FIC for vulgarweed
*giggles demonically* And all the time I was betaing her fic, she never knew.... I hope you enjoy it, m'lady. ;D
Title: Right Between the Deadlights
Author: use_theforce_em
Recipient's name: vulgarweed
Fandom: Good Omens
Characters/Pairings: Crowley/Aziraphale, War, the Kraken and a surprise
Rating and Warnings: definitely hard R, NC-17 to be safe, slash and explicit sexual situations, bawdy sea chanteys
Prompt: “What on earth is Aziraphale doing in Tortuga? You tell me. Bonus points for seasick!Crowley, a bar brawl, and cameo appearances by War and the Kraken. Oh yeah, and slash.” Well, I believe you got everything you asked for. *g*
Summary: “How the bloody he- Barbados did you end up here, Aziraphale?” A warning: this fic fudges time period a bit. This was mainly due to the fact that the Kraken in the story decided that it wanted to be the Kraken from POTC2, and things just went nuts from there. Sorry for the random cross-fandomization. XD Look for another special cameo….
Notes: Special thanks for betaing by ciryatureseaelf and youngcurmudgeon. I don’t know how I’d manage anything without you two. Really really. Also thanks to Hans Zimmer. It was so much easier writing a bar brawl with the Two Hornpipes playing all the time (from the potc2 sountrack). Not to mention Kraken theme music. :)
It smelled.
Of rum, of dirt, of promise and missed fortune, of sweat and vomit and urine, of brine, of off-key merry-making, of sex in twos and threes and however-many-you-please, of rot and gunpowder, but more than anything, of Sin, inherent and unrelenting, the kind that couldn’t be cured through a thousand sermons or a million cups of tea.
Aziraphale took a deep breath and firmly decided not to believe in reality.
For however long it took.
He had been more telling than was probably allowed when he had begged the captain of his ship not to engage in talks with the other “merchant vessel.” That vessel had turned out to be nothing of the sort, naturally, and the entire ship was ransacked, plundered and otherwise stripped down to spare parts. Far too many men had died. There was nothing he could do. Most of them met noble ends, and he could only hope… well, even uttering the word seemed a cause lost to the wind in a place like this (for to actually say its name was worse than saying “Australia”, in his humble opinion).
He had actually stowed away. Him. On a deck far below that was dark and damp and full of vermin, where he stopped breathing just to be certain that it would do no more than seep into his pores. There was no other choice, unless he fancied being discorporated at the end of a rather pointy cutlass, or worse, keel-hauled. Aziraphale had shuffled off his mortal coil… er, form rather, in a number of displeasing ways in his time on Earth, and when he could avoid adding other ways to that list, he did.
He wasn’t sure why he had prayed for better. Surely he was supposed to, being what he was, but that didn’t make it any more fruitful, contrary to popular belief. The ship and its less than becoming crew had made berth in the one place that Aziraphale had promised himself he would never be found.
“Shall we go to the dance? Shall we go to the dance?
Shall we go to the dance?” said the fair, young maiden.
“The hell with the dance and down with your pants!” Said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“The hell with the dance and down with your pants!” Said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
Aziraphale cringed as the people sang, truthfully embarrassed at the fact that he seemed to be the only person on the street who didn’t know the words. Perhaps if he had been able to mouth them at least, it wouldn’t have been quite so obvious that he didn’t belong there.
He spotted his reflection in a dirty puddle, glinting off moonlight and oil lamps: starched collar, clean shaven, hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck, reticent expression.
…Perhaps not.
He’d tried entering one of the brightly lit taverns, but going in alone was clearly a move made only by the astonishingly-disturbed, the astonishingly-inebriated, or the astonishingly-interested-in-loosing-anything-they-deemed-valuable-including-ones-clothes.
He couldn’t really recall a time that he’d ever had quite so many bosoms thrust in his face in the period of one hour, nor a time when so many owners of said bosoms had smiled such knowing smiles and then pointed him in the direction of young men who were clearly…
…well, that didn’t bear discussion or thought at all.
There was another problem entirely in the fact that Aziraphale had no idea what most of them were saying.
“An’ what aboot you, sirah? Would ye be lookin’ ta fire yer cannon through me porthole?”
“Come again, dear lady?”
“Oh, I’d be ‘appy ta do that fer ye, fine sir, agin an’ agin, all the night through…”
“…?”
Anyone could see the conundrum here.
The angel was utterly lost if he didn’t find a way to get out of port, and fast. However, no ships would set sail this night, or so he’d been told, and he still had to be careful about where they were headed anyway. Couldn’t very well board a ship that was headed on a futile quest for buried something-or-others, liable to crash upon the rocks and be heard of nay more. It would be most inconvenient.
He would have set up lodging for the night, but he couldn’t find a place that didn’t have some sort of duel or orgy happening on the lower level, and that made him nervous. And so, he was briefly contenting himself in wandering the docks; getting lost in the hustle of repairs, the stocking of rations, the drunken and warn-through stumbling about on all sides. It was all very tawdry, but certainly preferable to what the angel would have faced otherwise.
The trouble was, Aziraphale reflected during his wandering, that he didn’t know what to do with himself and in a place like this that was dangerous. It made him a target for every hoodlum, every lowlife, every ruffian, every…
…demon in hell…
Oh, it wasn’t possible. Spare him, for the love of -
Aziraphale ducked behind a barrel of something that smelled like fish guts and salted meat. It was probably filled with the latter, the additional aroma emanating from every space on the island that wasn’t taken by cheap alcohol or cheaper perfume.
Traipsing down the gangplank, a feather in his hat long enough to match his ego was He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named-In-Places-Like-This-When-One-Is- Hoping-To-Avoid-Him-This-Century.
