Happy Holidays, Edna_Blackadder!
Title. WE WERE THERE WHEN…
Recipient: Edna_Blackadder
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley with appearances by certain Apocalyptic Horsepersons.
Rating: General.
Warnings: Vague suggestion of M/M relationship.
HAPPY HOLIDAYS, EDNA_BLACKADDER. Apologies for the delay - family trauma created a bit of a delay. Hope you enjoy!
WE WERE THERE WHEN…
Melcombe, Dorset. Summer 1348a.
The man was tall, dressed in a simple, brown, wool robe. The initial observation was that he was a member of a religious order - indeed, an initial brief observation was all that any passing person gave him, their vision letting him blend into the background… suitably blurred. He stood, looking out over the sun-soaked little harbour to where a trading ship had moored and was disgorging people and goods… bolts of cloth, barrels, sacks. People milled about the gangplanks like ants swarming over a spillage of honey, some carrying the wares, others pausing to talk with others… Laughter and the occasional salty curse drifted onto the quayside and joined with the general noise. The watching man smiled at the scene. It was one that he'd seen so many times before, in more places than many of these people even dreamed of.
Aziraphale was about to turn away and walk back into the town when he saw something, or rather someone, that made him stop in his tracks and stare. Disembarking from the ship was a familiar figure, peppered grey hair, slightly stooped, dressed in worn, dark grey tunic and cloak, apparently in deep conversation with the cloth merchant. Aziraphale frowned… What was he doing there? As he watched, the figure shook the merchant's hand, and, with a brief gesture of farewell, seemed to melt into the crowds, insinuating itself into the masses and vanishing from view.
Aziraphale was distractedly trying to see where he had gone when a hand on his shoulder nearly sent him into orbit. He froze, then a voice next to his ear said,
"Well met, Angel… Taking the ssssea air?"
"Crowley!!" He span round and found the demon grinning at him. "Understated in your attire as usual, I see"…
The demon looked down at his immaculate clothing of sumptuous red and black fabrics, ornately decorated and with a low-slung belt emphasising his narrow hips. "This? Just a little something I picked up in Italy recently." He saw the angel's expression and shrugged. "Well, one has to keep up appearances," he muttered. "What are you doing in this veritable backwater, Angel?"
"Actually, I've been travelling through some of the religious sites through the south of England. I'm staying here to see the celebrations of the Feast of St John the Baptist, then heading back towards London." He paused and looked at the demon. "What of you? I thought you were somewhere in France, or Spain... What brings you here?" the angel asked, still frowning and trying to spot the elusive figure in the crowds.
"Boredom, Angel. Thought I'd give you a few wiles to thwart."
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow in question. Crowley glanced around and leant closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Have you not heard the news?"
"News?"
"The sickness, Angel. There are so few living over there that it takes ages to find any souls and when you do they are so terrified of His wrath that I may as well save my energy."
"I'd heard rumours... not that it was that bad though. OH!"
Crowley shot backwards. "What?"
"That might explain something." He looked suddenly nervous. "I do hope that I'm wrong…"
Crowley growled. "Well, I'm so glad that you've had your personal epiphany… I suppose you'll explain yourself eventually, or are you intending to hug the gem of knowledge to yourself and leave me in the dark?"
"Which would be appropriate, all things considered," snapped the angel, tetchily.
Crowley managed to throw him a look of combined hurt and sourness. "Uncalled for, Angel!"
Aziraphale had the decency to blush slightly and look guilty. "Sorry. I…Well, I just thought that I saw someone we both know. I thought I was mistaken, but after what you've told me, I fear that I wasn't."
"Aaaaand? More clues, Angel."
"The Rider of the White Horse."
Crowley released a breath with a loud hiss. "You're sure?"
"I think so…". The angel squinted back into the crowd.
"We need to talk. There's an inn along the road. I've taken a room there."
"A room?"
"If you think that I'm sharing my sleeping space with the great unwashed, Angel… It's relatively clean. The ale's a bit rough, but drinkable and the owner is capable of serving a decent light meal if the incentive is there," said Crowley, jingling a few coins in his hand.
Aziraphale's face suggested that he'd rather be elsewhere, but he nodded and followed on as Crowley led the way.
Aziraphale had to admit that Crowley had been totally correct. The ale was rough and had a dubious back taste which Aziraphale tried not to think too much about in case he managed to identify it. As he peered into the tankard he became aware that Crowley was speaking to him.
"Angel, would you stop pulling those faces! You'll scare the customers and get us flung out! Just grit your teeth and get it down you!"
The angel glared over the rim of his tankard and took several hearty gulps. Crowley reached over and refilled the angel's tankard, ignoring the mutterings of protest which were obliterated by a series of small hiccups.
The ale might have been rough, but it was, however, quite potent, and as Aziraphale started on his second tankard he felt a distinct mellowness creeping up on him. "S quite good, really… S not like the stuff from the ministr…munistr…monasities… MONK places though…" He looked mournfully across the table at the demon, who was going quite fuzzy around the edges. He wondered vaguely how he did that.
"Aziraphale, you are ssssuch a lightweight. One little drink and you're sssstarting to ssssslur."
"M not. Am I?" The angel's eyes opened wide.
"Yessssssss"
The angel gave him a smug look. "You're hissing, dear boy."
Crowley glared into his own tankard… "S sssstrong ssssstuff, eh?" He looked up and found a pair of ethereal eyes staring into his own… At least, he thought it was a pair, but another pair kept sliding away from the first, then blurring and merging back again. An awkward silence sprang into the space between them and threatened to pitch camp, until a voice shattered the moment and had the effect of sobering them up in seconds. It was a voice which sounded like the rasping breath of a fever sufferer, with tones of the swirling fogs and the miasma of disease ridden swamps.
"So, good day to you...gentlemen..."
They looked up to see Pestilence, the White Horseman, standing by their table. His robes, which Aziraphale had thought were grey, were, in fact, white but ingrained with the dirt of millennia spent travelling the world. His face was haggard, eyes sunken into their sockets but burning fever-bright, his lips dry and cracked.
"Do you mind if I join you?" he muttered, with a gruesome grin, pulling a stool over and sitting down without waiting for a reply. In a smooth movement, he picked up Aziraphale's tankard and took a long, noisy drink, coughing and spluttering into the vessel as he did so. After a few mouthfuls, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and passed the tankard back to the angel, pausing to call for more ale and some food. Aziraphale gave the tankard a look of thinly disguised horror and pushed it back to Pestilence with a brittle smile.
"Erm, you keep it… I'll, er, I'll get a new one".
"What brings you here?" Aziraphale asked, hurling politeness into the arena. Crowley was simply sat there looking stunned.
"Oh, just my job, Principality. Just my job." replied the Horseman.
They were interrupted by the innkeeper bringing food and more ale which he placed in front of Pestilence . Aziraphale's attention was caught by a small movement on the cuff of the Horseman's sleeve, and he watched with sick fascination as a small creature seemed to swim across the fabric, onto the skin of his arm, over the bones of his wrist where it stopped, then vanished with a sudden ping.
"Will there be anything else?" asked the innkeeper.
Pestilence smiled at him. "No, thank you. You have done enough."
The innkeeper nodded and walked away. Aziraphale watched him head towards the back room and saw the man scratching at his arm as he disappeared from view.
Pestilence smiled to himself and turned his attention to the platter of food before him. He tore at the hunk of bread and gouged chunks from the cheese and cold meat while angel and demon watched him with a morbid fascination. Pestilence seemed to suddenly remember their presence and pushed the platter towards them, gesturing for them to help themselves. The finger used to make the gesture was grubby and looked as if it carried every disease known to man and beast, plus a few more besides… which it probably did. Aziraphale and Crowley recoiled involuntarily and shook their heads at the offer.
"Already eaten..." babbled Aziraphale.
"Er, not really hungry," blurted Crowley.
Pestilence treated them both to a long, cool stare, watching them both start to squirm slightly under his look, then he gave a hearty laugh and grinned. He glanced up to the sky and into the distance. "I should be moving on," he muttered, coughing vigorously across the table as he stabbed the last piece of cheese and bit into it.
"Where are you heading?" asked Crowley, casually leaning back to avoid close contact with the table-top.
"Oh, Oxford, London, Bishop's Lynn… I plan to travel." His eyes seemed to glow with his emotion. He sighed. "So much scope… So many people…" He pushed the platter away and stood up, brushing crumbs and several more fleas from his clothing. Crowley shuddered.
"It's been a pleasure to see you..." he bowed slightly to Aziraphale "Principality...." He turned to Crowley and repeated the action.
"Serpent...."
With that, the Horseman turned and walked away into the crowds once again.
Crowley stared at Aziraphale who returned the look. Neither spoke. Both were too busy with their thoughts.
Crowley was the first to move, leaning over to stab an apple remaining on the platter. He waved it towards Aziraphale, allowing the pleasant mild effects of the ale to wash back over him.
"Can I tempt you to try thisssss delicioussss offering?" The apple was small, green and scabby. Aziraphale could have sworn that it had been smooth-skinned and sweet smelling when it had arrived.
The angel drew back slightly. "Did he touch it?"
"I believe so....." Crowley muttered, giving the fruit a hard stare. He had to admit that as an instrument of temptation, it was lacking somewhat.
"I'll pass on your generous offer then. Thank you..."
Crowley let the apple fall from the end of his knife and watched as it rolled across the table, coming to rest against Pestilence's abandoned tankard. He glanced up at Aziraphale and gave a small hiccup, blushing slightly and giving the angel a strange look as he leant closer.
"Of course, if you don't want the apple maybe I could tempt you to....." he whispered.
Aziraphale smiled at the demon as the words slipped into his mind and bounced around in there for a while. As the potential meaning slowly formed into sense, his eyebrows shot upwards and a look of shock spread across his face.
"NO, Crowley!" Several faces turned to see what had caused the outburst, and Aziraphale looked firmly at the table feeling his face glowing hot.
"OK...jusht a suggestion... no need to shout..." Crowley shrugged and grinned. "Just wondered if I could make you blush… Apparently I can."
"Don't you have some wiling to be doing?"
"Eh? Oh...yeah...wiling... " Crowley stared out at the people in the streets. He wasn't sure that he wanted to bother at that point.
"Well, I'll leave you to get on with it then." Aziraphale stood a little unsteadily and shivered slightly as he sobered up. "Until next time, Crowley." The angel walked away leaving Crowley staring after him. Crowley reached for the jug of ale, a single gesture transforming it into something smoother and more potent. He knew what was coming - he'd seen it all recently in the other countries. It was going to be a tedious few years. Fewer people. More religious fervour. Oh, he could have worked on targeting them when they were weak and desperate, plying them with suggestions that God had deserted them and that He didn't deserve their prayers or loyalty... but, somehow, the idea of striking at them as they faced a cruel and unpleasant death made him squirm. He sighed and headed for his room.
Three days later, Crowley packed his few items and set off to return to London. As he rode out from the inn's stables, he reined his horse in to allow a new arrival to pass. The arrival was sitting tall in the saddle, hooded and hidden in the folds of a long cloak. His horse was pale, its coat almost luminescent. As the rider dismounted, Crowley caught a glimpse of the long, bony fingers as the rider stroked the neck of his mount. Death looked up at the demon, gave him a brief nod, then turned and strode casually into the inn. Crowley turned his horse onto the road and, clinging to a lump of mane for stability, urged his horse into a canter heading northwards.
****
Woolsthorpe Manor, Lincolnshire. 1666b.
"I'm afraid he's not here, Sir," the Head Porter of Trinity College, Cambridge, muttered through the grill of the gateway.
Aziraphale gave an impatient click of the tongue.
