it's you,” Aziraphale said when Crowley approached. He glanced up. “It's been a while.”
“Couple of decades, yes.” Crowley sat down cross-legged next to Aziraphale and reached for the scroll. “What's this, then?”
“Holy script.”
Crowley quickly pulled his hand back.
“Ah, yes, forgot about that,” Aziraphale said, a little sheepish. “Sorry.”
“So what's it like?” Crowley asked, nodding at the scroll. “Mad prophecies again?”
Aziraphale shrugged. “Oh, you know. Full of contradictions and strange metaphors. Humans trying to make sense of something they can't fully understand, it's bound to be a little strange.” He smiled. “Who can blame them, really? And their efforts are quite charming, really.”
Crowley hummed, looking away. Contradictory and strange it may be, it was still holy, which meant it made his eyes water if he looked at it for too long.
He could feel Aziraphale watching him. Hang around with someone for a couple of thousand years and they start to know your moods. Doesn't matter how hard he tried to hide them, Aziraphale always knew.
“Are you quite alright, my dear?” Aziraphale asked.
“I...”
He could just stay silent, change the subject. Aziraphale wouldn't push, not if he made it obvious he didn't want to talk about it. Or he could just try and explain, because if there was one being who could understand...
He glanced at Aziraphale. “Do you remember Ruth and Naomi?”
“Of course I remember,” Aziraphale said testily. “You know that. Why...” And he trailed off, comprehension dawning. “Oh.”
Of the two of them, Aziraphale was definitely the most - most detached, if that was the word. He seemed to find it easy to take a historian's distant dispassionate viewpoint. And yet even Aziraphale got involved too, sometimes, as he had with Naomi and Ruth and their loyal loving kindness.
“Yes, oh.” Crowley looked down, fingers pulling at a loose thread in his clothing.
“I'm sorry,” Aziraphale said carefully.
“It's funny, isn't it?” Crowley mused. “A lifespan of a handful of decades, you would think that it would be hard to get attached to them. That they wouldn't leave a - a mark, an imprint, like that. That they would be forgettable.”
“Maybe that's the point. They know they have only so much time, so they try to get all out of it they can.”
Crowley stared at the horizon. Dusk was starting to fall, and desert sunsets were always almost ridiculously beautiful.
“Remember when we first saw this?” Crowley said after a while. He nodded at the indigo-and-violet sky, the burning orange of the setting sun.
“Yes.”
He looked aside, at Aziraphale's concerned frown. Crowley smiled wryly. “No need to worry about me, angel.”
“Really?”
Crowley looked down at his knees. Damn Aziraphale and his perceptiveness.
“You're welcome to stay with me, if you want. I have a nice little house here, and a bed I never use. And - “ Crowley caught Aziraphale's little smile from the corner of his eye. “I've a few amphoras of quite excellent wine lying around waiting for a good occasion to be opened.”
“Thanks, but...” He looked back at Aziraphale's familiar face, his hesitant smile. “Well, why not,” he said, slightly grudgingly.
“Splendid.”
He stayed where he was. The sun was almost completely down now, just a small edge of fiery red lighting up the horizon. Aziraphale scooted a little closer, shoulders touching.
After a while, a warm hand covered his.
***
When Crowley first started to spend time on Earth, he'd been very surprised to find there were - well, more things between heaven and earth than just angels and demons. Sidhe in Eire and Albion, Alfar in the North, strange creatures and almost godlike beings.
And sometimes plain old humans, born just like all of them but somehow not dying after their four-score-and-ten. Crowley learned to recognise them: there is always something about them that shines through, hints at something extraordinary.
So, anyway, he's not that surprised when about a century after Noble Queen Guinevere's death he walks into a tavern and notices an old man with stark blue eyes, sitting at a small table at the back. The publican, when questioned, tells him the man calls himself Emrys and has been coming here for a few weeks.
He considers going over, talking to him. Emrys' blue eyes find his, even beneath the shadow of Crowley's broad-rimmed hat.
Crowley turns and leaves him behind in his dark lonely corner. There's nothing he has to say to him, after all.
And if he's here, that means she'll be out there somewhere, as well. Although she won't be as well off as him, of course.
The losing side never is.
***
Crowley looked up at the Abbey and chewed his lip. As far as church-associated buildings went, abbeys were doable. If he somehow accidentally managed to walk into the chapel he'd probably get a nasty rash - again - but the main building shouldn't be too bad. And if he needed a moment of peace from all the devoutness he could always hide in the refectory for a bit: something about good food tended to make even the most devoted believer forget his principles for a bit.
He pulled the bell chord. A couple of moments later a young rosy-cheeked acolyte opened the small door set in the large gates.
Crowley pulled his cloak closer around him to ward off the cold. “I'm here to see brother Aziraphale.”
