Happy Holidays, thekeyholder!
Title: The Chronicles of the Detective and Crook: How Two Professionals in Opposite Fields Came Together to Rule the City.
Summary: Aziraphale is a new homicide detective in the proud city of Gotham. Crowley is a crook on the lowest step of the ladder eager to work with whoever to climb up in the criminal family. Their meeting wasn't much of an accident and neither were the things that came after.
Rating: G
Characters: Crowley, Aziraphale, Harvey Bullock, Fish Mooney, Newt Pulsifer, mentions of other GO adorababies
The first time Aziraphale met the dark haired, rather annoying and excessively wearing sunglasses henchman of the Falcone family, he hadn’t been impressed. Anthony Crowley Oswald Cobblepot was a scheming, ambitious (to an extent), weirdo according to Aziraphale’s partner at the GCPD, Harvey Bullock whose fellow lackeys saw fit to nickname the poor sucker Penguin for aesthetic purposes. i It wasn’t a fond nickname as Aziraphale found out while pulling the man away from a group of men attempting to kick his liver through his spine.
The second time Aziraphale met with Crowley would be the first time the two would have a conversation together.
It was a balmy day, wind chill not too bad due to the numerous buildings in the downtown city area of Gotham. Aziraphale had just finished a shift with Bullock regarding the death of some businessman doing something with some prostitute in a back alley. The details escaped him; Bullock took point on the case and Aziraphale was basically just dragged around to look pretty. According to Bullock, the tartan scarf made it impossible to make him look intimidating. ii
A red light forced Aziraphale to stop his car, the detective mentally planning out which tea he would drink for the night, when the door on the driver’s side of his Volkswagen was pulled over and Aziraphale pushed to the passenger seat. Pushed may have been too strong of a word, as Aziraphale mostly tilted sideways, the seatbelt completing its manufactured role and securing his safety.
“You are quite possibly the worst driver in the history of cars starting production in 1904.” Crowley, who Aziraphale had not expected to see after weeks of meeting him and the mysterious Fish Mooney, reached over the seat to unbuckle the seatbelt and shoved Aziraphale over. “Seriously, you are a cop. How are you living with yourself driving under the speed limit? Do you even know what the acceleration is? Or the steering wheel?”
Maybe it was a sign that Aziraphale would never last as a homicide detective in the GCPD as his first response was to straighten himself out on his new seat in his own car. And then pull out the travel mug that kept his tea warm-ish from its cup holding and take a long sip. “If you’re going to be driving, my dear, I would appreciate it if you could stop by Topo’s Bookstore on Woodward before heading home.”
“Sodding cheese cake,” the umbrella boy muttered under his breath after several minutes of Aziraphale contently sipping his tea while Crowley navigated the crowded streets of Gotham with ease. “I can’t believe I just jumped into a cop’s car because you drive like a grandmother.”
“Well, I cannot believe that you haven’t hit anyone yet going the speed you’re going at. Rather good thing I don’t think I can give out traffic tickets, wouldn’t you say?” Aziraphale huffed as the car swerved to pass by someone crossing the street. “Do you normally hijack people’s cars who drive too slowly for you?”
“Of course not, that would be stupid. And I am not stupid.” Crowley paused. “Barring some terribly impulsive bad ideas, but everyone gets those once in a while.”
“I suppose.” Aziraphale said absently. “Turn left here, dear. Store is right on the corner and there should be parking just a little ways up.” The detective barely moved as the car’s tires squealed in protest of turning at such a high speed. Miraculously, there was a space perfect for the car right outside the store. Without hesitation, Aziraphale opened the passenger door, metal travel mug in hand, and unfolded himself from the car.
“You are coming in, aren’t you? I completely forgot to ask how you knew what car I drove.” Aziraphale didn’t even want to think of the dressing down he would get from Bullock and the Commissioner for his lack of protocol with his situation. Oh well. He was off duty; they wouldn’t have to find out. Hopefully. “They do have drinks inside.” He added.
“You have to be the strangest cop on the force.” Crowley remarked but got of the car nonetheless. “Ligur always laughed about how easy it was to corrupt the people supposedly protecting the city. I always thought he meant by bribes, not drinks at a bookstore.”
“I am not corruptible!” Aziraphale looked offended. “As long as I’m spreading what good I can, that’s following the law. iii”
“Huh. I guess that’s how the law works around here.” Crowley shrugged as he followed Aziraphale into the bookstore.