"Not here? It's important…… I've travelled up from London to meet him."
"I'm sorry, Sir. It's the sickness you see. It's very bad in Cambridge at the moment so many of the students and Fellows have gone away to try to avoid the contagion."
"Can I go to his rooms? I… er… lent him an important manuscript which I was supposed to collect. He would undoubtedly have left it for me to pick up." Aziraphale felt himself blush at the blatant lie. The man fixed him with a somewhat dubious look and began to explain that this wouldn't be possible.
Aziraphale nodded in agreement. "Don't worry, I quite understand," he said, smiling as he waved a hand vaguely towards the man and watched as he slid onto a conveniently placed chair, snoring gently. "I am sorry," muttered the angel as he slipped quickly through the gate and checked in the books, before heading across the College courtyard and into the accommodation blocks. The rooms were easy enough to locate and were unlocked. He looked briefly around and slipped into the rooms.
The first desk he looked at was clearly not what he was looking for. The books had the name 'J. Wickens' printed inside the cover and seemed like standard student work. He turned his attention to the other half of the room, carefully pushing aside piles of papers and books. A pile of notebooks filled with rapid, yet well-formed handwriting sat on the desk. One pile consisted of notes under the heading 'Quæstiones quædam Philosophiæ', there were writings of Euclid and Aristotle, papers by Kepler, more notebooks filled with mathematical equations and symbols… And several versions of the Bible into which scraps of paper with notes scribbled on them had been inserted. Aziraphale noted that a large number of these were inserted into the Book of Revelation. The margins of some pages were heavily annotated. He allowed his eyes to skim over more of the notes… They made quite disturbing reading. A little more searching revealed what he was looking for and made his mind up as to his next journey.
Aziraphale headed towards the College gates, pausing to wave a hand casually towards the sleeping porter and to hover nearby to make sure that the man was fully conscious. Then the angel set off with long strides into the town and to the large coaching inn which stood on the main road north. The coach which he needed to catch was due the next day so Aziraphale took a room and settled down to consider his next move. His instruction had been simply to get information and to assess the potential problems. He could have left it at that, but his curiosity (some may have called it nosiness) had been piqued and he wanted to see the man behind the scribbled notes and dangerous notions.
The next morning, Aziraphale made himself ready to travel and stood watching the activity in the inn's yard as the long distance coach rolled into the yard, the horses damp with sweat and the driver muffled against the chill of the early morning. A new team of horses, four smart bays with banged tails and shiny coats, was led out and harnessed to the coach while the previous team were led away to the stables to recover from their stint in harness. He climbed into the coach and was relieved to find that he was the only traveller on that day. Not that he was antisocial… but he did find it tiresome to have to exchange pleasantries with strangers who seemed to want to tell him their entire life story, or, worse still, to have to listen to strangers telling each other their entire life stories, moving on to their ailments and all about their numerous offspring. He felt the coach dip slightly as the coachman climbed aboard and heard the horses hooves scraping on the cobbles as they stamped impatiently. He heard the coachman click his tongue at the horses and felt the coach give a lurch as the team leant into their collars and set off out of the yard, followed by another lurch as there was a loud call to halt the coach and the horses stopped and fidgeted. Aziraphale gritted his teeth and glowered at his boots as the coach door was flung open and a second person climbed in and dropped noisily into the opposite seat. To his extreme annoyance, the new arrival wasted no time in stretching his legs out and placing a pair of muddy-soled boots on the seat next to him. When this failed to elicit a response, the muddy boots swayed sideways so that a smudge of mud (he hoped it was mud) was left on the angel's cloak.
"Excuse me!" he said, tetchily.
"Why? What have you done?" said a familiar voice. Aziraphale looked up to see Crowley grinning back at him. "Sssorry, Angel."
There were a few moments of uneasy silence before Crowley gave a small cough and said, as casually as he could, although he already knew the answer "Where are you heading?"
"Lincolnshire. Colsterworth… well, a village near to it."
"What a coincidence, I'm…" began Crowley, then his voice dwindled to nothing as he caught Aziraphale's expression.
"Coincidence my….. eye!!" muttered the angel. Crowley squirmed slightly under his gaze.
"Woolsthorpe, per chance?" the angel added.
Crowley nodded and paused to stare out of the carriage window at the passing countryside, or would have done so if it hadn't been for the heavy morning mists which shrouded the flatlands of the Fens.
"The sooner they finish draining this place, the better," he muttered.
"Oh, I don't know," the angel responded. "It has a certain charm about it"
"If you're a duck… or an eel." Crowley growled, pulling his cloak tighter around him and drawing the curtain across the window. He pressed himself into one corner and closed his eyes. Aziraphale wasn't sure whether he was asleep or just avoiding conversation.
Eventually the coach slowed and the door opened, the coachman leaning in and calling "Colsterworth, Gentlemen". Crowley sat up and stretched, joints popping. He watched as Aziraphale climbed down from the coach and stood brushing the dried mud from his cloak. Crowley climbed down and stood looking at the coaching inn. The mist hadn't lifted and droplets of water hung from leaves, fences and gates. They built up and fell into puddles, small splashes echoing in the air while the mist subdued all other sounds.
Crowley headed into the inn and paid for a room, followed by the angel who also took a room and was quite aghast when the innkeeper asked if he would be sharing with his fellow traveller. Crowley stood nearby and smirked. Aziraphale harrumphed and blustered slightly before asking "Which is the best way to get to Woolsthorpe?"
The innkeeper walked him to the door and pointed down the road. "Take the Stainby Road over the Witham then take the road north and you'll find Woolsthorpe along that road. Not a lot there though, Sir." The man sounded somewhat surprised that anyone would want to make a specific journey to a tiny village when another short coach trip would carry them to the heady delights of Grantham1.
Aziraphale smiled and thanked the man, tossing a couple of coins to the lad who was holding his baggage and asking him to put the bags in his room. He glanced around to see what Crowley was doing, but there was no sign of the demon or his meagre luggage. And so it was, with a watery sun starting to push through the mists, that one angel set off along the road towards his goal.
It was really quite pleasant. The air was tinged with the sweet scent of some nearby flowers, occasionally masked by the stink of a marshy patch of rotting plants and swampy weeds. Birds were flitting around in the hedgerows along the roadway, bees buzzed happily in the water meadows and around the late bramble flowers, butterflies fluttered by, demons were sitting on the roadside wall… What? Aziraphale stopped and stared at Crowley who gave a little wave and hopped down to meet him.
"Mind if I join you on your little jaunt?" he said, brightly. Aziraphale flashed him an exasperated look and said nothing. He walked on, saying nothing, which Crowley appeared to take as an affirmative answer.
"You do know that you'll not get him, don't you? He's already walking our dark roads." Crowley said, shattering the silence between them.
"To whom do you refer?"
"Young Mr Newton, of course. Angel, don't try to pretend that you are just here for a quick stroll!!"
"I don't know what you mean."
"You were always a terrible liar, Aziraphale. You still are."
They continued in silence until the reached the small village and sauntered along it beside a stone wall next to a shade-dappled orchard. They peeked over the wall and saw a young man walking through the gate from the big house and sitting down in the shade of one of the trees. He was lean with a sharp featured face and carried an armful of books and papers, which he placed carefully next to him before picking up one of the books and a pen, starting to make notes.
Crowley gave a small laugh and Aziraphale looked up to see Crowley reaching up to an overhanging branch and plucking two rich red apples from the bough.
"Crowley! You can't do that!!" Aziraphale hissed urgently.
"Why not?" the demon responded, a look of innocence on his face.
"It's… erm... It's… Well, it's wrong."
Crowley raised his eyebrows and offered one of the apples to Aziraphale with what could only be described as a snakey grin. The angel glared at him and shook his head.
"No, Crowley!"
The demon held his gaze for a few seconds then shrugged and held the apple out in front of him. He swiftly passed a hand over the apple and, with a smooth movement, hurled the apple high into the air, back into the orchard.
They both stood, watching the fruit rise… rise… rise, then begin to fall, crashing through the branches of the apple tree and hitting the ground a few feet away from the young man, rolling towards him. He paused from his reading and reached out to pick the apple up. He stared at it for a while, holding it on his palm, then tossed it into the air and caught it a few times, before holding it at arm's length and dropping it. This he repeated over and over, frowning at the apple, until he finally picked it up, looked closely at it, and took a large bite from it before taking up his pen and notes and starting to write furiously.
Crowley grinned smugly at the angel. "My advantage, I think, Angel!"
"This is not over, Crowley!"
"Please feel free to thwart away, Angel."
Aziraphale glared at him, turned away, and began to walk back the way they had come. Crowley let him get a short way down the road and set off after him.
**
Aziraphale sat staring out of the window and inwardly dithering about the young man in the orchard. He wondered if he should have stopped to talk to him about his current beliefs and his life, but he had a gloomy suspicion that Crowley had been right and that young Isaac was never going to be one to follow a path of absolute God-fearing righteousness. His thoughts were interrupted by a large, earthenware flagon of something being thumped down on the table along with two large tankards.
"May I join you for a drink, Angel?"
Aziraphale gestured towards the chair and watched as Crowley slid gracefully into the seat. The angel reached across the table and tapped the flagon carefully.
"What is this?"
"A local cider, apparently. The innkeeper recommends it."
"Hmmmm. I never trust drink served in a vessel which you can't see through." Aziraphale said, wrinkling his nose but picking up one of the tankards and holding it out towards the demon who was wrestling with the cork. It popped out of the neck with a dull sound. Crowley sniffed at the flagon and recoiled with a look which was a mixture of horror and respect.
"That good, eh?" muttered Aziraphale, tapping his tankard on the table.
Crowley poured them a helping each and raised his tankard before taking a hearty drink. Aziraphale followed suit. When they had finished coughing and dried the tears from their faces, they both looked at each other with raised eyebrows then topped up the tankards and settled down to the serious business of drinking themselves if not under the table, then certainly to the partly slumped across it level of inebriation.
"Powerful for apple juice." muttered Aziraphale staring into his mug with a frown.
"…" replied Crowley, wondering vaguely if Aziraphale had always had those pink cheeks and slightly crossed eyes. He'd never noticed them before…
"… and apples?" Aziraphale was saying, and looking straight (or as straight as was possible after two flagons between them) at him. Crowley realised that a question was hanging there somewhere.
"Erm. Eh?" he mumbled.
"What is it with you and apples?" Aziraphale repeated.
"I don't know...ssssseem to recall they worked well enough for me in the passst." Crowley said, adopting an innocent expression. Aziraphale opened his mouth to respond but as he did so, Crowley reached into a pocket and produced the second of the apples acquired from the orchard at Woolsthorpe. He held the fruit in his palm and extended his hand towards the angel. Aziraphale gave him a black look, so Crowley shrugged and bit into the shiny fruit himself. He chewed it slowly and washed it down with a swig of cider. Aziraphale topped up the tankards and watched as Crowley swayed slightly in his seat.
"These local apples must be pokey little things." said the angel, swirling the flagon and pouring out a bit more. "Wonder what the little bits are. Core maybe… or pips… peel… stalk?"
"Or a sssssoupçon of rat."
"Ye… What????"
"Rat. They say that it gives it a bit more body… in every ssssense of the word. So they throw a dead rat into the barrel."
Aziraphale stopped with the tankard half way to his mouth and went very pale. "You are joking… aren't you?"
"Sssss the truth. Sssswear on my mother's grave."
"You don't have a mother, Crowley!"