The boy blinked in surprise. “No one ever comes to see brother Azira - oh.” The boy's eyes widened, and he peered a little closer at Crowley, who tried to hide deeper in his cowl. “Of course,” the boy continued. “He said you might come.”
“Did he?”
The lad stepped aside and ushered Crowley in. “He's in the library.”
Crowley grinned. “Really? What a surprise.”
He followed the boy down the hallways. It was an old building, meaning the floors already had that convex look from all the kneeling, the shuffling feet. There was a certain aura of holiness and devotion in the air, and it was making Crowley's skin itch.
Luckily that mostly evaporated when he stepped inside the library. The devotion here was of a different nature, and quite a bit more profane.
Aziraphale was sitting at a small table, one of his soft fingers running delicately over a beautifully illuminated manuscript. “Evening, Crowley,” he said calmly, not looking up.
Crowley walked over and sat down on the other side of Aziraphale's table. He folded his arms and leaned forward. “I have news for you,” he said cheerfully.
“Really?” Aziraphale still didn't look up from what evidently had to be very interesting reading. “Do tell.”
“Does the name Gutenberg mean anything to you?” Crowley continued gleefully.
“Not as such, no.”
“Then you really haven't been outside for at least two decades. Thought as much.”
Aziraphale looked up from his manuscript with a long-suffering sigh. “Is this going anywhere, my dear? Or are you simply here to irritate me?”
“He invented something called a printing press.”
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “And what does it do?”
Crowley explained. Aziraphale listened with growing fascination.
“But do you realise what that means, dear boy?” he asked, when Crowley had finished.
“I can imagine, yeah. 's Why I came over to tell you. They're all over Europe, and last I heard they were planning on printing a book in English.”
“Books,” Aziraphale sighed happily.
“Yep. No more transcribing errors. no more months of copying by hand.. I'm starting to wonder what the monks are going to do with all their suddenly free time.”
“Pray, probably,” Aziraphale said absently. His eyes went back to the manuscript. “One does feel a certain amount of - of regret, I suppose. Nostalgia.” His fingertips caressed the page. “There's something comforting about knowing someone sat down and wrote each letter with great care.”
Crowley shrugged. “That's progress. The world keeps changing, and I, for one, am grateful. It makes things interesting. So what's this one?・ he added, nodding at the manuscript.
“Hm? Ah, it's called The hoole booke of kyng Arthur and of his noble knyghtes of the rounde table.”
Crowley felt his smile slip. “Ah,” he said.
Aziraphale didn't seem to notice. “Yet another retelling, although he's been quite creative with the source material. Translated the French stories and then added a few things, changed a few others...” He trailed off, finally noticing Crowley's face. “Is something wrong?
Crowley's eyes had spotted a line. For my sistir Morgan le Fay by hir false crauftis made the to agr・ to hir fals lustis,・ he read out. What do they say about her, then?”
“Apparently she learned witchcraft in a nunnery - ”
“What?” Crowley sat up and nearly slid off his chair. “A nunnery? Really? But that was before - ”
Aziraphale shrugged. “It would hardly be the first time, would it? They're always finding some way to insert God into the old pagan stories.”
“But they're also implying nunneries teach witchcraft,” Crowley pointed out with some relish.
“Ah, yes. Hm. Do they?”
“How would I know?” Crowley said, holding his hand to his chest in injury. “Nuns make me sneeze.”
Aziraphale closed the book and laid it aside. Crowley watched him warily. He had that look on his face again, half worried, half determined. Aziraphale might give off the air of being too obsessed with his scrolls and manuscripts to have much attention for anything else, but if there was anything Crowley had learned the last few centuries, it was that Aziraphale was a lot more shrewd than he appeared to be.
“You knew her, didn't you?” Aziraphale asked. “Them?”
“Yes.” Crowley looked down at the manuscript. “You were on the other side of the continent at the time.”
“What were they like?”
Crowley closed his eyes, suddenly awash with the memories. Time didn't do much to erase them, he had found out. Maybe it was different for humans, maybe they got the mercy of memories fading.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale prompted.
Crowley rubbed his forehead. “Young,” he said, and suddenly he felt the centuries pressing down on his shoulders.
***
There's a tavern in Bruges in the first decade of the 15th century, and a young man hidden in the shadows.
There's a ship to the Americas in the eighteen-hundreds and an old man with a long white beard leaning on the railing in the wind, staring at the coast ahead with something like longing.
There's a battlefield and falling bombs and a lieutenant with an expression on his face that's much too old and weary for a face that unlined.
The face may change, skip from boy to man to grandfather, but the eyes are always the same. Blue, harsh and unforgiving, unless when sparks fly and they turn the same colour as Crowley's.
There's something pleading in them, but Crowley ignores him every time.