Topo’s Bookstore was small; each corner was stuffed with a bookshelf that was nearly toppling over from the precariously stacked books. Miniature-sized tables with even tinnier wooden chairs took up the center of the store in front of the bar, the actual bar in a bookstore, where someone was studiously wiping down the counter.
“Welcome to Topos’, how can - Oh, hello Mr. Aziraphale.” The young man looked nervous, his hands wringing at the towel. “Mr. Shadwell is out for the afternoon, said the limey Southern bastard - I mean the lovely Englishman - could go burn a few more candles with his finger; he doesn’t have any of what you need. Madam Tracy apologizes for Mr. Shadwell being rude and said you should come over for meatloaf once she’s put some sugar into the sergeant.”
Aziraphale blinked. “Ah, thank you Newt. But I just came for more of the jasmine tea Madame Tracy got from Tibet iv and something for my companion.”
“Oh.” Crowley snorted as Newt shot a glance at him before nodding, “Right yes, right away.” The worker dashed to the back of the bar, pulling out a jar full of tea leaves that Crowley could smell from feet away; the flowery sweet fragrance making his nose twitch in irritation. A few nose rubs while discreetly glancing at the menu under his ever-present sunglasses, halted any ugly sounding sneezes.
“What wine do you have?” He asked as Newt handed a steaming mug to the detective.
“Wine?” Newt blinked. “Uh, it’s a bookstore?”
“This is still a bar.” No, Crowley was not an alcoholic; he just had a very fine appreciation for drinks with a kick to it. Helped him get up in the afternoons to deal with the idiots that made up a mob family without acting on his wild imagination of tying them all in a room, eyes taped open to suffer through episodes upon episodes of Cheers.
“It’s a tea bar.” Newt protested weakly. At a glare from Crowley - one presumes it was a glare from the frown on his face, but the sunglasses hid his eyes which were the most important aspect of a glare, thank you very much - Newt sighed and reached under the bar to pull out two bottles. “Red or white?” he said glumly. Crowley grinned and grabbed both bottles and a glass after throwing down a bill. “Cheers, mate. Wasn’t too bad, right?” Newt didn’t respond, choosing instead to continue wiping down the counter top and ignoring Crowley.
“That was very rude,” Aziraphale said mildly. Crowley might have felt threatened from the detective’s truly effective disappointed look if he hadn’t been covered in a tartan scarf. The thick fabric wrapped around his neck made Detective Aziraphale look like a puffed up bird and if Crowley looked hard enough, he could almost see ruffled feathers in the design.
“I’m with Falcone.” Crowley shrugged as he sat down at the table Aziraphale selected, stirring the cup that held his tea. A bottle opener flashed in his hand to pry open the red wine. “Rude is basically the first item in the job description. You can even ask the blokes with Maroni, same skill set required.”
Aziraphale hummed, delicately lifting the porcelain cup up. “How things ever get done with people not having manners still manages to astound me.”
“Aren’t you the cop who slammed the door in the Mayor’s face and nearly broke his nose?” Dark red wine bubbled from the bottle and into the glass, Crowley topping off the liquid at the very brim. That event in particular had spread all over the Gotham Underground against Mayor James’ efforts to pretend it never happened. Crowley had laughed himself silly for weeks afterwards.
The fact that Aziraphale barely looked ashamed of his actions notched his approval rating higher in Crowley’s books.
“It’s not rude if he was in the way of the door. His fault, not mine at all.” Aziraphale said primly. Crowley hid a laugh by drinking. “Besides, I was going to ask questions, if I recall. Like how you knew which car was mine.”
“I’ve been following you.” Crowley shrugged. “Hopped in the trunk because I needed a discrete way to talk without Hastur finding out. He’s such a pain.”
Aziraphale blinked. “You… hopped in my trunk?”
“Of course, the whole discretion thing sort of blew the gasket because of your driving.”
“What do you mean you hopped into my trunk?”
“Huh? You know? Popped the trunk open and jumped in? There’s a lot of space in there for a Volkswagen, pretty comfy.”
“There are no seatbelts in the trunk!” Aziraphale nearly shrieked. Whatever Crowley had been expecting Aziraphale to take offense to; it certainly wasn’t an unsafe seat in an old car.