"No, but if I did…" Crowley gave a small laugh and started to slide gently off his chair. Aziraphale managed to grab an arm and haul him upright and onto his feet, steering him up the stairs to his room. Crowley groaned and gave a gentle snort, hiccoughed and looked suddenly serious. Summoning the last bit of his ability to speak, he waggled a finger in Aziraphale's face and murmured quietly, "I wish you'd let me tempt you jussssht a bit, Angel... Jusht a tiny bit." With that, he slid downwards to the floor, drawn down by some irresistible force.
Aziraphale hauled the prone demon onto the bed and headed for the door, pausing to look back at the now snoring figure.
"Apples. I knew no good could come from them!"
Footnotes. 1 In fact, Aziraphale had already been there in 1598 and had met Francis Trigge, Rector of Welbourn. They shared a love of books, and after their talks, Trigge arranged for a library to be set up in the room over the South Porch of St Wulfram's Church. It was for the clergy and the inhabitants of the town, making it the first public library in the country.
****
Braunau Am Inn. austria. 20 April 1889c.
Crowley stood beneath the tree in the street and looked up at the 17th Century guesthouse. He would need a place to stay, but for some reason just didn't feel comfortable with the idea of taking a room at that particular Gasthof. The early evening sun was pale and watery, reflecting off the windows and the smell of the small, local brewery which was based in the same Gasthof, hung heavily in the air. Crowley had managed to meet the brewery owner shortly after arriving in the town and had quickly earned himself an invitation to look round the brewery and sample some of its wares. The owner had been working under the belief that the Englishman was involved in the brewing industry in exports and was keen to seize the chance to get ahead of his competitors and secure a contract with the clearly wealthy English gent.
He felt the angelic presence before seeing its source, and glanced across the road to see the tall figure of Aziraphale watching him. He lifted a hand in acknowledgement and the angel walked towards him, looking, Crowley felt, somewhat peeved.
"Well, I hadn't any idea why I was sent here but I suppose it was to thwart whatever sad little scheme your lot have planned." muttered Aziraphale.
"Don't point the finger of blame at me, Angel. I was enjoying a rather good sleep when something woke me up and I ended up here. Trust me, I'm heading back as soon as possible and catching up where I left off. Whatever has brought you here has nothing to do with me! I assumed it was something to do with your lot when I saw you here."
"Strange. One might even say 'ineffable'."
"No, one might not!!" snapped Crowley. He didn't like the uncertainty of this meeting or feeling that he'd acted without knowing why. "Now, I have an urgent meeting with a few glasses of the local brew. If you want to join me then please feel free to do so."
Aziraphale looked slightly dubious.
"Erm… It isn't local cider, is it?"
"No." replied Crowley. "Beer. Very popular, if the numbers of people walking out carrying bottles and rolling kegs is anything to go by."
"And they don't fortify it with any form of vermin… or beast of the field… or fowl… ?" Aziraphale asked, cautiously. His venture into the world of local cider had remained a vivid memory and he had been careful to check up on ingredients added to the so called 'local' offerings ever since.
"No." replied the demon, then added with a grin, "Leastways, not intentionally."
"Does nobody know how to create a decent wine around here?" grumbled Aziraphale.
"You seem to be managing to produce your usual brand of whine, Angel."
"Oh, very droll!" replied the angel, somewhat crabbily.
"Come on, Angel. We might as well face this little puzzle with a good glass of something alcoholic grasped firmly in the hand."
Crowley set off across the street and found the small brewery with no difficulty. A small table had been set out on the courtyard to the front of the building along with a large selection of bottles and beer kegs. The owner looked a little surprised to see a second person with Crowley, but quickly produced a second chair and smiled happily as he ushered them to the table.
Aziraphale drummed his fingers on the table and frowned at the demon.
"This is wrong. He thinks that you're going to order his product for selling in England?"
"His misconception - not my idea." Crowley shrugged and Aziraphale raised an eyebrow but didn't pursue the issue. He picked up a glass and waggled it towards the selection of beers.
They had just moved from beer number 5 to number 6, and had moved to a discussion about the complexities of whether Gilbert and Sullivan would be able to follow up Yeoman with another crowd-pleaser. The chat was punctuated by Crowley giving a decent rendition of one of the numbers from the show, clunking his glass down onto the table and starting to sing.
"OH! a private buffoon is a light hearted loon if you listen to popular rumour;
From the morn to the night he's so joyous and bright and he bubbles with wit and good humour!
He's so quaint and so terse, both in prose and…" He trailed off into open-mouthed silence as the door flew open and a man ran into the courtyard.
"Quickly!! Where is Alois?"
"Not here," answered the brewery owner. "Have you tried at his work?"
"Yes, but they say he had left for home already."
"Is there a problem?"
"The baby is coming! Where is midwife?"
Crowley and Aziraphale sat nursing their latest glasses and watched as people began to rush about in excitement. After a very short time a cloaked figure emerged from the shadows of the trees and buildings and moved at a brisk walk towards apartment block. The hood of the cloak was up, her face was hidden, but as she passed through a shaft of sunlight, Aziraphale was sure that he saw a flash of rich, red hair.
"Crowley? Did you see…?" he began, but Crowley was busy pouring another glass of beer and the question went unanswered.
A few minutes passed, then a man wandered aimlessly into the courtyard where he was greeted by the owner with a cheerful wave and a shout of "Alois!! What news?"
The man shrugged his shoulders. He looked tense and nervous.
"No news yet. Klara is fine, but they've sent me away. Apparently, this is womens' work and they don't want me in the way." He shrugged and sat down at the table with Crowley and Aziraphale, smiling his thanks as the owner brought another glass and filled it with the foaming golden liquid, then set a plate of breads, cheese and fruit in the centre of the table. Alois broke a small chunk of bread off and sat there making a pile of breadcrumbs from it. Crowley watched him intently, eyes fixed on the man's fingers as they plucked at the crust. Aziraphale stealthily slid the bread out of the man's reach and slid the glass of beer into its place.
"Er. Are you hoping for a boy or girl?" the angel asked, ignoring the look of annoyance which Crowley flashed at him.
"I don't mind. We've not been blessed with a surviving child yet. Boy or girl, so long as he or she is healthy." The man glanced nervously towards the apartment then back to the angel. "Do you have children?"
There was a distinct snort from Crowley and the sort of intake of breathe which was invariably followed by a lewd or dubious comment. Aziraphale smothered the moment with a loud cough and pushed a plate of food towards the demon in the hope of derailing his thought processes.
Crowley simply grinned wickedly. "Not one for fatherhood really - are you, Angel!" It might have seemed an innocent remark, but he followed it with a nudge and a wink which had Aziraphale turning that interesting shade of pink. Alois looked from one to the other of his drinking companions and Aziraphale could see his mind drawing a number of embarrassing and potentially quite dangerous conclusions.
"My work doesn't give me the time or opportunity to settle down," the angel muttered hurriedly, giving Crowley a venomous glare which promised that Words would be forthcoming and that those Words would be numerous and loud. He gave Crowley another warning glare then turned back to the nervous Alois.
"Have you decided on a name yet?" he asked, giving what he hoped was a soothing smile. Crowley gave a loud sigh of exasperation and turned his attention to the slab of cheese.
"If it's a girl then Paula, and if a boy, Adolf," Alois replied.
Aziraphale shifted uneasily as it dawned on him that he had dredged the barrel regarding his conversational abilities on the subject of new babies, and looked hopefully at Crowley for additional comments. Crowley looked blankly back at him and shrugged.
The ensuing silence was broken by the wailing cry of a newborn. Crowley wasn't sure why, but the sound made him shiver and go cold right through his body. It was like some call from the depths. Alien, yet familiar at the same time. Then, as quickly as it had arrived, the sensation was gone. He became aware of a man running into the courtyard looking flushed and excited.
"Alois! Alois! You have a son!"
Angel and demon watched their drinking companion run from the courtyard, shaking hands with all who passed him on his way. The hooded woman emerged from the doorway just as he reached it. Alois stopped before her and shook her hand warmly, obviously passing on his effusive thanks. As he left hurriedly, the midwife glanced towards the couple at the table and walked slowly towards them. As she got nearer, the air seemed to get thicker, dragging at their senses, smothering the light. Crowley felt himself clenching his fists, itching to lash out verbally and physically at his drinking partner. He noticed that Aziraphale was looking uncomfortable and guessed that he was also being affected.
The woman stopped at their table and laughed quietly. "Not going to offer me a drink, Boys?" She pushed back her hood and revealed a cascade of long red hair.
"Ngh." said Crowley.
"Eloquent as always, Serpent." she purred, leaning closer to him - her smile as sharp as a sabre, her eyes deep as the Realms of Hades and her lips as red as the blood of history soaking into the sands. She extended a hand and traced a long, sharp fingernail down his chest. Crowley found himself leaning back to avoid her close proximity.
Aziraphale stood and drew himself to his full height. Crowley could feel the angel's power radiating towards the Red Horseman, a subconscious display of power and intent, should she choose to ignore his warning.
"Oh, don't get your feathers in a flap, Principality. I am not interested in harming your little friend. And I am not here for you."
"For the child?" asked Aziraphale.
War's smile broadened and her voice was like a steel blade slicing through the air.
"You can fight for other souls, Boys, but THIS one is mine."
"But it's just a child! What use is a child to you?"
"As a mighty oak will from an acorn grow, so does a man grow from a child. Time, Principality, will show you."
"And now?"
"Now? Nothing here for now. I'm heading back to South Africa… I'm a bit busy there at the moment." She walked casually away, pausing to throw a glance back over her shoulder and give a small wave. It was not returned.
Aziraphale sighed and emptied his glass. "So, what now?"
"Speaking personally, I intend to head for home and bed."
"I don't go in for this sleeping as you know, but it sounds a tempting idea." muttered Aziraphale.
"Tempting? Really?"
Aziraphale looked up to see Crowley holding the apple which had come to the table along with the cheese, and giving him a look which brought a decidedly pink tint to his cheeks.
"NO, Crowley!!!!!!!"
Crowley laughed and clapped the angel firmly on the shoulder.
"Angel, you never learn… I'll see you next century."
Aziraphale watched as the demon walked casually away, then gestured towards the brewery owner whose memories of a pair of well spoken Englishmen immediately faded, leaving him wondering how so much of his stock had vanished.
****
SOHO, LONDON. 3rd SEPTEMBER 1939d.
The shop door, as always, was locked and the sign in the window read "CLOSED" in large, bold letters, underlined… Twice. And, as always, Crowley ignored both the sign and the lock, and walked into the shop, scowling at the bell which gave a weary 'Ting' as the door opened. The shop had a familiar smell - a mixture of old paper, leather, floor polish and a subtle whiff of something being heated in a pan on a hot-plate.
The angel was in the back room, stirring a small pan on the stove and reading a newspaper which was propped up against a tin of cocoa and a biscuit tin. He glanced up at Crowley and gesticulated vaguely towards the pan and raised a questioning eyebrow. Crowley nodded and Aziraphale reached for a second cup and added more milk to the pan. No words were spoken as Crowley sat down at the table and waited for a mug of cocoa to be placed before him. In the background, the radio was talking away. A woman was busy extolling the virtues of tinned foodstuffs and giving the listeners tips about storage of tins and use of their contents. Crowley looked at the angel and sighed.
"I can't commend your choice of listening, Angel. What next? Flower arranging for dinner parties?"
Aziraphale glared at him and slammed the biscuit tin down with somewhat excessive vigour.
"Preparing them for times ahead you think?" Crowley muttered, suddenly serious again.
"Judging by the recent news headlines…" replied the angel. The sentence was left unfinished as the radio crackled and hissed. The BBC have been promising a statement by Chamberlain since early this morning."
"No turning back then…"
"Looks unlikely. Wait… Listen!"
They sat in total silence. Neither needed to breathe, but both were holding their breath, as were the majority of people in that country at that time.