***
“Sometimes I really don't understand how you manage, angel.”
“I was perfectly happy with my little television set, I'll have you know,” Aziraphale said peevishly.
“Black and white. I mean, really.” He glared at the new TV, which for some reason was refusing to cooperate. Maybe Aziraphale's holy aura was interfering with Crowley's demonic influence. “And just one channel.”
“I don't need more,” the angel said defensively. “Just the news and the weather, and the occasional documentary.”
“The times are changing, angel. A couple of years and they'll have a channel with nothing but documentaries, you'll see.” He got down on his knees and plugged the wire in. “There. Anything?”
“Still nothing.”
“Really? Then I'll just have to - ”
The bell jangled. Crowley exchanged a look with Aziraphale. “I thought the store was locked?”
“It was.” He frowned and went to the front of the shop. “Can I help you?” Crowley could hear him ask.
Crowley got up from his knees and trailed after Aziraphale, who was talking to a young man in a leather jacket and a red scarf. Crowley paused in the doorway and cocked his head. There was something familiar about him...
“ - more mystical, older books,” the boy was saying.
“I'm afraid I only sell antiques here, but there are a few shops further down the road if you're looking for something, something...” Aziraphale looked over his shoulder. “What's it called again, dear?”
“New age.”
And the boy looked up and his eyes met Crowley's. They were still exactly as blue and sharp as he remembered them.
“You,” Merlin said, surprised.
Aziraphale looked between them in confusion. “Do you know each other?”
“I wouldn't say that,” Crowley said coolly. “Our paths crossed.”
“Merlin,” the boy blurted. “That's - I'm Merlin.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale said, eyes widening. He turned to the boy. “Really? The Merlin?”
“Lost the beard, then?” Crowley added.
Merlin looked deeply uncomfortable.”I didn't mean to - I was just here because someone... Never mind.” He turned and left the shop in a hurry.
Aziraphale turned to Crowley and raised an eyebrow. “Would you care to explain that, my dear?”
Crowley looked away. He didn't really feel like dragging the whole story up again, but... Well, having an outsider's perspective might help, possibly. And it's not like simply not talking about it had helped any.
“He was a sorcerer,” he started, uneasily. Aziraphale gave him an encouraging smile. “And... and so was Morgana. And they both chose a different side. Merlin kept quiet and tried to - I don't even know what he tried. And Morgana...”
He looked away, suddenly unable to bear Aziraphale's patient look. “She fought. Made a few wrong decisions, and... And it went wrong.”
Silence. He glanced at Aziraphale, who looked oddly thoughtful. “And you chose her side?” the angel asked.
Crowley shrugged awkwardly. “It's not like I could do anything, is it? Doesn't really matter which side I sympathised with.”
“Except to you.”
Another silence. Crowley started fiddling with his sleeve.
“Crowley...” Aziraphale started.
“Yes?”
“You said you didn't know what Merlin tried to do. I realise it's none of my business, but... Shouldn't you ask him, then?”
He stared at Aziraphale.
”It's worth a try, my dear,” Aziraphale added gently.
Crowley grimaced. He hated it when Aziraphale was right like that.
***
Crowley found Merlin in a chip shop, not that far away from Aziraphale's bookshop. He was standing at the till, fumbling with coins. He blended straight in, nothing about him suggested he was several centuries older than anyone in the shop. Funny how someone so powerful could still look so harmless.
He took his chips with a quiet thanks, and nearly dropped them when he saw Crowley. He went over to Crowley and leaned in. “I don't want to fight you,” he said quietly, the but I will if I have to, implicit in his tone, the way he held himself. Suddenly the centuries did show on his face.
“Well, good,” Crowley said, grinning wide. “Because neither do I.” He kicked out a chair and sat down on another one, facing him.
Merlin frowned and sat down as well. “Then why - ”
“I want to ask you something.”
“Yeah?” Merlin's eyes seemed to grow sharper. For once, Crowley was very grateful for the protection of his sunglasses. “Go ahead, then.”
“Why are you still here?” Crowley asked bluntly.
Merlin continued to stare for maybe a minute. “I'm waiting,” he said at last. “They said Arthur would come back.” He frowned. “And if - when he does, I've got to be there. To help him.”
There was something odd in his voice. Determination, yes, but Crowley had always thought of Merlin as merciless, cold. That didn't add up with shaking voices, or the way his eyes shone.
And suddenly, after all those centuries, the penny dropped. “You did it for him, didn't you?” Crowley asked slowly. “Because you loved him.”
Merlin's mouth twisted. “Why else? I never wanted any of it, you know. Morgana. Mordred. I never - ” He looked up at the ceiling. “I just wanted to do best for him. For Arthur.”
“You poisoned her.”
“I had no choice.” He looked back at Crowley. “Either she died or everyone died. There wasn't a way out.”