“Er…”
“If you wanted to speak to me, just ask! Sitting in the trunk of all places, someone spare me.” Aziraphale muttered. He took a hasty sip of his tea and even Newt in the back of the bookshop looked up in concern.
“I think maybe asking about setting up an agreement between of us might have been a strange topic to be talking about in the police station.” Crowley looked at his cup of wine. Maybe going to Aziraphale was an ill-conceived idea. His partner, that Bullock character, may have been the better choice, although Fish already claimed the man.
Crowley was petty enough to steal someone from right under Fish Mooney; hell, Fish knew he was petty enough for that and most definitely had suspicions he would. Which was why he decided to instead go for Detective Aziraphale to sway for an information exchange. The new homicide detective was a wild card, a new player in the Gotham game set and no one was yet sure of where his moralities lay. Except in proper vehicle safety apparently.
“An agreement?” Aziraphale frowned. “I’m a detective and you’re a mob member. What sort of agreement could we come to?”
“Information. I tell you about certain raids, you tell me when the Police are closing in. Drop points, evidence on certain members of the Families and in return I get intel and protection.”
“Seems like you are getting much more out of this than I am.” Aziraphale furrowed his brow. “Besides, why should I agree to this? That would be helping the enemy.”
“Well, you haven’t arrested me yet. And you aren’t helping the enemy, per se.” Crowley said hastily. “More like stopping most of the enemy while your good friend gains a higher status.”
“We are friends?”
“Or companions, if friends is too strong of a word for you.” As Aziraphale opened his mouth to refute the statement, Crowley continued. “First time we met, you helped me out of a tight jam. Makes us at the very least acquaintances in my book.”
Aziraphale simply looked at Crowley for several minutes, not saying a word.
“Best to take the offer I think, Mr. Aziraphale.” Newt called from the back, wringing out a wet towel. “Madame Tracy is always saying how the Families need some sort of change; can’t ever go to the store anymore without some sort of hooligan showing up.”
Huh. Crowley hadn’t been expecting that from the worker of the bookstore.
“But that’s what the cops are there for.” Aziraphale protested. “ You can’t seriously be advising that I start working together with a criminal to help the city.”
“It’s not like the cops are doing much, anyhow.” Crowley smoothly cut in. “Even when the Waynes were still alive and funding everything, Maroni and Falcone still had their hands deep in everything, leaving dead bodies left, right, and center. The police force weren’t much use then and they still aren’t.”
“Anathema’s great grandmother was killed by an explosion the police failed to stop v,” Newt sighed. Crowley had no idea who this Anathema person was, but from the look on Aziraphale’s face, he did. Which was the most important bit.
There was always the chance that the Detective would simply throw Crowley out without listening to his proposition; that this cop was different than the others in that his morals of working with a criminal - what an ugly word - were rigid and firm. From the expressions running across Aziraphale’s face, Crowley realized that this cop was different than the others, but not in the way he feared. This cop didn’t believe that the law was the right of the land, or whatever poetry people waxed; rather the law was a guideline to dance around and only enforce if people were getting hurt.
Now it was time to see if Detective Aziraphale would take the bait.
____________________________________________________________
The third time Crowley met with Aziraphale, it was to drop off a hidden note about a heist from one of Falcone’s underlings in the detective’s tea by pretending to be a server in the coffeehouse Aziraphale and Bullock had stopped at. Ligur had been killed in the resulting firefight, the brute had always been too stupid to realize when a retreat was necessary. Crowley went home that long night laughing in glee.
The next time it was Aziraphale who “arrested” him, only to let him out of the bull pen with a warning to avoid a new upstart Michael, who was an undercover cop with anger management issues.
“Oh, Beelzebub isn’t going to like that.” Crowley whistled leaning against the bars of the pen.
“Beelzebub?”
“It’s what Falcone likes to call himself; thinks it sound magnificent.”
“I shouldn’t mention then that the commissioner’s nickname is Metatron, then. She’ll throw a massive fit.”
On and on it went, each respective professional finding new ways to exchange information to cripple the other side. Bullock remarked at the impressive record Aziraphale was setting with picking out the members from each of the Crime Families and bribed members of the police force, evidence stacked high against every one of them. Aziraphale just smiled into his tartan scarf, pocketing the increased pay that came with his recent promotions for admirable work in the field and a sudden drop rate of the force.