"This is the BBC Home Service. There now follows a statement by the Prime Minister, Mr Neville Chamberlain."
It was as if the country had come to a stop. The radio crackled and fizzed slightly as they listened to the calm voice of the British PM.
"I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany."
The announcement continued, the words dropping into the silence like stones falling into still waters. Chamberlain managed to stay calm and controlled throughout, but as he came to the end, his voice broke slightly with the emotion.
"Now may God bless you all. May He defend the right. For it is evil things that we shall be fighting against - brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression and persecution - and against them I am certain that right will prevail."
Crowley frowned as the radio moved on to a music programme.
"Oh that's right. Blame evil and point the finger at Hell. This isn't driven by us, it's humans doing this."
Aziraphale shrugged and nodded. "Well, at least we now know why we ended up in Austria that time. Maybe we should have done something…"
"Such as? We were just as much in the dark as everyone else. Even that Red Haired creature can't have seen how things would turn out."
"True. And his father did seem such a nice man." Aziraphale stood and went to a cupboard, extracting a few dusty old bottles from the darkness. "I was saving these for a celebration, but something tells me that we won't be seeing an opportunity for that for a while."
"Cheerful thought, Angel," the demon said, leaning back and reading the front page headlines of the paper. The next morning, he could guarantee, all papers would have the same story as the leader.
Aziraphale planted two cut crystal tumblers on the table and undid one of the bottles. They didn't bother to look at the label, just downed the contents in one and set the glasses back down for a refill. Again and again they did this, until the anxiety that they both felt had drifted into soft focus and they had slumped into a more relaxed way of sitting, although Aziraphale did insist on standing up for the duration of the King's address to his people.
"Will they ever learn, do you think?" asked Aziraphale, his question dropping into a small pool of silence.
Crowley swayed slightly and shook his head, wincing slightly at the effect of the action. He picked up the last bottle and glared accusingly at it. "Learn?"
"That war solves nothing. I mean, look at the Great War… "
"Ah. The 'War to end all wars'. Well, that lesson didn't seem to sink in. Let's face it, Aziraphale, humans fight humans. The buggers will happily fight each other if you give them a reason, and often even if you don't. Throw the Red Horseman into the equation and what chance do they have?"
Aziraphale sat in gloomy silence, tracing his finger through a spillage of brandy which had landed on the table during a rather enthusiastic toast to the King. He looked up at his drinking partner and said, softly "What will you do?"
Crowley looked up. He had removed the dark glasses which he wore and his eyes glowed a dull gold. He shrugged. "I'm not sure. Try to keep my head down and hope that Down Below don't try to hop on this particular bandwagon and start trying to manipulate the situation. Yourself? Will you be staying in London?"
"Hopefully I suppose it all depends on the orders from Up There. If they decide to get involved then I can't refuse their orders. Free will, and all that."
They lapsed into a gloomy, albeit drunken, silence. They'd seen wars through the ages, had seen weaponry develop and become more effective with each conflict. War drove development and innovation right across the board, but at such cost. Aziraphale shivered slightly. He looked across at Crowley, who was swirling the drink in his glass and staring moodily into the glass.
"You will be careful," the angel said. Crowley glanced up, his face serious.
"You know me, Angel. Caution is my middle name!!" He broke into a slightly brittle grin. "Besides, who would there be to help you to keep up your thwarting quota if I wasn't around?"
Aziraphale smiled, albeit sadly.
"Talking of which…" muttered Crowley, his eyes suddenly filled with mischief. Aziraphale stared at him questioningly as the demon made a swirling gesture in front of him and a shiny red apple appeared, balanced on his palm and held out to the angel. "Can I tempt you to try this beauti…"
"NO, Crowley!!!!" said the angel, but he was smiling as he said it, and then laughed as the demon shrugged and sighed.
****
SOHO, London. 31st December 1999e.
Crowley drove through the streets leading to Soho with a slight smile on his face. Really, this had been so easy. Just the right words in the right (or wrong) ears, especially those of a certain genre of journalists who specialised in taking molehill-like stories and creating a range of mountains from them which would rival the Himalayas. It was amazing what a difference just two small words could make…
"What if…..?"
The induced turmoil had surprised even Crowley himself. All around the world people were buying new computers said to be "2000 Compliant" and spending vast amounts of money and time buying CD ROM discs and backing up every little scrap of data and hundreds of photos from their current machines. Retail outlets had sold out of discs and people were starting to panic and lose their temper with shop staff and each other. In countless homes, spouses were silently (and in some cases not so silently) cursing each other for downloading and keeping so many pictures (many blurred beyond recognition) of babies, toddlers, distant scenery which could have been anywhere, and the obligatory kittens in various stages of cuteness doing strange things in boxes. Children were insisting that parents bought them new versions of their video games, usually involving a tantrum in the middle of a large store - and that was just the parents…
Businesses were flapping about like headless chickens with their IT departments taking massive amounts of flack from 'Management' for not predicting the probable disaster at least 10 years previously.
"Heads," Management said, threateningly, "would be rolling."
IT workers around the world sat silently in sweaty offices and thumbed through the situations vacant sections of the local newspaper looking for a change of career...
Computer sales rocketed, as did sales of electrical items and over-the-counter herbal preparations which boasted "calmative properties".
Crowley parked up outside the bookshop and wound the window down for a brief moment, closing his eyes and letting the sounds of the city drift over him. Crowley grinned as he listened to the frantic hum of panic and sensed the waves of not-quite-evil swirling across the world giving so many souls a light tarnish. Okay, it wouldn't be Hastur's idea of damnation of souls, but somehow that didn't seem to matter any more. He doubted very much that those down there were even keeping count these days - he'd heard almost nothing from them since the Tadfield Incident, but he didn't dare totally rest on his laurels. That was the thing about Hell, they had a habit of suddenly remembering, so he figured that it would help his case if in future they suddenly crawled out of the woodwork (probably literally) and demanded a report.
Closing the window with a brief gesture, Crowley climbed out of the car and braced himself against the cold, hurrying to the shop door.
"Sorry." read the sign in flowing copperplate, "We are closed."
Crowley shrugged and walked in.
"We're closed!" said a disgruntled voice from the back room. Nobody appeared. Crowley frowned and leant round the door frame.
"Angel, I could have been a burglar or some other ne'er do well!"
"But you aren't."
"Or a Bible thief..."
"But you aren't."
"Or…" Crowley gave up and walked into the room.
"Besides", said the angel, with a hint of smugness, "my Bibles are well protected... I'm not totally clueless, Crowley!"
"Protected how?" asked Crowley with genuine amazement.
Aziraphale sniffed and opened his mouth a couple of times. "Er..."
"Not protected at all then...." Crowley muttered, moving a pile of slightly dubious sounding paperbacks off one of the chairs.
"Well...." Aziraphale went slightly pink and pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose with a delicate cough. "Now, I must get on!" He glanced up at Crowley and frowned, then turned back to his computer and looked flustered.
"I suppose this is all your doing this... this... 'bug' thing..." he said, tersely.
Crowley shrugged. "Well, I might have made a comment somewhere some time ago, but really, Angel, this is all down to them. I just know a good opportunity when I see one and… ooo chocolate hobnobs!!" He snatched a couple of biscuits from the plate. "Any chance of a cocoa too? It's bloody cold out there!"
"And would Sir like a manicure and a rub down with a damp Daily Telegraph while he waits?" Aziraphale muttered, somewhat sarcastically.
Crowley frowned at him. "Just the cocoa for now, Angel."
Aziraphale made a noise which sounded slightly like a badly disguised obscenity and stomped off into the kitchen area where a lot of crashing sounds suggested the creation of cocoa was underway. Crowley amused himself by sitting at the angel's computer and downloading a mind-numbingly addictive computer game which he then started to play, making sure to turn up the volume so that the pings and whistles were just a little too loud. This in itself was a surprise as Aziraphale's computer didn't have a sound or graphics card, but Crowley assumed that a computer game could be played on any computer, so it worked perfectly.
The angel walked back in with two mugs of steaming cocoa and a bottle of brandy, and gave a squeak of indignant horror when he saw Crowley tapping away on the keyboard.
"Crowley!! I was trying to get my files sorted before the bug thing killed my computer!"
Crowley rolled his eyes and watched the angel as he laboriously sat, calling up files and saving them. He tipped a good quantity of the brandy into his cocoa and took a long drink.
"Good grief, Angel. You've still got a 5 inch floppy!!!!"
"I beg your pardon!!!???" Aziraphale snapped, cheeks flushed.
"Disc drive, Aziraphale. What did you think I meant?" Crowley smirked and added more brandy to their cocoas. Aziraphale coughed and turned hastily back to the keyboard.
Two hours and umpteen discs later, Aziraphale sat back and gave a sigh of accomplishment. Crowley had dozed off in one of the armchairs and was hissing gently in his sleep, his feet twitching slightly. His dark glasses had slipped from his eyes and dangled from his shirt front where they had managed to get caught. Aziraphale looked at the clock. It was 11.45pm. He gently shook Crowley's shoulder and leapt back as the demon awoke and snarled, eyes flaring angrily until he realised where he was and slumped back, looking sheepishly at the angel.
Aziraphale placed a glass of fine brandy into Crowley's hand and sat down opposite him, placing the bottle on the table between them. Crowley nodded his thanks and took a long drink.
"Fifteen minutes to go. We should toast the arrival of 2000."
"And the fact that the Tadfield Incident is heading further into the past." said Crowley, raising his glass and draining it. Aziraphale passed the bottle and watched as the demon poured out another glassful.
"I'll drink to that!" the angel replied, and did.
"And to The Arrangement." Crowley said, raising his glass.
"The Arrangement!!" agreed Aziraphale, clinking his glass against Crowley's and downing his in one. Crowley looked at him, he was impressed.
"And… and to Adam Young! May hissss time in this world be benefi… benetif… beenyfi… good."
"Adam Young!" agreed Aziraphale, who was starting to warm to the task.
"And… dolphins… which aren't fish at all."
"Doffins!" said Aziraphale, swaying a little. They had stopped pouring drinks from the almost empty bottle and were simply miracle-ing their glasses full again. Aziraphale looked at the clock and waved frantically at Crowley, pointing at the clock with a somewhat wavering finger.
" 's nearly midnight… look!"
Crowley blinked owlishly towards the clock and nodded.
Midnight chimed. Around the world, people cheered, then cursed as they discovered that their old electrical items all still worked and their panic purchases had been unnecessary.
"To us!" Aziraphale raised his glass. Crowley did likewise, looking suddenly serious.
"To ussssssss." he hissed. "Happy New Year, Angel!"
Aziraphale waved a glass vaguely in the air. He sat and watched Crowley. Watching that one face that had always been there, a face that belonged to an enemy who he knew that he could trust implicitly. He smiled.
Crowley was slumped in his chair, staring into his drink and looking thoughtful. Eventually, he sighed and sat upright, looking at the angel. He moved his hands, the gesture creating a ripple in the fabric of their reality. He held out a shiny, red apple, balanced on his palm and looked at the angel.
Aziraphale looked at Crowley, then reached out and took the apple. Crowley felt a tingle pass through his hand as the angel's fingertips brushed his palm. Aziraphale raised the fruit to his lips and took one bite, his eyes fixed on the demon. He smiled.
"Yes, Crowley," he said.
And as the new year started and the silence of the night was broken by distant cheers and fireworks, one angel and one demon finally really reached out to each other and their whole world changed.
********
The End (also, the Beginning)
Footnotes.
a The arrival of the plague to Britain.
b The beginning of Newton's development of the Universal Law of Gravitation.
c The birth of Adolf Hitler.
d Declaration of war. The start of WWII.
e 1999/2000 The Millennium Bug panic.