Crowley looked outside. Snow was starting to fall, people were already slipping and cursing on the suddenly slick pavements.
“I just wanted to protect him,” Merlin said softly.
And look how that turned out, he almost said. He managed to swallow the words just in time - he wasn't that cruel. “Why were you at the shop?” he asked instead.
“I'm still looking for where Arthur is - is waiting.. I was told your friend might have a book that could help. About Old Magic.”
“Right. Well, I doubt it.” Crowley smiled. “The only books Aziraphale stocks these days are Infamous Bibles and the like. You'll have to look elsewhere.”
Merlin shrugged. “Then I will. It's not like I'm not used to it, by now.”
Crowley cocked his head and tried to imagine it. Waiting for century after century, looking and researching and being alone like that...
It was hard to think of Merlin as a ruthless traitor, now.
“Good luck with that,” Crowley said awkwardly. He stood up.
“I know where she is,” Merlin said suddenly.
Crowley paused and looked down.
“She's not dead,” Merlin continued. “I think she's waiting too. I haven't seen her, but... But she might want to see you.”
***
First there was an island and a temple, and then there was a church. Nowadays, it was young kids with band t-shirts and shops full of glowing crystals and leather-bound books and engraved wooden staffs. But beneath that - if you know how to look, know where to go - there was something old waiting, untouched by the outside world.
Crowley stepped through the mist, feeling the worlds shift around him. Even without Merlin's instructions he would have found his way: the whole place was heavy with old magic, reminding him of the old days, long before there were saints and bibles and churches.
She was waiting for him, her back to him, her dark hair cascading down her shoulders. She looked almost exactly the same as when he had first seen her. Merlin might skip around ages like a someone spinning a wheel of fortune, but it seemed Morgana stayed the same, frozen in time.
She didn't turn around when he approached, but then again, she was a Seer. Of course she knew.
He walked to her and stood at her side, in silence, watching the water surrounding the islands. For some reason he was reminded of Lilith and Delilah, and Eve. Women who made mistakes and paid for it, that's the way it's remembered, but what about throwing the first stone and all that?
“They write about you, you know,” he said.
“About how I'm an evil incestuous witch?” she asked, with a hint of laughter in her voice.
“Sometimes. And nowadays, sometimes about how you're the heroine.”
She didn't say anything else, just waited, giving off the same air of endless patience Aziraphale sometimes had.
Crowley swallowed, gathering his courage.
“Go on,” Morgana said, in the same slightly amused tone. “Ask.”
“Fine,” he said. “Have you forgiven him?”
“That's not the point.”
“Then what is?”
She looked at him. “Has he forgiven himself?”
And have you? Crowley thought of asking, but, well, that was none of his business, was it?
“He did what he did out of love,” she added, frowning. “It took me a long time before I saw that. That he did it for the same reasons I did.”
“That doesn't make it right, though, does it?” Crowley said sharply.
“No, that's just the way it is. But,” she smiled. “Not all choices made for love are bad ones, are they?”
She looked at him sideways, green eyes glittering, and Crowley was suddenly reminded of Aziraphale when he was drunk and cheerful.
“Right,” he mumbled. “I should leave, shouldn't I?”
“You should,” Morgana said gravely.
He turned back to the mist, and then he hesitated and turned back.
“Yes?” Morgana asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Would you do it again?” he asked. “If you had the chance to do it again, would you do the same?”
She shrugged. “That's not the point, either.”
Patterns and repetition, and history like an unstoppable wave. Ineffable, Aziraphale would call it, and maybe he was right.
“Crowley.”
He looked up.
“It might look like it's the same over and over again.” She smiled. “But sometimes we get the chance to learn, and prevent it from happening again.”
But before he could ask what she meant, she turned away and disappeared into the swirling mist.
***
Aziraphale was waiting for him near the car, scarf flapping in the wind, looking immensely out of place amongst the kids and the new-agers.
“And?” he asked when he spotted Crowley. “Happy?”
“Not really.”
Aziraphale offered an arm. Crowley, grateful but slightly ashamed about it, took it, and together they walked back to the Bentley.
“But wiser,” Crowley added. “Maybe just a bit.”
“Well,” Aziraphale said, smiling. “That's good, isn't it?”
***
Years later he feels it again, the crushing tide of history, the sense of sides lining up for a fight.
He can't do anything about it, but, well, maybe he can. Or he can try, at least. He can scheme, and interfere, and do his best to prevent disaster this time around. It's not like he's alone in this, after all: Aziraphale is there every step of the way.
And when he takes a tire iron from his car and feels Aziraphale's warm hand against his, he thinks, for love.
It's a better reason than most, if you ask him.
~end~
Happy Holidays, katarzi, from your Secret Writer!