On Crowley’s end, both Falcone and Maroni ended up trusting him more and more; his intelligence and information landing critical strikes against one another and the Mayor’s office on occasion. The man waltzed back and forth between the two, lying to both of them with the same shark toothed smile and easy confidence he used to lack.
He even managed to score a hit babysitting Falcone’s most trusted uncle’s kid, who was the heir to the -crumbling- criminal empire. Adam at all of eleven years old, was more interested in saving the whales with his friends then running a business and demanded Crowley help him run away to live with his old foster dad. It was Aziraphale who managed to get the kid Mr. Young’s number since a trip to England with a runaway kid was a bit too much on the illegal side for the detective. vi
Slowly but surely, the city quieted. Aziraphale was made Commissioner much to his regret and Crowley was elected Mayor, now running the criminal underground in a much more modern, effective model. No hits, no violence, just deals and brokers not really hurting the citizens of Gotham, but most definitely irritating them. Of course, Aziraphale stopped him whenever he figured the new Mayor was going to far.
“Aren’t you glad we started on this Arrangement, Commissioner?” Crowley smirked into his glass of wine, sitting on one side of a couch legs stretched out. Aziraphale sat across from him, his legs draped over Crowley’s as he read a book that was nearly falling apart at the seams.
“Whoever had this Bible in their possession took dreadful care of it.” Aziraphale muttered sadly, carefully turning the pages. “And yes, I suppose so, my dear. Although now I have too much work which I can only blame you for.”
“This is why you delegate all of your duties.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “You haven’t even been in the office for three weeks.”
Aziraphale shrugged. “If they need me, they’ll call. Or they’ll call you since the whole city knows where we live.”
“You’re the commissioner and I’m the mayor. It’s much more effective for us to be in the same building.” Crowley declared. Aziraphale kicked him as Crowley threw his hands up dramatically, nearing spilling the wine onto his recently tracked down (courtesy of Crowley and the Black Market) and purchased book from the eleventh century.
“Quit your moving around; you’ll ruin the pages.” Aziraphale scolded. “Listen to radio or read something or whatever you like, but do it quietly.”
“What if I don’t want to be quiet?” For once Crowley had put aside his sunglasses, his amber colored eyes leering at Aziraphale.
“Then I will throw my tea at you, and you better hope this time that it isn’t still boiling.” Crowley shuddered; the threat had been made and acknowledged. No one wanted to end up like poor Roscoe. vii
Without a word, Crowley leaned over a turned the radio on, leaning his head back to rest against the cushions of the rather comfy couch. There were no immediate issues with the city; he could nap for a month or so.
“It’s the end of the world, but perhaps not quite how we might expect it…”
Notes:
i Apparently, his birth certificate actually spelled the name Crawley but the crook in question had decided that name was too stupid sounding to have. Aziraphale never mentioned his feelings on the matter.
ii In Aziraphale’s opinion, Harvey Bullock could look intimidating for the both of them with his scruffy western cowboy look. Besides, everyone knew no one in the GCPD really cared about solving crimes. Aziraphale just wanted enough money working to buy his complete library of rare Bibles. Hard to earn that much working as a librarian.
iii Which Aziraphale thought as true from a certain point of view. The law was convoluted and long and had too many loopholes for his liking, which is why he was dubious about following every letter of it.
iv The tea leaves from Tibet were hand picked by Madame Tracy who some how found herself climbing a mountain after falling asleep one night in her flat in the States. Luckily, this sort of thing happened often and she had taken to carrying around a satellite phone in her nightgown just in case to tell Newt to mind the store and to feed Mr. Shadwell since the poor dear forgot so often until she could make her way back.
v Technically, Anathema’s great-grandmother Agnes Nutter set off the explosion on her own but as the police were coming to arrest the charming old lady for fraud and heinous crime of Always Being Correct, Anathema ignored that technicality.
vi That’s not to say that Aziraphale didn’t not go to the British Isles to meet with the elusive once guardian of the son of the biggest mobster in Gotham’s history. He just mostly went to pick up a batch of scones to sneak back into the States to share with Crowley.
vii Roscoe was a hit man sent for either Crowley or Aziraphale, they never figured out which. Aziraphale was annoyed the man had disturbed him from his knitting and ended up tossing his fresh off the kettle tea at him. Last anyone knows, the man is still traumatized from the burns and the screaming session the commissioner had with him and refuses to step outside of Arkham’s House for the Criminally Insane.
Happy Holidays, thekeyholder, from your Secret Writer!