Recipient: Edna_Blackadder
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley with appearances by certain Apocalyptic Horsepersons.
Rating: General.
Warnings: Vague suggestion of M/M relationship.
HAPPY HOLIDAYS, EDNA_BLACKADDER. Apologies for the delay - family trauma created a bit of a delay. Hope you enjoy!
WE WERE THERE WHEN…
Melcombe, Dorset. Summer 1348a.
The man was tall, dressed in a simple, brown, wool robe. The initial observation was that he was a member of a religious order - indeed, an initial brief observation was all that any passing person gave him, their vision letting him blend into the background… suitably blurred. He stood, looking out over the sun-soaked little harbour to where a trading ship had moored and was disgorging people and goods… bolts of cloth, barrels, sacks. People milled about the gangplanks like ants swarming over a spillage of honey, some carrying the wares, others pausing to talk with others… Laughter and the occasional salty curse drifted onto the quayside and joined with the general noise. The watching man smiled at the scene. It was one that he'd seen so many times before, in more places than many of these people even dreamed of.
Aziraphale was about to turn away and walk back into the town when he saw something, or rather someone, that made him stop in his tracks and stare. Disembarking from the ship was a familiar figure, peppered grey hair, slightly stooped, dressed in worn, dark grey tunic and cloak, apparently in deep conversation with the cloth merchant. Aziraphale frowned… What was he doing there? As he watched, the figure shook the merchant's hand, and, with a brief gesture of farewell, seemed to melt into the crowds, insinuating itself into the masses and vanishing from view.
Aziraphale was distractedly trying to see where he had gone when a hand on his shoulder nearly sent him into orbit. He froze, then a voice next to his ear said,
"Well met, Angel… Taking the ssssea air?"
"Crowley!!" He span round and found the demon grinning at him. "Understated in your attire as usual, I see"…
The demon looked down at his immaculate clothing of sumptuous red and black fabrics, ornately decorated and with a low-slung belt emphasising his narrow hips. "This? Just a little something I picked up in Italy recently." He saw the angel's expression and shrugged. "Well, one has to keep up appearances," he muttered. "What are you doing in this veritable backwater, Angel?"
"Actually, I've been travelling through some of the religious sites through the south of England. I'm staying here to see the celebrations of the Feast of St John the Baptist, then heading back towards London." He paused and looked at the demon. "What of you? I thought you were somewhere in France, or Spain... What brings you here?" the angel asked, still frowning and trying to spot the elusive figure in the crowds.
"Boredom, Angel. Thought I'd give you a few wiles to thwart."
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow in question. Crowley glanced around and leant closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Have you not heard the news?"
"News?"
"The sickness, Angel. There are so few living over there that it takes ages to find any souls and when you do they are so terrified of His wrath that I may as well save my energy."
"I'd heard rumours... not that it was that bad though. OH!"
Crowley shot backwards. "What?"
"That might explain something." He looked suddenly nervous. "I do hope that I'm wrong…"
Crowley growled. "Well, I'm so glad that you've had your personal epiphany… I suppose you'll explain yourself eventually, or are you intending to hug the gem of knowledge to yourself and leave me in the dark?"
"Which would be appropriate, all things considered," snapped the angel, tetchily.
Crowley managed to throw him a look of combined hurt and sourness. "Uncalled for, Angel!"
Aziraphale had the decency to blush slightly and look guilty. "Sorry. I…Well, I just thought that I saw someone we both know. I thought I was mistaken, but after what you've told me, I fear that I wasn't."
"Aaaaand? More clues, Angel."
"The Rider of the White Horse."
Crowley released a breath with a loud hiss. "You're sure?"
"I think so…". The angel squinted back into the crowd.
"We need to talk. There's an inn along the road. I've taken a room there."
"A room?"
"If you think that I'm sharing my sleeping space with the great unwashed, Angel… It's relatively clean. The ale's a bit rough, but drinkable and the owner is capable of serving a decent light meal if the incentive is there," said Crowley, jingling a few coins in his hand.
Aziraphale's face suggested that he'd rather be elsewhere, but he nodded and followed on as Crowley led the way.
Aziraphale had to admit that Crowley had been totally correct. The ale was rough and had a dubious back taste which Aziraphale tried not to think too much about in case he managed to identify it. As he peered into the tankard he became aware that Crowley was speaking to him.
"Angel, would you stop pulling those faces! You'll scare the customers and get us flung out! Just grit your teeth and get it down you!"
The angel glared over the rim of his tankard and took several hearty gulps. Crowley reached over and refilled the angel's tankard, ignoring the mutterings of protest which were obliterated by a series of small hiccups.
The ale might have been rough, but it was, however, quite potent, and as Aziraphale started on his second tankard he felt a distinct mellowness creeping up on him. "S quite good, really… S not like the stuff from the ministr…munistr…monasities… MONK places though…" He looked mournfully across the table at the demon, who was going quite fuzzy around the edges. He wondered vaguely how he did that.
"Aziraphale, you are ssssuch a lightweight. One little drink and you're sssstarting to ssssslur."
"M not. Am I?" The angel's eyes opened wide.
"Yessssssss"
The angel gave him a smug look. "You're hissing, dear boy."
Crowley glared into his own tankard… "S sssstrong ssssstuff, eh?" He looked up and found a pair of ethereal eyes staring into his own… At least, he thought it was a pair, but another pair kept sliding away from the first, then blurring and merging back again. An awkward silence sprang into the space between them and threatened to pitch camp, until a voice shattered the moment and had the effect of sobering them up in seconds. It was a voice which sounded like the rasping breath of a fever sufferer, with tones of the swirling fogs and the miasma of disease ridden swamps.
"So, good day to you...gentlemen..."
They looked up to see Pestilence, the White Horseman, standing by their table. His robes, which Aziraphale had thought were grey, were, in fact, white but ingrained with the dirt of millennia spent travelling the world. His face was haggard, eyes sunken into their sockets but burning fever-bright, his lips dry and cracked.
"Do you mind if I join you?" he muttered, with a gruesome grin, pulling a stool over and sitting down without waiting for a reply. In a smooth movement, he picked up Aziraphale's tankard and took a long, noisy drink, coughing and spluttering into the vessel as he did so. After a few mouthfuls, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and passed the tankard back to the angel, pausing to call for more ale and some food. Aziraphale gave the tankard a look of thinly disguised horror and pushed it back to Pestilence with a brittle smile.
"Erm, you keep it… I'll, er, I'll get a new one".
"What brings you here?" Aziraphale asked, hurling politeness into the arena. Crowley was simply sat there looking stunned.
"Oh, just my job, Principality. Just my job." replied the Horseman.
They were interrupted by the innkeeper bringing food and more ale which he placed in front of Pestilence . Aziraphale's attention was caught by a small movement on the cuff of the Horseman's sleeve, and he watched with sick fascination as a small creature seemed to swim across the fabric, onto the skin of his arm, over the bones of his wrist where it stopped, then vanished with a sudden ping.
"Will there be anything else?" asked the innkeeper.
Pestilence smiled at him. "No, thank you. You have done enough."
The innkeeper nodded and walked away. Aziraphale watched him head towards the back room and saw the man scratching at his arm as he disappeared from view.
Pestilence smiled to himself and turned his attention to the platter of food before him. He tore at the hunk of bread and gouged chunks from the cheese and cold meat while angel and demon watched him with a morbid fascination. Pestilence seemed to suddenly remember their presence and pushed the platter towards them, gesturing for them to help themselves. The finger used to make the gesture was grubby and looked as if it carried every disease known to man and beast, plus a few more besides… which it probably did. Aziraphale and Crowley recoiled involuntarily and shook their heads at the offer.
"Already eaten..." babbled Aziraphale.
"Er, not really hungry," blurted Crowley.
Pestilence treated them both to a long, cool stare, watching them both start to squirm slightly under his look, then he gave a hearty laugh and grinned. He glanced up to the sky and into the distance. "I should be moving on," he muttered, coughing vigorously across the table as he stabbed the last piece of cheese and bit into it.
"Where are you heading?" asked Crowley, casually leaning back to avoid close contact with the table-top.
"Oh, Oxford, London, Bishop's Lynn… I plan to travel." His eyes seemed to glow with his emotion. He sighed. "So much scope… So many people…" He pushed the platter away and stood up, brushing crumbs and several more fleas from his clothing. Crowley shuddered.
"It's been a pleasure to see you..." he bowed slightly to Aziraphale "Principality...." He turned to Crowley and repeated the action.
"Serpent...."
With that, the Horseman turned and walked away into the crowds once again.
Crowley stared at Aziraphale who returned the look. Neither spoke. Both were too busy with their thoughts.
Crowley was the first to move, leaning over to stab an apple remaining on the platter. He waved it towards Aziraphale, allowing the pleasant mild effects of the ale to wash back over him.
"Can I tempt you to try thisssss delicioussss offering?" The apple was small, green and scabby. Aziraphale could have sworn that it had been smooth-skinned and sweet smelling when it had arrived.
The angel drew back slightly. "Did he touch it?"
"I believe so....." Crowley muttered, giving the fruit a hard stare. He had to admit that as an instrument of temptation, it was lacking somewhat.
"I'll pass on your generous offer then. Thank you..."
Crowley let the apple fall from the end of his knife and watched as it rolled across the table, coming to rest against Pestilence's abandoned tankard. He glanced up at Aziraphale and gave a small hiccup, blushing slightly and giving the angel a strange look as he leant closer.
"Of course, if you don't want the apple maybe I could tempt you to....." he whispered.
Aziraphale smiled at the demon as the words slipped into his mind and bounced around in there for a while. As the potential meaning slowly formed into sense, his eyebrows shot upwards and a look of shock spread across his face.
"NO, Crowley!" Several faces turned to see what had caused the outburst, and Aziraphale looked firmly at the table feeling his face glowing hot.
"OK...jusht a suggestion... no need to shout..." Crowley shrugged and grinned. "Just wondered if I could make you blush… Apparently I can."
"Don't you have some wiling to be doing?"
"Eh? Oh...yeah...wiling... " Crowley stared out at the people in the streets. He wasn't sure that he wanted to bother at that point.
"Well, I'll leave you to get on with it then." Aziraphale stood a little unsteadily and shivered slightly as he sobered up. "Until next time, Crowley." The angel walked away leaving Crowley staring after him. Crowley reached for the jug of ale, a single gesture transforming it into something smoother and more potent. He knew what was coming - he'd seen it all recently in the other countries. It was going to be a tedious few years. Fewer people. More religious fervour. Oh, he could have worked on targeting them when they were weak and desperate, plying them with suggestions that God had deserted them and that He didn't deserve their prayers or loyalty... but, somehow, the idea of striking at them as they faced a cruel and unpleasant death made him squirm. He sighed and headed for his room.
Three days later, Crowley packed his few items and set off to return to London. As he rode out from the inn's stables, he reined his horse in to allow a new arrival to pass. The arrival was sitting tall in the saddle, hooded and hidden in the folds of a long cloak. His horse was pale, its coat almost luminescent. As the rider dismounted, Crowley caught a glimpse of the long, bony fingers as the rider stroked the neck of his mount. Death looked up at the demon, gave him a brief nod, then turned and strode casually into the inn. Crowley turned his horse onto the road and, clinging to a lump of mane for stability, urged his horse into a canter heading northwards.
****
Woolsthorpe Manor, Lincolnshire. 1666b.
"I'm afraid he's not here, Sir," the Head Porter of Trinity College, Cambridge, muttered through the grill of the gateway.
Aziraphale gave an impatient click of the tongue.
"Not here? It's important…… I've travelled up from London to meet him."