And Aziraphale had certainly been planning on doing that.
He was as he always was. Tall, angular, confident, well-dressed (which always looked terribly uncomfortable in the angel’s eyes), mysterious, and... staggering?
The angular, mysterious fellow couldn’t seem to keep his balance, and when Aziraphale took a good look at his face, unhidden by hat brim from his low vantage point, he found that the poor boy looked quite… well, ill.
Each post marking the edges of the dock was connected by rope, forming a rail guard of sorts, and this was what the dark young sailor appeared to be using at the moment as a guideline to make certain he was placing one foot relatively in front of the other. He was headed in the wrong direction as well; not toward the island’s central ruckus, but out toward the unplotted jungle, places that were not inhabited by anyone for miles.
Well, that wouldn’t do.
Aziraphale sacrificed his hiding place and his wavering peace of mind, and caught up with his associate-by-proxy. “Er… Crowley?” he began, patting the demon awkwardly on the shoulder.
Crowley whirled around like he’d just been stabbed in the rear with a hornpipe, (an image that rose to mind because it was actually happening toward the other end of the dock; intoxicated buccaneers found the strangest things amusing…) and swatted the air to no effect. After a moment’s focusing, his eyes seemed to adjust well enough that he could make out the face in front of him, and his expression quickly turned -
“Don’t say it, please.”
“I’m… I’m not,” coughwheeze, “really, I’m not.”
“I mean it, it would be most ungracious of you to take advantage of the situation - ”
“Although, entirely appropriate - ”
“Yes, well, it doesn’t make it anymore of a kindly gesture towards someone who - ”
And then he couldn’t hear himself because Crowley was laughing and swooning at the same time, like his guffaws were throwing his balance to the brackish winds and he was going to tip into that pile of netting any second now.
The demon was shaking his head back and forth, grasping Aziraphale by the lapels of his jacket (adding stains because his hands were certainly not clean after where he’d been) and yanking him this way and that, apparently unaware that he was still throwing himself about like he was… oh. Well, that explained some of it. It seemed he didn’t quite have his, er, what were they called again? Shore legs? Dock feet? No, neither of those were right….
“How the bloody he- Barbados did you end up here, Aziraphale?”
“I really don’t want to talk about it.”
Crowley snorted and then his eyes narrowed on Aziraphale in a disconcerting way that made the angel wonder if he had something on his nose. “I’ll just bet you don’t,” the demon murmured, so suddenly lucid that Aziraphale took a step back in surprise.
It didn’t last long. A moment later the demon was enacting even more bizarre behavior, covering his eyes with one hand like his view of the world simply could not be borne, drifting to one side and clutching his stomach. Aziraphale huffed firmly after a moment because it was unbelievably childish - what the demon had to have been doing to get into that state, that is.
“Heavens, Crowley, how much did you drink already before getting into port?”
A slit pupil peered out from a gap between two slim fingers and actually blinked for a change. “Oh… loads,” the demon answered with a decidedly deciding air, rocking back on one foot and precariously catching his balance again. “Tankards. A barrel. These ships are never short a storage room or two and I made myself quite at… why are you looking at my like that?”
Aziraphale was, in fact, inspecting Crowley as thoroughly a plantation master might inspect a new shipment of workers, though he was certainly more polite about it. He sniffed the air about the demon, raised a hand to a shadowed temple and trailed one finger down to his jaw with a look of distaste. “You’re sweating.”
“How observant of you,” Crowley said flippantly.
“You never sweat.”
That was just asking for a sadistic grin. “Now, we both know that’s not true.”
But Aziraphale was too busy putting the puzzle together. It was one of those 3-D sorts that looked quite impressive once they were all built up, no matter how much they wasted one’s time. “You-you’re not drunk,” the angel hissed at him, gradually discerning that if the moonlight would stop lying to him about colors, he would have seen that Crowley’s skin was a wan shade of green. “You’re seasick.”
Crowley’s narrowed serpentine gaze had never been less intimidating. “I am not.”
The angel grabbed a guttering lantern from a swarthy, softly muttering old fellow passing by (said fellow did not notice, and probably wouldn’t have even without the angel’s interference) and waved it to and fro in front of the demon’s face. “No?” he said sweetly. “What does this remind you of, then?”
Crowley batted the thing out of the angel’s hand and it hit the wood planks with a sizzling shatter as the flame’s life drew to a premature close. “Bugger, Aziraphale,” he growled. “You are - ”
This was all he managed to get out before throwing himself over one of the ropes at the edge of the dock and proceeding to heave violently. It actually looked quite painful from where the angel was standing. Oh dear.
“Are you… vomiting?” he asked, creeping around the word precariously as though it might be contagious when uttered.
“No, I made sure there was nothing for me to get rid of. This is what they call ‘dry retching’. Add that one to a Bible for me somewhere.”
“Really, there was no call for that,” Aziraphale tutted, starting to grin a bit too sharply to be benevolent. “I can’t help the fact that a little swaying on the salty waves, has made you… well - ”
“Toss my cookies,” Crowley provided helpfully from the rope.
“Now, I’m fairly certain that no one says that.”
“Not yet.”
Aziraphale glared. Crowley said things like that often, and he never quite believed him. “Well, what’s a cookie, then?” he challenged.
“An undignified way of saying ‘biscuit’.”
The angel rolled his eyes as Crowley forced himself into a relatively upright position. The demon might have caught the tail end of the eye roll, as he immediately blurted out his half of things in a hurt voice.
“It was a great bloody storm, all right! We were tossed around like great masses of kelp for the better part of a day. You’d be miserable too.”