"I'm sorry, Sir. It's the sickness you see. It's very bad in Cambridge at the moment so many of the students and Fellows have gone away to try to avoid the contagion."
"Can I go to his rooms? I… er… lent him an important manuscript which I was supposed to collect. He would undoubtedly have left it for me to pick up." Aziraphale felt himself blush at the blatant lie. The man fixed him with a somewhat dubious look and began to explain that this wouldn't be possible.
Aziraphale nodded in agreement. "Don't worry, I quite understand," he said, smiling as he waved a hand vaguely towards the man and watched as he slid onto a conveniently placed chair, snoring gently. "I am sorry," muttered the angel as he slipped quickly through the gate and checked in the books, before heading across the College courtyard and into the accommodation blocks. The rooms were easy enough to locate and were unlocked. He looked briefly around and slipped into the rooms.
The first desk he looked at was clearly not what he was looking for. The books had the name 'J. Wickens' printed inside the cover and seemed like standard student work. He turned his attention to the other half of the room, carefully pushing aside piles of papers and books. A pile of notebooks filled with rapid, yet well-formed handwriting sat on the desk. One pile consisted of notes under the heading 'Quæstiones quædam Philosophiæ', there were writings of Euclid and Aristotle, papers by Kepler, more notebooks filled with mathematical equations and symbols… And several versions of the Bible into which scraps of paper with notes scribbled on them had been inserted. Aziraphale noted that a large number of these were inserted into the Book of Revelation. The margins of some pages were heavily annotated. He allowed his eyes to skim over more of the notes… They made quite disturbing reading. A little more searching revealed what he was looking for and made his mind up as to his next journey.
Aziraphale headed towards the College gates, pausing to wave a hand casually towards the sleeping porter and to hover nearby to make sure that the man was fully conscious. Then the angel set off with long strides into the town and to the large coaching inn which stood on the main road north. The coach which he needed to catch was due the next day so Aziraphale took a room and settled down to consider his next move. His instruction had been simply to get information and to assess the potential problems. He could have left it at that, but his curiosity (some may have called it nosiness) had been piqued and he wanted to see the man behind the scribbled notes and dangerous notions.
The next morning, Aziraphale made himself ready to travel and stood watching the activity in the inn's yard as the long distance coach rolled into the yard, the horses damp with sweat and the driver muffled against the chill of the early morning. A new team of horses, four smart bays with banged tails and shiny coats, was led out and harnessed to the coach while the previous team were led away to the stables to recover from their stint in harness. He climbed into the coach and was relieved to find that he was the only traveller on that day. Not that he was antisocial… but he did find it tiresome to have to exchange pleasantries with strangers who seemed to want to tell him their entire life story, or, worse still, to have to listen to strangers telling each other their entire life stories, moving on to their ailments and all about their numerous offspring. He felt the coach dip slightly as the coachman climbed aboard and heard the horses hooves scraping on the cobbles as they stamped impatiently. He heard the coachman click his tongue at the horses and felt the coach give a lurch as the team leant into their collars and set off out of the yard, followed by another lurch as there was a loud call to halt the coach and the horses stopped and fidgeted. Aziraphale gritted his teeth and glowered at his boots as the coach door was flung open and a second person climbed in and dropped noisily into the opposite seat. To his extreme annoyance, the new arrival wasted no time in stretching his legs out and placing a pair of muddy-soled boots on the seat next to him. When this failed to elicit a response, the muddy boots swayed sideways so that a smudge of mud (he hoped it was mud) was left on the angel's cloak.
"Excuse me!" he said, tetchily.
"Why? What have you done?" said a familiar voice. Aziraphale looked up to see Crowley grinning back at him. "Sssorry, Angel."
There were a few moments of uneasy silence before Crowley gave a small cough and said, as casually as he could, although he already knew the answer "Where are you heading?"
"Lincolnshire. Colsterworth… well, a village near to it."
"What a coincidence, I'm…" began Crowley, then his voice dwindled to nothing as he caught Aziraphale's expression.
"Coincidence my….. eye!!" muttered the angel. Crowley squirmed slightly under his gaze.
"Woolsthorpe, per chance?" the angel added.
Crowley nodded and paused to stare out of the carriage window at the passing countryside, or would have done so if it hadn't been for the heavy morning mists which shrouded the flatlands of the Fens.
"The sooner they finish draining this place, the better," he muttered.
"Oh, I don't know," the angel responded. "It has a certain charm about it"
"If you're a duck… or an eel." Crowley growled, pulling his cloak tighter around him and drawing the curtain across the window. He pressed himself into one corner and closed his eyes. Aziraphale wasn't sure whether he was asleep or just avoiding conversation.
Eventually the coach slowed and the door opened, the coachman leaning in and calling "Colsterworth, Gentlemen". Crowley sat up and stretched, joints popping. He watched as Aziraphale climbed down from the coach and stood brushing the dried mud from his cloak. Crowley climbed down and stood looking at the coaching inn. The mist hadn't lifted and droplets of water hung from leaves, fences and gates. They built up and fell into puddles, small splashes echoing in the air while the mist subdued all other sounds.
Crowley headed into the inn and paid for a room, followed by the angel who also took a room and was quite aghast when the innkeeper asked if he would be sharing with his fellow traveller. Crowley stood nearby and smirked. Aziraphale harrumphed and blustered slightly before asking "Which is the best way to get to Woolsthorpe?"
The innkeeper walked him to the door and pointed down the road. "Take the Stainby Road over the Witham then take the road north and you'll find Woolsthorpe along that road. Not a lot there though, Sir." The man sounded somewhat surprised that anyone would want to make a specific journey to a tiny village when another short coach trip would carry them to the heady delights of Grantham1.
Aziraphale smiled and thanked the man, tossing a couple of coins to the lad who was holding his baggage and asking him to put the bags in his room. He glanced around to see what Crowley was doing, but there was no sign of the demon or his meagre luggage. And so it was, with a watery sun starting to push through the mists, that one angel set off along the road towards his goal.
It was really quite pleasant. The air was tinged with the sweet scent of some nearby flowers, occasionally masked by the stink of a marshy patch of rotting plants and swampy weeds. Birds were flitting around in the hedgerows along the roadway, bees buzzed happily in the water meadows and around the late bramble flowers, butterflies fluttered by, demons were sitting on the roadside wall… What? Aziraphale stopped and stared at Crowley who gave a little wave and hopped down to meet him.
"Mind if I join you on your little jaunt?" he said, brightly. Aziraphale flashed him an exasperated look and said nothing. He walked on, saying nothing, which Crowley appeared to take as an affirmative answer.
"You do know that you'll not get him, don't you? He's already walking our dark roads." Crowley said, shattering the silence between them.
"To whom do you refer?"
"Young Mr Newton, of course. Angel, don't try to pretend that you are just here for a quick stroll!!"
"I don't know what you mean."
"You were always a terrible liar, Aziraphale. You still are."
They continued in silence until the reached the small village and sauntered along it beside a stone wall next to a shade-dappled orchard. They peeked over the wall and saw a young man walking through the gate from the big house and sitting down in the shade of one of the trees. He was lean with a sharp featured face and carried an armful of books and papers, which he placed carefully next to him before picking up one of the books and a pen, starting to make notes.
Crowley gave a small laugh and Aziraphale looked up to see Crowley reaching up to an overhanging branch and plucking two rich red apples from the bough.
"Crowley! You can't do that!!" Aziraphale hissed urgently.
"Why not?" the demon responded, a look of innocence on his face.
"It's… erm... It's… Well, it's wrong."
Crowley raised his eyebrows and offered one of the apples to Aziraphale with what could only be described as a snakey grin. The angel glared at him and shook his head.
"No, Crowley!"
The demon held his gaze for a few seconds then shrugged and held the apple out in front of him. He swiftly passed a hand over the apple and, with a smooth movement, hurled the apple high into the air, back into the orchard.
They both stood, watching the fruit rise… rise… rise, then begin to fall, crashing through the branches of the apple tree and hitting the ground a few feet away from the young man, rolling towards him. He paused from his reading and reached out to pick the apple up. He stared at it for a while, holding it on his palm, then tossed it into the air and caught it a few times, before holding it at arm's length and dropping it. This he repeated over and over, frowning at the apple, until he finally picked it up, looked closely at it, and took a large bite from it before taking up his pen and notes and starting to write furiously.
Crowley grinned smugly at the angel. "My advantage, I think, Angel!"
"This is not over, Crowley!"
"Please feel free to thwart away, Angel."
Aziraphale glared at him, turned away, and began to walk back the way they had come. Crowley let him get a short way down the road and set off after him.
**
Aziraphale sat staring out of the window and inwardly dithering about the young man in the orchard. He wondered if he should have stopped to talk to him about his current beliefs and his life, but he had a gloomy suspicion that Crowley had been right and that young Isaac was never going to be one to follow a path of absolute God-fearing righteousness. His thoughts were interrupted by a large, earthenware flagon of something being thumped down on the table along with two large tankards.
"May I join you for a drink, Angel?"
Aziraphale gestured towards the chair and watched as Crowley slid gracefully into the seat. The angel reached across the table and tapped the flagon carefully.
"What is this?"
"A local cider, apparently. The innkeeper recommends it."
"Hmmmm. I never trust drink served in a vessel which you can't see through." Aziraphale said, wrinkling his nose but picking up one of the tankards and holding it out towards the demon who was wrestling with the cork. It popped out of the neck with a dull sound. Crowley sniffed at the flagon and recoiled with a look which was a mixture of horror and respect.
"That good, eh?" muttered Aziraphale, tapping his tankard on the table.
Crowley poured them a helping each and raised his tankard before taking a hearty drink. Aziraphale followed suit. When they had finished coughing and dried the tears from their faces, they both looked at each other with raised eyebrows then topped up the tankards and settled down to the serious business of drinking themselves if not under the table, then certainly to the partly slumped across it level of inebriation.
"Powerful for apple juice." muttered Aziraphale staring into his mug with a frown.
"…" replied Crowley, wondering vaguely if Aziraphale had always had those pink cheeks and slightly crossed eyes. He'd never noticed them before…
"… and apples?" Aziraphale was saying, and looking straight (or as straight as was possible after two flagons between them) at him. Crowley realised that a question was hanging there somewhere.
"Erm. Eh?" he mumbled.
"What is it with you and apples?" Aziraphale repeated.
"I don't know...ssssseem to recall they worked well enough for me in the passst." Crowley said, adopting an innocent expression. Aziraphale opened his mouth to respond but as he did so, Crowley reached into a pocket and produced the second of the apples acquired from the orchard at Woolsthorpe. He held the fruit in his palm and extended his hand towards the angel. Aziraphale gave him a black look, so Crowley shrugged and bit into the shiny fruit himself. He chewed it slowly and washed it down with a swig of cider. Aziraphale topped up the tankards and watched as Crowley swayed slightly in his seat.
"These local apples must be pokey little things." said the angel, swirling the flagon and pouring out a bit more. "Wonder what the little bits are. Core maybe… or pips… peel… stalk?"
"Or a sssssoupçon of rat."
"Ye… What????"
"Rat. They say that it gives it a bit more body… in every ssssense of the word. So they throw a dead rat into the barrel."
Aziraphale stopped with the tankard half way to his mouth and went very pale. "You are joking… aren't you?"
"Sssss the truth. Sssswear on my mother's grave."
"You don't have a mother, Crowley!"
"No, but if I did…" Crowley gave a small laugh and started to slide gently off his chair. Aziraphale managed to grab an arm and haul him upright and onto his feet, steering him up the stairs to his room. Crowley groaned and gave a gentle snort, hiccoughed and looked suddenly serious. Summoning the last bit of his ability to speak, he waggled a finger in Aziraphale's face and murmured quietly, "I wish you'd let me tempt you jussssht a bit, Angel... Jusht a tiny bit." With that, he slid downwards to the floor, drawn down by some irresistible force.
Aziraphale hauled the prone demon onto the bed and headed for the door, pausing to look back at the now snoring figure.
"Apples. I knew no good could come from them!"
Footnotes. 1 In fact, Aziraphale had already been there in 1598 and had met Francis Trigge, Rector of Welbourn. They shared a love of books, and after their talks, Trigge arranged for a library to be set up in the room over the South Porch of St Wulfram's Church. It was for the clergy and the inhabitants of the town, making it the first public library in the country.
****
Braunau Am Inn. austria. 20 April 1889c.
Crowley stood beneath the tree in the street and looked up at the 17th Century guesthouse. He would need a place to stay, but for some reason just didn't feel comfortable with the idea of taking a room at that particular Gasthof. The early evening sun was pale and watery, reflecting off the windows and the smell of the small, local brewery which was based in the same Gasthof, hung heavily in the air. Crowley had managed to meet the brewery owner shortly after arriving in the town and had quickly earned himself an invitation to look round the brewery and sample some of its wares. The owner had been working under the belief that the Englishman was involved in the brewing industry in exports and was keen to seize the chance to get ahead of his competitors and secure a contract with the clearly wealthy English gent.
He felt the angelic presence before seeing its source, and glanced across the road to see the tall figure of Aziraphale watching him. He lifted a hand in acknowledgement and the angel walked towards him, looking, Crowley felt, somewhat peeved.
"Well, I hadn't any idea why I was sent here but I suppose it was to thwart whatever sad little scheme your lot have planned." muttered Aziraphale.
"Don't point the finger of blame at me, Angel. I was enjoying a rather good sleep when something woke me up and I ended up here. Trust me, I'm heading back as soon as possible and catching up where I left off. Whatever has brought you here has nothing to do with me! I assumed it was something to do with your lot when I saw you here."
"Strange. One might even say 'ineffable'."
"No, one might not!!" snapped Crowley. He didn't like the uncertainty of this meeting or feeling that he'd acted without knowing why. "Now, I have an urgent meeting with a few glasses of the local brew. If you want to join me then please feel free to do so."
Aziraphale looked slightly dubious.
"Erm… It isn't local cider, is it?"
"No." replied Crowley. "Beer. Very popular, if the numbers of people walking out carrying bottles and rolling kegs is anything to go by."
"And they don't fortify it with any form of vermin… or beast of the field… or fowl… ?" Aziraphale asked, cautiously. His venture into the world of local cider had remained a vivid memory and he had been careful to check up on ingredients added to the so called 'local' offerings ever since.
"No." replied the demon, then added with a grin, "Leastways, not intentionally."
"Does nobody know how to create a decent wine around here?" grumbled Aziraphale.
"You seem to be managing to produce your usual brand of whine, Angel."
"Oh, very droll!" replied the angel, somewhat crabbily.
"Come on, Angel. We might as well face this little puzzle with a good glass of something alcoholic grasped firmly in the hand."
Crowley set off across the street and found the small brewery with no difficulty. A small table had been set out on the courtyard to the front of the building along with a large selection of bottles and beer kegs. The owner looked a little surprised to see a second person with Crowley, but quickly produced a second chair and smiled happily as he ushered them to the table.
Aziraphale drummed his fingers on the table and frowned at the demon.
"This is wrong. He thinks that you're going to order his product for selling in England?"
"His misconception - not my idea." Crowley shrugged and Aziraphale raised an eyebrow but didn't pursue the issue. He picked up a glass and waggled it towards the selection of beers.
They had just moved from beer number 5 to number 6, and had moved to a discussion about the complexities of whether Gilbert and Sullivan would be able to follow up Yeoman with another crowd-pleaser. The chat was punctuated by Crowley giving a decent rendition of one of the numbers from the show, clunking his glass down onto the table and starting to sing.
"OH! a private buffoon is a light hearted loon if you listen to popular rumour;
From the morn to the night he's so joyous and bright and he bubbles with wit and good humour!
He's so quaint and so terse, both in prose and…" He trailed off into open-mouthed silence as the door flew open and a man ran into the courtyard.
"Quickly!! Where is Alois?"
"Not here," answered the brewery owner. "Have you tried at his work?"
"Yes, but they say he had left for home already."
"Is there a problem?"
"The baby is coming! Where is midwife?"
Crowley and Aziraphale sat nursing their latest glasses and watched as people began to rush about in excitement. After a very short time a cloaked figure emerged from the shadows of the trees and buildings and moved at a brisk walk towards apartment block. The hood of the cloak was up, her face was hidden, but as she passed through a shaft of sunlight, Aziraphale was sure that he saw a flash of rich, red hair.
"Crowley? Did you see…?" he began, but Crowley was busy pouring another glass of beer and the question went unanswered.
A few minutes passed, then a man wandered aimlessly into the courtyard where he was greeted by the owner with a cheerful wave and a shout of "Alois!! What news?"
The man shrugged his shoulders. He looked tense and nervous.
"No news yet. Klara is fine, but they've sent me away. Apparently, this is womens' work and they don't want me in the way." He shrugged and sat down at the table with Crowley and Aziraphale, smiling his thanks as the owner brought another glass and filled it with the foaming golden liquid, then set a plate of breads, cheese and fruit in the centre of the table. Alois broke a small chunk of bread off and sat there making a pile of breadcrumbs from it. Crowley watched him intently, eyes fixed on the man's fingers as they plucked at the crust. Aziraphale stealthily slid the bread out of the man's reach and slid the glass of beer into its place.
"Er. Are you hoping for a boy or girl?" the angel asked, ignoring the look of annoyance which Crowley flashed at him.
"I don't mind. We've not been blessed with a surviving child yet. Boy or girl, so long as he or she is healthy." The man glanced nervously towards the apartment then back to the angel. "Do you have children?"
There was a distinct snort from Crowley and the sort of intake of breathe which was invariably followed by a lewd or dubious comment. Aziraphale smothered the moment with a loud cough and pushed a plate of food towards the demon in the hope of derailing his thought processes.
Crowley simply grinned wickedly. "Not one for fatherhood really - are you, Angel!" It might have seemed an innocent remark, but he followed it with a nudge and a wink which had Aziraphale turning that interesting shade of pink. Alois looked from one to the other of his drinking companions and Aziraphale could see his mind drawing a number of embarrassing and potentially quite dangerous conclusions.
"My work doesn't give me the time or opportunity to settle down," the angel muttered hurriedly, giving Crowley a venomous glare which promised that Words would be forthcoming and that those Words would be numerous and loud. He gave Crowley another warning glare then turned back to the nervous Alois.
"Have you decided on a name yet?" he asked, giving what he hoped was a soothing smile. Crowley gave a loud sigh of exasperation and turned his attention to the slab of cheese.
"If it's a girl then Paula, and if a boy, Adolf," Alois replied.
Aziraphale shifted uneasily as it dawned on him that he had dredged the barrel regarding his conversational abilities on the subject of new babies, and looked hopefully at Crowley for additional comments. Crowley looked blankly back at him and shrugged.
The ensuing silence was broken by the wailing cry of a newborn. Crowley wasn't sure why, but the sound made him shiver and go cold right through his body. It was like some call from the depths. Alien, yet familiar at the same time. Then, as quickly as it had arrived, the sensation was gone. He became aware of a man running into the courtyard looking flushed and excited.
"Alois! Alois! You have a son!"
Angel and demon watched their drinking companion run from the courtyard, shaking hands with all who passed him on his way. The hooded woman emerged from the doorway just as he reached it. Alois stopped before her and shook her hand warmly, obviously passing on his effusive thanks. As he left hurriedly, the midwife glanced towards the couple at the table and walked slowly towards them. As she got nearer, the air seemed to get thicker, dragging at their senses, smothering the light. Crowley felt himself clenching his fists, itching to lash out verbally and physically at his drinking partner. He noticed that Aziraphale was looking uncomfortable and guessed that he was also being affected.
The woman stopped at their table and laughed quietly. "Not going to offer me a drink, Boys?" She pushed back her hood and revealed a cascade of long red hair.
"Ngh." said Crowley.
"Eloquent as always, Serpent." she purred, leaning closer to him - her smile as sharp as a sabre, her eyes deep as the Realms of Hades and her lips as red as the blood of history soaking into the sands. She extended a hand and traced a long, sharp fingernail down his chest. Crowley found himself leaning back to avoid her close proximity.
Aziraphale stood and drew himself to his full height. Crowley could feel the angel's power radiating towards the Red Horseman, a subconscious display of power and intent, should she choose to ignore his warning.
"Oh, don't get your feathers in a flap, Principality. I am not interested in harming your little friend. And I am not here for you."
"For the child?" asked Aziraphale.
War's smile broadened and her voice was like a steel blade slicing through the air.
"You can fight for other souls, Boys, but THIS one is mine."
"But it's just a child! What use is a child to you?"
"As a mighty oak will from an acorn grow, so does a man grow from a child. Time, Principality, will show you."
"And now?"
"Now? Nothing here for now. I'm heading back to South Africa… I'm a bit busy there at the moment." She walked casually away, pausing to throw a glance back over her shoulder and give a small wave. It was not returned.
Aziraphale sighed and emptied his glass. "So, what now?"
"Speaking personally, I intend to head for home and bed."
"I don't go in for this sleeping as you know, but it sounds a tempting idea." muttered Aziraphale.
"Tempting? Really?"
Aziraphale looked up to see Crowley holding the apple which had come to the table along with the cheese, and giving him a look which brought a decidedly pink tint to his cheeks.
"NO, Crowley!!!!!!!"
Crowley laughed and clapped the angel firmly on the shoulder.
"Angel, you never learn… I'll see you next century."
Aziraphale watched as the demon walked casually away, then gestured towards the brewery owner whose memories of a pair of well spoken Englishmen immediately faded, leaving him wondering how so much of his stock had vanished.
****
SOHO, LONDON. 3rd SEPTEMBER 1939d.
The shop door, as always, was locked and the sign in the window read "CLOSED" in large, bold letters, underlined… Twice. And, as always, Crowley ignored both the sign and the lock, and walked into the shop, scowling at the bell which gave a weary 'Ting' as the door opened. The shop had a familiar smell - a mixture of old paper, leather, floor polish and a subtle whiff of something being heated in a pan on a hot-plate.
The angel was in the back room, stirring a small pan on the stove and reading a newspaper which was propped up against a tin of cocoa and a biscuit tin. He glanced up at Crowley and gesticulated vaguely towards the pan and raised a questioning eyebrow. Crowley nodded and Aziraphale reached for a second cup and added more milk to the pan. No words were spoken as Crowley sat down at the table and waited for a mug of cocoa to be placed before him. In the background, the radio was talking away. A woman was busy extolling the virtues of tinned foodstuffs and giving the listeners tips about storage of tins and use of their contents. Crowley looked at the angel and sighed.
"I can't commend your choice of listening, Angel. What next? Flower arranging for dinner parties?"
Aziraphale glared at him and slammed the biscuit tin down with somewhat excessive vigour.
"Preparing them for times ahead you think?" Crowley muttered, suddenly serious again.
"Judging by the recent news headlines…" replied the angel. The sentence was left unfinished as the radio crackled and hissed. The BBC have been promising a statement by Chamberlain since early this morning."
"No turning back then…"
"Looks unlikely. Wait… Listen!"
They sat in total silence. Neither needed to breathe, but both were holding their breath, as were the majority of people in that country at that time.