Aziraphale almost felt guilty, but his opportunities to catch Crowley in a disadvantageous state had been limited over the past century, and he wanted his rightful chance to gloat. Fair was fair, and the demon had been no kinder to him a moment ago. “Oh, yes. I’m sure the storm was just monstrous, that Poseidon was furious this evening and your poor wardrobe bore the brunt of it.”
“You could say that,” Crowley said dismally. “I made the mistake of pissing off Davy Jones, and that turned out to be just as bad.”
Aziraphale had been composing a nice little set of jibes that he could use throughout the evening to further this victory. It flew off in a hurry as that sentence tried to cram its way into his head. “That’s the most… preposterous thing I’ve ever heard. From you or otherwise.”
“What makes you say that?” Crowley asked as he straightened his sword belt, attention now drawn to the fact that his appearance had shifted too much for his liking.
“Davy Jones isn’t real, Crowley,” the angel said with a sigh, giving the sudden impression that he ought to be in a classroom surrounded by classical busts and quotes from toga-wearing philosophers. “He’s a metaphor, a symbol, like all the other pagan idols that have allowed humanity to give name to their fears. Don’t tell me that you’ve spent so much time here that you’ve forgotten - ”
“I haven’t forgotten anything, angel, and most of all, I’ve not forgotten to believe my own eyes. They’re quite good eyes, you see, and they saw Davy Jones, who I happened to get in a bit of a snit when I made a nasty comment about the state of his… appearance.”
“Really, Crowley, I can’t believe you honestly - ”
“And from what I heard, we were lucky for the storm. He could have sent - ”
Crowley’s sentence did not follow through to its apparent ending, because at that moment something creaked ominously, too slow and uproarious for it to be a deck in need of repair or a dumb crook sneaking up from behind. They turned around in unison to face the ship Crowley had so recently discharged from, and found it surrounded on all sides by a creature that was only said to be at home in suspicious fisherman’s tales.
It had tentacles.
It had a fatal, gut-wrenching scent.
It had a slippery hide and a rolling eye that provoked madness, the kind fashioned by the acute pressures of fathomless depths.
It was larger than any manmade vessel in the world and could choose to rise as silently as the feet that danced on the graves of the damned.
And it was angry.
The tentacles wrapped around the ship, coiling and slithering in ways that even Crowley didn’t approve of before pulling it into a tight embrace, squeezing and snapping like a ruthless and fixated lover as it rent the ostentatious frigate for its betrayal. Masts snapped like fruit stems, wood strained hard against rigging until it shattered and shook free from its caulking, becoming nothing more than sea-bedding or possibly a rather fine supper.
Crowds fled in well earned terror.
Deckhands screamed like bed-wetting children.
A few people thought the world was coming to an end and dove behind sacks of grain as though it might help to soften the blow of judgment and brimstone.
The mighty vessel fractured in twain before it was pulled down under the oily, unforgiving water. And then there was quiet on that side of the pier, a fairly comical thing to hear in the wake of total destruction.
Two man-shaped beings stared open-mouthed at the rather large gap of air and sea that touched the dock.
“…”
“…”
“Er…”
“…”
“…”
“… Well. He’s not supposed to show up for a long while, I thought.”
Crowley turned in the other direction and started walking. “I need a drink.”
Aziraphale could find no quarrel with that declaration and wisely followed.
Fortunately for Tortuga, no one act of devastation could actually halt festivities outside of a half-kilometre radius. Which meant that after a short walk they were in the thick of it again, and Aziraphale’s headache was making its excited comeback among the rising ruckus.
“What’s that thing between your legs? What’s that thing between your legs?
What’s that thing between your legs?” said the fair, young maiden.”
“How many verses does that wretched atrocity have?” Aziraphale exclaimed wincingly whilst getting shoved about, more often than not, right into Crowley’s back. He didn’t realize that they had merely started the tune over again.
“Oh, I love this song!” the demon (predictably) shouted over the din, waving his arms like a conductor, and the angel was positive he was only doing it to embarrass him when he joined in with, “It’s only me poll to stick up yer - ”
Aziraphale clapped a hand over Crowley’s mouth and dragged him into the nearest tavern with nothing more than a furious glare to teach the demon to follow. Crowley seemed to find that desperately amusing, and permitted it, sinking into a seat in the corner of the dingy room without complaint. “I hope you realize that this means you get the first round,” he said with an incomparable, slithering leer.
“Stay there,” Aziraphale told him stiffly, before turning toward the bar and discovering that he would like nothing less than to approach it. But rather than turn back and plead with his insufferable companion, he swallowed what dignity he had ever been allowed and trudged up to the barman resolutely, determined to come back successful.
After much confusion over what was being said (or rather, growled), a number of snappish rejoinders to rude questions, and the uncomfortable realization that the toothless man sitting nearby had been staring at his arse the whole time he’d been standing there, Aziraphale slapped a few pieces of eight down on the counter and returned to their table with a pint for each of them.
Crowley looked awfully entertained. “You know, that chap right behind you was - ”
“I know,” Aziraphale ground out irately, quickly taking his first gulp and nearly choking. “This is absolutely squalid.”
“Dear me, next time I’ll remember to get us into that nice place on Tortuga where they serve mango cocktails to you on silver trays,” the demon bit back sarcastically, taking a swill for himself and wrinkling his nose smartly. “What did you think it was going to taste like, cognac with a splash of fresh spring water?”
“Of course not, now kindly stop being so rude or I will leave you here by yourself.”
Crowley frowned at that, but pointed a finger in the angel’s direction a moment later. “No changing it into something nicer. If you’re going to be here, you better do it right.”
“But it’s utterly vile!”
“So what, you’re not going to get indigestion from it. Tough it out for once, angel. You might like it.”
There was something in the tone of that last sentence or so that Aziraphale knew he wasn’t catching. He ignored it in favor of leaning over his drink, finally settling into his chair. “Tell me what you’ve been up to. I’ve had my suspicions, but you know how I enjoy getting the details direct.” As an angel, he probably should have sounded more apprehensive with that comment, but he didn’t. In fact, he looked quite the opposite.
Crowley smiled like a - well, you know.
* * *
Time is rather irrelevant to agents of Heaven and Hell, especially where casual conversation is involved. So naturally, the only people who noticed that Aziraphale and Crowley had been sitting at the table for six hours, chatting away with no signs of slowing, were the bartender and the owner of the tavern. It was just as well that they left them alone. What with several decades of catching up to do.
Neither was very good at keeping track of how many rounds were consumed, but they kept buying them to assure that they wouldn’t be disturbed.
The demon was currently filling Aziraphale in on just how far Portugal was willing to go to get the Kongo Empire under its belt. Aziraphale listened with fascination. He had stayed away from Africa as much a possible these days, having gotten it into his head that the northern American continent was going to become important very soon. The angel was right, of course, but Crowley didn’t say so, preferring to keep silent and take care of things as they came up.
“You know, I think I’d like to join you sometime on one of those trips.”
Crowley coughed into his tankard. “What?”
“Jest, dear boy. Really, you must learn not to take everything so literally.”
Crowley eyed him suspiciously over the rim of his inebriated consciousness. Aziraphale was a pain that way - you just never knew what he would actually pull. “Right. Litet- litea-right.” He stared into his grog, unsatisfied with his conclusion.
“You really are getting more paranoid as time goes on, you know,” the angel tutted lightly. “Never thought I’d see it from you.”
“It’s called the benefit of experience.”
“With me? How interesting.”
A knee brushed his under the table. It couldn’t have been an accident.
This time when Crowley looked up from his drink, it was Aziraphale who glanced away, and it looked like his mind was wandering. Where, Crowley obviously couldn’t say, but it looked like a very interesting place to wander to.
He nudged the angel’s thigh with his knee, just to see.
Aziraphale drew in a breath sharply and when his gaze returned it was to stare unabashedly at Crowley’s mouth.
He felt his pulse leap to life.
Well, well. They hadn’t done this dance in a long time.
He leaned forward, intent on giving the angel a lesson in latent body language, but his gaze unfortunately happened to flicker up and catch something.
“What?” Aziraphale said quietly, waiting.
Crowley refocused on his companion, his mouth tilting into an apologetic half-smile. “Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll be right back….” He stood up from the table, sobering a tad as he went.
Aziraphale looked rightfully puzzled. “Where are you going?”
“I’ve spotted an old friend at the bar. I’m just going to say hi. You can amuse yourself for five minutes, can’t you?”
“Don’t leave me here,” the angel pleaded, becoming all too aware of the unseemly surroundings once again.
Crowley eyed the standard navy-issue saber at the angel’s hip pointedly, then waved a hand to dismiss the panic. “I won’t, I’ll be back, I swear. Just watch the band in the corner. It’ll make you look preoccupied and no one will come over to gang rape you.”
Aziraphale looked about ready to do something very unangelic in response to that. He was probably holding back to avoid giving Crowley the satisfaction. The demon winked and swerved in the other direction.
He made his way over to the bar with a swagger in his step, caused by the alcohol no matter how he would deny it, all the way up to a woman with hair the color of fresh blood and rubies. She seemed to know he was approaching before he got there, her head turning the barest fraction in his direction, a dangerously enticing quirk touching her lips.
Crowley leaned on the bar beside her casually, his forearms taking the weight. “I didn’t know this place was in need of a fight, considering the typical patron around these parts.”
“Everyone needs a fight. You’re fighting with him.”
“Leave him out of it.”
“Like I thought. You like to think it helps, don’t you? Leaving him out of it. Doesn’t do a thing. And he can take care of himself.”
“I know that.”
“Just watch yourself with him, eh?”
“…You know, this conversation is unnecessarily cryptic.”
She smiled like a fatal sword wound cut deep into a man’s heart. “I only deal in obscurities and symbolism.”
He grinned back. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. What’re you having?”
“I can get my own drinks.”
“Oh, I’m fairly certain you can, I was thinking maybe you’d get me one.”
She laughed like the blow by blow of a fist fight. “Ever the snake charmer. All right then, I’ll level with you this time around.” She looked him square in the eye, and Crowley carefully managed not to blink. “Want to help me start one?”
“What? A fight?” Crowley glanced around the bustling tavern, full of seafaring men too drunk to know mate from villain, too high on the night air to care much where the moonlight led them. He smirked evilly then, and if his tongue darted out once or twice in a compulsive reaction, no one noticed but the lady at his side. “Absssolutely.”
It was like someone had flipped a rather flashy switch on the transcendental plane, and suddenly the woman standing at the bar was spotlit, calling the attention of every man for a mile around. Heads turned, mugs dropped, conversations dropped off the sides of dirty, rum slick tables.
It didn’t take long for someone to decide that a woman like that should be in the company of a real man.
Had the heavy-footed young swab been paying attention, he would have noted how the dark-haired man sniggered as he pushed his way between him and the lady. However, this particular Jack Tar had never been known for his powers of perception, or he would have had a higher rank and probably the sense to be in a different tavern that night.
“What’s a fine young lass like you doin’ with a squiffy like ‘im, I wonders?”
The lady didn’t answer.
The man on the other side of him did. “Oi, the lady wasn’t talking to you, if I recall correctly.”
“She will be now,” he answered, not taking his eyes from her curving form, all shaped like cut stone and brass. “Shall we be splicin’ the mainbrace, you an’ me, luv?”
He was tapped on the shoulder. “Are you deaf, man?” came the uppity voice again.