"This is the BBC Home Service. There now follows a statement by the Prime Minister, Mr Neville Chamberlain."
It was as if the country had come to a stop. The radio crackled and fizzed slightly as they listened to the calm voice of the British PM.
"I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany."
The announcement continued, the words dropping into the silence like stones falling into still waters. Chamberlain managed to stay calm and controlled throughout, but as he came to the end, his voice broke slightly with the emotion.
"Now may God bless you all. May He defend the right. For it is evil things that we shall be fighting against - brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression and persecution - and against them I am certain that right will prevail."
Crowley frowned as the radio moved on to a music programme.
"Oh that's right. Blame evil and point the finger at Hell. This isn't driven by us, it's humans doing this."
Aziraphale shrugged and nodded. "Well, at least we now know why we ended up in Austria that time. Maybe we should have done something…"
"Such as? We were just as much in the dark as everyone else. Even that Red Haired creature can't have seen how things would turn out."
"True. And his father did seem such a nice man." Aziraphale stood and went to a cupboard, extracting a few dusty old bottles from the darkness. "I was saving these for a celebration, but something tells me that we won't be seeing an opportunity for that for a while."
"Cheerful thought, Angel," the demon said, leaning back and reading the front page headlines of the paper. The next morning, he could guarantee, all papers would have the same story as the leader.
Aziraphale planted two cut crystal tumblers on the table and undid one of the bottles. They didn't bother to look at the label, just downed the contents in one and set the glasses back down for a refill. Again and again they did this, until the anxiety that they both felt had drifted into soft focus and they had slumped into a more relaxed way of sitting, although Aziraphale did insist on standing up for the duration of the King's address to his people.
"Will they ever learn, do you think?" asked Aziraphale, his question dropping into a small pool of silence.
Crowley swayed slightly and shook his head, wincing slightly at the effect of the action. He picked up the last bottle and glared accusingly at it. "Learn?"
"That war solves nothing. I mean, look at the Great War… "
"Ah. The 'War to end all wars'. Well, that lesson didn't seem to sink in. Let's face it, Aziraphale, humans fight humans. The buggers will happily fight each other if you give them a reason, and often even if you don't. Throw the Red Horseman into the equation and what chance do they have?"
Aziraphale sat in gloomy silence, tracing his finger through a spillage of brandy which had landed on the table during a rather enthusiastic toast to the King. He looked up at his drinking partner and said, softly "What will you do?"
Crowley looked up. He had removed the dark glasses which he wore and his eyes glowed a dull gold. He shrugged. "I'm not sure. Try to keep my head down and hope that Down Below don't try to hop on this particular bandwagon and start trying to manipulate the situation. Yourself? Will you be staying in London?"
"Hopefully I suppose it all depends on the orders from Up There. If they decide to get involved then I can't refuse their orders. Free will, and all that."
They lapsed into a gloomy, albeit drunken, silence. They'd seen wars through the ages, had seen weaponry develop and become more effective with each conflict. War drove development and innovation right across the board, but at such cost. Aziraphale shivered slightly. He looked across at Crowley, who was swirling the drink in his glass and staring moodily into the glass.
"You will be careful," the angel said. Crowley glanced up, his face serious.
"You know me, Angel. Caution is my middle name!!" He broke into a slightly brittle grin. "Besides, who would there be to help you to keep up your thwarting quota if I wasn't around?"
Aziraphale smiled, albeit sadly.
"Talking of which…" muttered Crowley, his eyes suddenly filled with mischief. Aziraphale stared at him questioningly as the demon made a swirling gesture in front of him and a shiny red apple appeared, balanced on his palm and held out to the angel. "Can I tempt you to try this beauti…"
"NO, Crowley!!!!" said the angel, but he was smiling as he said it, and then laughed as the demon shrugged and sighed.
****
SOHO, London. 31st December 1999e.
Crowley drove through the streets leading to Soho with a slight smile on his face. Really, this had been so easy. Just the right words in the right (or wrong) ears, especially those of a certain genre of journalists who specialised in taking molehill-like stories and creating a range of mountains from them which would rival the Himalayas. It was amazing what a difference just two small words could make…
"What if…..?"
The induced turmoil had surprised even Crowley himself. All around the world people were buying new computers said to be "2000 Compliant" and spending vast amounts of money and time buying CD ROM discs and backing up every little scrap of data and hundreds of photos from their current machines. Retail outlets had sold out of discs and people were starting to panic and lose their temper with shop staff and each other. In countless homes, spouses were silently (and in some cases not so silently) cursing each other for downloading and keeping so many pictures (many blurred beyond recognition) of babies, toddlers, distant scenery which could have been anywhere, and the obligatory kittens in various stages of cuteness doing strange things in boxes. Children were insisting that parents bought them new versions of their video games, usually involving a tantrum in the middle of a large store - and that was just the parents…
Businesses were flapping about like headless chickens with their IT departments taking massive amounts of flack from 'Management' for not predicting the probable disaster at least 10 years previously.
"Heads," Management said, threateningly, "would be rolling."
IT workers around the world sat silently in sweaty offices and thumbed through the situations vacant sections of the local newspaper looking for a change of career...
Computer sales rocketed, as did sales of electrical items and over-the-counter herbal preparations which boasted "calmative properties".
Crowley parked up outside the bookshop and wound the window down for a brief moment, closing his eyes and letting the sounds of the city drift over him. Crowley grinned as he listened to the frantic hum of panic and sensed the waves of not-quite-evil swirling across the world giving so many souls a light tarnish. Okay, it wouldn't be Hastur's idea of damnation of souls, but somehow that didn't seem to matter any more. He doubted very much that those down there were even keeping count these days - he'd heard almost nothing from them since the Tadfield Incident, but he didn't dare totally rest on his laurels. That was the thing about Hell, they had a habit of suddenly remembering, so he figured that it would help his case if in future they suddenly crawled out of the woodwork (probably literally) and demanded a report.
Closing the window with a brief gesture, Crowley climbed out of the car and braced himself against the cold, hurrying to the shop door.
"Sorry." read the sign in flowing copperplate, "We are closed."
Crowley shrugged and walked in.
"We're closed!" said a disgruntled voice from the back room. Nobody appeared. Crowley frowned and leant round the door frame.
"Angel, I could have been a burglar or some other ne'er do well!"
"But you aren't."
"Or a Bible thief..."
"But you aren't."
"Or…" Crowley gave up and walked into the room.
"Besides", said the angel, with a hint of smugness, "my Bibles are well protected... I'm not totally clueless, Crowley!"
"Protected how?" asked Crowley with genuine amazement.
Aziraphale sniffed and opened his mouth a couple of times. "Er..."
"Not protected at all then...." Crowley muttered, moving a pile of slightly dubious sounding paperbacks off one of the chairs.
"Well...." Aziraphale went slightly pink and pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose with a delicate cough. "Now, I must get on!" He glanced up at Crowley and frowned, then turned back to his computer and looked flustered.
"I suppose this is all your doing this... this... 'bug' thing..." he said, tersely.
Crowley shrugged. "Well, I might have made a comment somewhere some time ago, but really, Angel, this is all down to them. I just know a good opportunity when I see one and… ooo chocolate hobnobs!!" He snatched a couple of biscuits from the plate. "Any chance of a cocoa too? It's bloody cold out there!"
"And would Sir like a manicure and a rub down with a damp Daily Telegraph while he waits?" Aziraphale muttered, somewhat sarcastically.
Crowley frowned at him. "Just the cocoa for now, Angel."
Aziraphale made a noise which sounded slightly like a badly disguised obscenity and stomped off into the kitchen area where a lot of crashing sounds suggested the creation of cocoa was underway. Crowley amused himself by sitting at the angel's computer and downloading a mind-numbingly addictive computer game which he then started to play, making sure to turn up the volume so that the pings and whistles were just a little too loud. This in itself was a surprise as Aziraphale's computer didn't have a sound or graphics card, but Crowley assumed that a computer game could be played on any computer, so it worked perfectly.
The angel walked back in with two mugs of steaming cocoa and a bottle of brandy, and gave a squeak of indignant horror when he saw Crowley tapping away on the keyboard.
"Crowley!! I was trying to get my files sorted before the bug thing killed my computer!"
Crowley rolled his eyes and watched the angel as he laboriously sat, calling up files and saving them. He tipped a good quantity of the brandy into his cocoa and took a long drink.
"Good grief, Angel. You've still got a 5 inch floppy!!!!"
"I beg your pardon!!!???" Aziraphale snapped, cheeks flushed.
"Disc drive, Aziraphale. What did you think I meant?" Crowley smirked and added more brandy to their cocoas. Aziraphale coughed and turned hastily back to the keyboard.
Two hours and umpteen discs later, Aziraphale sat back and gave a sigh of accomplishment. Crowley had dozed off in one of the armchairs and was hissing gently in his sleep, his feet twitching slightly. His dark glasses had slipped from his eyes and dangled from his shirt front where they had managed to get caught. Aziraphale looked at the clock. It was 11.45pm. He gently shook Crowley's shoulder and leapt back as the demon awoke and snarled, eyes flaring angrily until he realised where he was and slumped back, looking sheepishly at the angel.
Aziraphale placed a glass of fine brandy into Crowley's hand and sat down opposite him, placing the bottle on the table between them. Crowley nodded his thanks and took a long drink.
"Fifteen minutes to go. We should toast the arrival of 2000."
"And the fact that the Tadfield Incident is heading further into the past." said Crowley, raising his glass and draining it. Aziraphale passed the bottle and watched as the demon poured out another glassful.
"I'll drink to that!" the angel replied, and did.
"And to The Arrangement." Crowley said, raising his glass.
"The Arrangement!!" agreed Aziraphale, clinking his glass against Crowley's and downing his in one. Crowley looked at him, he was impressed.
"And… and to Adam Young! May hissss time in this world be benefi… benetif… beenyfi… good."
"Adam Young!" agreed Aziraphale, who was starting to warm to the task.
"And… dolphins… which aren't fish at all."
"Doffins!" said Aziraphale, swaying a little. They had stopped pouring drinks from the almost empty bottle and were simply miracle-ing their glasses full again. Aziraphale looked at the clock and waved frantically at Crowley, pointing at the clock with a somewhat wavering finger.
" 's nearly midnight… look!"
Crowley blinked owlishly towards the clock and nodded.
Midnight chimed. Around the world, people cheered, then cursed as they discovered that their old electrical items all still worked and their panic purchases had been unnecessary.
"To us!" Aziraphale raised his glass. Crowley did likewise, looking suddenly serious.
"To ussssssss." he hissed. "Happy New Year, Angel!"
Aziraphale waved a glass vaguely in the air. He sat and watched Crowley. Watching that one face that had always been there, a face that belonged to an enemy who he knew that he could trust implicitly. He smiled.
Crowley was slumped in his chair, staring into his drink and looking thoughtful. Eventually, he sighed and sat upright, looking at the angel. He moved his hands, the gesture creating a ripple in the fabric of their reality. He held out a shiny, red apple, balanced on his palm and looked at the angel.
Aziraphale looked at Crowley, then reached out and took the apple. Crowley felt a tingle pass through his hand as the angel's fingertips brushed his palm. Aziraphale raised the fruit to his lips and took one bite, his eyes fixed on the demon. He smiled.
"Yes, Crowley," he said.
And as the new year started and the silence of the night was broken by distant cheers and fireworks, one angel and one demon finally really reached out to each other and their whole world changed.
********
The End (also, the Beginning)
Footnotes.
a The arrival of the plague to Britain.
b The beginning of Newton's development of the Universal Law of Gravitation.
c The birth of Adolf Hitler.
d Declaration of war. The start of WWII.
e 1999/2000 The Millennium Bug panic.