With a snarl, he turned around with every intention of pulling the sprog’s teeth out one by one and keel hauling him until his face wasn’t so pretty. He was somewhat surprised to find a fist cracking against his jaw before he could coordinate properly.
Crowley grimaced and pulled his hand back in quickly, trying to shake it out. His aim had been dead on, but he wasn’t exactly conditioned for this sort of thing. The punch did little more than daze the man and his knuckles hurt. He still managed to take his cues well, though, and with a nod from the beautiful woman three feet away, they both grabbed the fine, stupid lad by his arms and tossed him over the bar to crash into a fairly large supply of liquor.
People started paying attention in a different way now.
The violence broke out with all the speed of a flash flood, and the woman was soon quite busy punching, kicking, shoving men into tables and overturning them, getting others involved in the fray. Crowley, for his part, had pulled out his cutlass and already pummeled someone in the head when they rushed him. He had a feeling he was going to be doing a lot of that in the next few minutes.
He really liked that man’s hat though, so he exchanged it for his own and checked to make sure he was currently untargeted before turning around and searching for…
That. He spotted a large jug against the wall on the other side of the bar. Reaching over with his sword, he slipped the blade through the handle and pulled it back over to himself, taking a long swig and finally prying his mouth from the thing when he remembered that he had someone waiting for him over in the corner.
Why did bands always play faster when these things happened, like that was going to help?
He batted his way between various scuffles, ducking around this flailing arm and that flying body, only to be faced with a scowling angel who sadly looked like he wasn’t having a bit of fun.
“I cannot believe you - ”
“Try this, it’s better,” Crowley interrupted, setting the jug down in front of him and jumping over a low sword swipe that attempted to sever his calf muscles.
Aziraphale gulped from the bottle and apparently agreed, for he nodded enthusiastically. Something glass was thrown into the wall and broke over his head. He didn’t even twitch. “Your hat’s different,” he pointed out.
“It’s more comfortable,” the demon explained, and it was too, all soft and sturdy brown leather. “I lifted it off that brute under the bar stools.”
“I’m sure he deserved it,” the angel said distractedly, finally noticing something at the center of the room. “Is that - ?”
“Yeah, she needed a little help getting things - ” But Crowley never finished that sentence because he found himself, quite suddenly, in a viciously strong headlock, kicking his legs hard against the floor as he was dragged backwards to meet some certain doom.
Aziraphale sighed and crawled under the table, keeping the alcohol for himself.
The problem was, Crowley reflected, not the he was being choked, since breathing was clearly optional. The problem was that the man was twice his size, wider than three of him, and Crowley really didn’t want to change form right now because who knew how difficult it would be to get back when he was distracted?
The other problem was that being in such a prone position left him open to all the accidental beatings of raving knaves who couldn’t see straight, and he’d just been kneed in the stomach for the third time. Luckily, he caught a flash of crimson out of the corner of his eye and tugged on its coat.
“Little help?” he wheezed as she reeled around, the heart of the whirlwind.
“Sure thing,” she answered ferociously, and she dragged his captor forward by the head, cracking their skulls together with the sound of a grenade going off. The hulking wonder dropped to the ground, giving his comatose respect to the mighty power he’d fallen to. “You might want to get out of here,” she advised, and with no further words of wisdom to dispense, she dove back into the battle, her smile glinting off every cutlass, every sweat soaked fist, every shard of glass on the floor.
Crowley couldn’t really disagree with that particular pearl of advice, but he couldn’t leave without his other party, unfortunately. Much as he hated to admit it, he would feel guilty abandoning him.
Had he been able to see the angel in those last two minutes, however, he might have been impressed. Aziraphale had stayed safely under their table until two grimy hands had grabbed him from behind and tugged him toward the stairs in a lustful frenzy. The man’s hips pressed into his arse, and the angel had no ready problem discerning what was intended for him; it seemed that something about Aziraphale was radiating “jailbait” this evening, and he didn’t like it one bit. So with a roll of his eyes, he elbowed the sailor sharply in the stomach and cracked the jug of alcohol still firmly in his grip right over the man’s head.
It shattered loudly and the liquid splattered on the floor in huge tawny drops. The molester joined it in short order.
“Pity,” the angel said.
For the alcohol, naturally.
Aziraphale turned and wiped his hands on his ever-dirtying overcoat. Really, now would be a good time for them to…
now how did he ever manage that?
When he finally spotted him, Crowley was being crowded up the staircase, at least five snarling rogues between him and the bottom step. His cutlass seemed to be the only thing keeping them at bay (which he was swishing in a decidedly unintimidating manner), and even that wouldn’t hold them for long. Aziraphale decided to rely on the skill he seemed to be showing a knack for of late, grabbing a rum bottle from the next table over and chucking it smartly at a bald head.
One man down, four or more to go.
Crowley looked up from the wooden-toothed faces that reeked of anger and soured indulgence, and raised one eyebrow in his companion’s direction.
“Nice shot, angel.”
Just then, a rather large man in front got a nice shot in for himself, knocking the demon square in the mouth. Crowley winced and put a hand to his swelling lip, looking fascinated at the blood on his fingers when he drew them away. Had he been human, he would have been distinctly unconscious.
“Would you kindly hurry things along?” Aziraphale said testily.
Crowley shrugged. “Sure thing.” And with a quick glance around to be sure that no one was watching too carefully, he snapped his fingers, and four (or five) scabby cutthroats sunk to their knees, then to the floor.
One of them snored. They all effectively blocked the stairwell.
“Show off.”
As if to prove the point, Crowley leapt over banister and landed soundly on the balls of his feet like a cat. He tipped his hat dramatically before rushing to the angel’s side.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said, sheathing his sword and making a break for the door.
* * *
The fight had spread it seemed, spilled onto the streets, taking up grievance with every brothel and inn and tearing the island apart fist for fist, metal on metal. One thing was certain; they had to get away from the center of it.
Crowley had an idea.
The galleon toward the west end of the dock was lightly guarded and seemed quiet. He put the guards to sleep and started up the gangplank, even as he felt the angel hesitating behind him. “No one will bother us here; I thought you wanted to get away from the fighting.”
Aziraphale’s edgy expression was in his voice. “I do, but don’t you think it’s wrong to just board without - ”
“Anything we take we can put back,” he argued wearily. “And I assure you that we won’t find anything more comfortable around here than a captain’s cabin.”
The angel sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”
Said captain’s cabin was actually quite nice. It seemed this particular boat had hit on good times, and was well stocked with riches of all sorts, including some very fine wine. How Crowley had known that, the angel did not ask. Aziraphale fingered the extravagant, heavy curtains on the windows while something was poured behind him. He felt a goblet get placed gently into his hand, and looked back into eyes that glowed comfortingly orange in the lamp light.
He actually looked more of a mess than Aziraphale did at this point.
“You let yourself get hurt more than usual,” he pointed out.
Crowley stared off to the side. “Just sloppy, was all. Should have sobered up completely before getting involved, I think I was still tipsy for most of it.”
“I should say,” Aziraphale answered, almost laughing. He looked at Crowley’s throat then, trying to pick out the emerging bruises from that brutal headlock. His brow furrowed in sympathy. “Are you injured anywhere else?”
Not going to tell you about the ribs, Crowley thought carefully, guarding his mind. The last thing he needed was the angel looking him up and down like that, what with that maddening concern of his, he was likely to….
And then Aziraphale was staring at his mouth again, raising a hand to it. “You know, you’re bleeding there rather badly, maybe I could - ”
But Crowley brushed Aziraphale’s hand out of the way, bypassing it for a kiss.
The angel stepped back abruptly, eyes wide and flickering bright from the reflection of fire off the silver cup in his hands. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked severely.
Crowley’s eyes froze then narrowed, irate and defensive. “I thought you wanted….” He shook his head, drained his goblet in two short gulps, stared furiously at the floor. “Nevermind.”
Aziraphale cringed and let himself breathe. He hadn’t really meant to upset Crowley, it was more that the demon had caused such a sharp surge of something deep down in his gut, and he hadn’t been prepared for it.
Oddly enough, his next instinct was to drop his beautifully wrought wine cup and pull Crowley against him, kiss him harder, fiercer - and then shove him away.
Aziraphale tried to steady the chemical rush in his system, all the stupid hormones that he didn’t need or want. Maybe this place was finally getting to him. Maybe he was truly no better than a scowling, chantey-singing, rum drowned…
Crowley almost looked angry. Almost. But there was too much confusion in the room for him to cling to it righteously. That lower lip trembled now, and Aziraphale couldn’t tell whether it was because he had caused pain or desire.
When he took a step forward, Crowley took a step back.
“Don’t go coy on me now,” the angel tried to tease, though his heart wasn’t in it. “I didn’t mean to… that is…. You caught me off guard.”
Crowley’s eyebrows spoke efficiently enough for him: I caught you off guard?
“Besides,” Aziraphale continued, trying to learn from the pattern of his breath what is was that he wanted, “you can’t go cold on me that easily. After all, we’ve been having such a lovely night. Dare I say, you owe me?”
Crowley snorted, but it was more haughty than offended. “Braggart.”
“Cur.”
He stepped forward again, but Crowley didn’t move this time.
“We’re always so bad at starting…” he murmured mostly to himself, deciding that he would put an end to it right there, leaning forward tentatively. He felt the shifting in the body in front of him more than he saw it.
Aziraphale touched his tongue to Crowley’s lips, sliding and tasting, healing the bleeding split down the center with a sigh. It set something off, had Crowley pulling him closer on a sound that was far too close to a whimper, needy and wild. Aziraphale watched the demon’s eyes fall shut, the way his mouth opened eagerly, inviting, and he had to wonder just how long it had been for his friend to find him wanting all of it that badly, to make him so hazardously open.
When he reached one plump hand down to grip at the demon’s chest, he heard something like a wince. Injuries there too, then. Aziraphale healed those as well, draining blood from under the skin like it was so much stardust, back to air and wind he reversed it. Crowley could do it himself, of course, but the angel was feeling generous… or maybe not. Maybe he was doing it for the most selfish reason of all.
The demon didn’t thank him for it. Aziraphale didn’t expect him to.
Crowley pulled his hand away, effectively halting everything. “Not here,” he said softly, kissing the tips of Aziraphale’s fingers one by one.
The angel was too far gone to understand the request, a little drunk on his command of the demon’s mortal form, knowing it well enough to heal him without causing more damage. “What?”
“It’s stifling. Let’s just….”
“Oh….” He could feel his eyes grow dark to match Crowley’s temperament, his heat. “You want to go out on the deck, don’t you?” he whispered, catching the game at last.
Crowley mouthed at the skin of his jaw, begging with his lips in a new way. Aziraphale was of no mind to refuse. He let himself be led by the hand, out under an inked sky splashed with sparkles like a scattered treasure chest. There things were clearer, and Aziraphale felt no shame in pressing Crowley up against the side rail, rubbing close, getting his hands tangled in buttons and weaponry and damp skin.
Crowley noted with little concern that his hat was now by his feet, his clothes probably ripped in several places where the brigands hadn’t touched him. He was too preoccupied in his hands wiping smudges of dirt from the angel’s cheeks, and his thigh pressing slowly between two legs to calm the fire, and that scent touching his nose but never staying long enough to make him stop breathing for it, and how could Aziraphale be sea-weathered and still so soft?
“I thought we weren’t going to do this again,” he panted, scrabbling to undo clothes because they both seemed to have decided without words that vanishing everything would be an absurd copout when they could struggle for it. “We haven’t, not since…”
“I was angry with you,” Aziraphale tried to explain while his teeth scraped the demon’s throat. “Because you weren’t there during the fourteenth century. I was mad at you for sleeping and leaving me alone to handle it.”
“Really?” Crowley drawled with a smirk. His voice dropped off the deep end then, low and grinding to match the angel’s hips against his leg. “Wish you’d told me. I would have repented….”
There was no warning, no fairness to how quickly he was seized and spun around, thrown up against the rail, wrenched back by the hair, his slick throat now exposed to cool, tormenting salt breezes. “Would you have, serpent?” the angel growled, his voice gone thrillingly rough.
He was flush against Crowley’s back and the demon could feel him, every inch of him, but there was one place that he wanted to feel more. So he strained his neck to stare back into the wrathful gaze and slipped his tongue across his lips, slower than a snake, faster than a human. “You know I would have,” he whispered. “Please…”
And a few moments later Crowley’s breeches and stockings were around his ankles. A hand grasped at the inside of one leg, urging it apart from the other and forcing him to remove those garments along with his boots.
“I can’t do this with one leg lifted on the railing, you know.”
“What a shame, I was looking forward to seeing you try.”
“Oh, how droll, haha.”
A stool appeared next to his right leg and Crowley set one knee on it, glad for assistance as it was unlikely that he’d be able to pull anything out of raw firmament for a long while. If he’d tried, they probably would have ended up with something completely unhelpful, like a telescope or a rocking horse or more rum. More rum definitely wouldn’t help.
He was still being held close, even - dare he think it? - coveted, and when one hand wrapped around to cover his mouth, he stilled in question. “Fingers,” Aziraphale directed.
Crowley smiled subversively and laughed as he took the soft digits into his mouth, preparing them so they could prepare him. It was a rather beastly circle when he thought of it. Even more so when one finger breeched harshly and gave him no time to adjust.
“I-I didn’t even have to ask…” Just the way he liked it.
“Unbelievable,” the angel rejoined, and Crowley wasn’t sure what he was speaking about then, only that he agreed.
Minutes flashed by in a hurry, the sounds of broken glass and pistol shots still carrying on the wind, and the demon had a moment to wonder if they were a product of hers too tonight. That woman with eyes that pierced and tore like torpedoes. To wonder what it meant that they fought in such a different way, with stretching and gripping and hnaaa -
“After all that abuse this evening,” and here Aziraphale twisted viciously, for he was getting impatient fast, “and you still want it this rough.”
“Hey, rough… mmm, is circumstantial. They weren’t… trying to bugger me, thank you very much,” Crowley said through gritted teeth, hips bucking helplessly with every twitch of that finger.
“Yes, thank goodness for that, or I would have had some smiting to do before sunrise.”
“Getting possessive, angel? Over me? How cu - aa-ahhh!”
And Aziraphale was deep inside him, fingernails cutting into Crowley’s chest as the demon writhed and snapped his spine back in a way that would have been painful, were he human. Or maybe it was painful and he simply didn’t…
“Does that burn?” Aziraphale hissed ruthlessly into Crowley’s ear.
“Yesss.”
The angel pulled back and pressed in again, torturous and slow, making Crowley feel every nerve light as he went. “And this?”
“Ooohhh, you’re set on murder this evening, aren’t you?”
It could have gone on forever like that, they knew how to make it happen. To keep each other on the edge for hours. That was what being immortal meant, only paying homage to time when you felt the need or saw the changes. They could have made it “last all night” in a way that humans only dreamed possible. They could have kept their bodies entwined for an age and lived in days of pleasure.
There were two problems with that arrangement.
One was that they were on the deck of a ship that would likely be weighing anchor before the week was out.
Two….
There was a right fine sight approaching. It was a group of scurvy, half drunk, ham-fisted sailing boys who were headed back to their ship for the evening to get some shut eye, all full of the sampled delights the port had to offer. It wouldn’t take them long to hear the commotion on their deck, and it would only take a bit longer for them to spot it.
Crowley, thankfully, caught wind of the situation and halted. “Er… Aziraphale?” he said, stifling another moan by biting his fist. “Aziraphale, we’re going to have to - ”
He didn’t see the angel’s face.
He didn’t see that Aziraphale had already seen those men coming a mile off, and he certainly didn’t see the dissident excitement on his companion’s still-so-angelic face as he distinctly did not slow.
“Angel, are you paying attention? We’ve got to - ”
“I’m well aware of the situation, Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped, and if anything, the pace picked up.
The demon’s eyes went wide as doubloons and he tried to look back over his shoulder. “But we’re…”
“Come now, dear boy, I’ve known for centuries about that streak of exhibitionism you’ve got, always trying to force me out into the open. Let’s put it to good use.”
“You… you - ”
“You’re going to come tonight in front of all those men,” the angel whispered fervently in his ear, nipping for good measure. “They’re going to see you depraved, helpless, desperate, and…”
And Aziraphale would get something that he needed as well.
* * *
Imagine, if you will, boarding your ship at night and finding that all the guards are asleep. They’ll likely get lashed when you’re sober, so you don’t worry much for it, but you do hear the tumult on the deck. It’s nothing new, of course. You’ve seen that before plenty a times, though truthfully not as often when there’s ready whores nearby. You continue up the boarding ramp with your band, cursing and chanting and making merry as well as any of the rest.
But perhaps this isn’t something you’ve seen plenty a times before. You realize it when you get closer, your party begins to slow, your conversation comes down. Because normally it’s quiet and ugly and too fast for reckoning. It’s on nights when you’ve not seen land for months and you’ve not had a fulfilling wank in longer. It’s after a great storm that nearly takes the life of you and all your crew, so you just need to feel skin to remember you’re alive.
That’s not what you’re looking on.
The young dandy is being served all right, and he appears to be liking it. Liking it more’n he should, that’s for certain. The one behind him is not giving him space to rest or breathe, and he’s rough, but he’s also meticulous. They move like they could swim in it, like they don’t belong on solid footing.
And when the older fellow spends himself with that final slamming thrust and a sharp growl, he looks like he might leave the lad there, just as he is. He slips out, does up his breeches in a hurry and steps away. There is a soft whining sound that just reaches the ears then, and he appears to change his mind, reaching one hand around the lean hips and closing his fist over something you can’t see. Coat’s in the way.
Your crew is standing on the deck now, open-mouthed like a bunch of drooling dogs. They’d been laughing a bit before, but that long since faded. You’ve never felt yourself go harder faster in all your life, and that’s with a bottle of grog in your gullet.
Then it’s nothing but vicious and raw and bestial cries, and when the young roguish one comes gasping it looks like he might faint dead before he comes to, gripping onto the rail like the earth is still flat and he might fall off the edge of it if he doesn’t have something to grab onto.
You hear more faint strains amidst the shivering. The elder master has let his head rest briefly over the other’s shoulder.
“…I thought… for a moment that you were going to just le- ”
“Hush.”
He gives the dark-haired one a sharp slap to the rear and a rough swipe of tongue against his neck. He gets another sweet whimper for his trouble as he turns around to face the crowd that has gathered.
“I wouldn’t bother with this one again tonight,” he says gruffly. “I fear he’s all used up.”
The man made for the boarding ramp to leave. He didn’t even have to call “gangway”. A path parted for him like water around a paddle, and he left the ship without another word, disappearing into winding labyrinth of transgressions below.
By the time you’ve turned back the other man has righted himself, looking more than a bit out of sorts. He can’t seem to stop shaking, but he’s at least managed to straighten up and he’s looking at every man there like he dares them to try it. They all know what “it” is.
Then he too left the galleon with a much more urgent, albeit awkward, step.
You could swear the younger’s eyes glinted gold under the starlight. Maybe he was a lad of dark magicks. Maybe the other one was.
Either way it is a sight that will follow you to your grave…whenever it is that Davy Jones sends the Kraken for you.
* * *
Aziraphale had survived his stay on Tortuga, and was now waiting patiently to leave. The winds were good and the sun wasn’t too cruel, and the sky spelled tropical paradise even in a place such as this. The isle wasn’t nearly so threatening in bright daylight, he had discovered. Even the squalor looked rather pretty when painted over in such cheerful tones. He leaned up against a barrel of fresh water, arms folded across his chest, surveying the crew of this particular boat as they prepared for departure.
Still, he couldn’t help but feel guilty, leaving without at least saying farewell…
Ask and ye shall receive.
There was a rustle, followed shortly by the Footfalls of the Perpetually Arrogant.
“You thought you could just slip off without even saying goodbye?”
If Aziraphale tilted his head just right, he could still see the mark on the back of that slender neck, the place where he’d bitten…. “I wasn’t planning on it, but I do have to leave, and I wasn’t about to search the whole port for you.”
He received only a nod in response. It was maddening. He probably knew that.
“Well, I had wanted to say…” He realized that he was speaking too loud and toned down a bit. “That is… I’m sorry.”
A smile. “No you’re not.”
“…No,” Aziraphale said after a moment, chuckling deep. “I’m really not. I mean, I’m sorry for you, but I had to - ”
“Have a conquest that equaled you to any bloody pirate in the Spanish Main. I got it.”
Aziraphale frowned then. Surely it couldn’t be as base as all that. “Well… no it wasn’t exactly like - ”
“How’ve they been treating you since then?” Crowley murmured pointedly.
The angel sighed in defeat. “…No one’s given me any trouble. Not since.”
“Mm-hm.”
Aziraphale had expected a little more fury. But if anything, Crowley looked relaxed, easy, keen on the horizon.
“So, what are you saying then?” the angel finally managed to ask. “That I needed that to be able to… survive around here?”
“Don’t go accusing me of saying things…. And also, don’t think that you’re out of the woods yet. I don’t care how celestially-shattering that was, or how many of my sexual fantasies you managed to fulfill at the same time. You owe me. In a bad way.”
If it was possible to blush and roll ones eyes simultaneously, Aziraphale managed it very well. “I’m really going to regret this, aren’t I?”
“Probably. But I can promise that you’ll enjoy regretting it very much…”
“You’re not funny.”
“Yes, I am. I’m the only person you know who’s got a proper sense of humor.”
Aziraphale stepped away from the barrel and stood tall. “Well then. I’m getting on board. I trust you’ll be joining me, won’t you?”
Lidded eyes with penny-thin pupils stared at the ship in question. “I’ll be down below shortly. You go on ahead, I want some more time out in the air.”
The angel acquiesced without protest and made his way on board amidst dozens of chanting sailors, all heaving and towing away. No one harassed him, not a soul.
The demon stared at the sun, unafraid of burning out his retinas.
“Rather pathetic, wasn’ it?” came a voice from over the demon’s shoulder.
“Beg pardon?” Crowley said idly without turning around.
“I said - ” The voice was quite young, but definitely male and it sounded very… drunk, in a way. But not quite. Too alert under it all. “Rather pathetic. I ‘eard about what he did to you, lots a people talkin’ about it, you know. You shoulda taught ‘im a lesson. You shoulda fought ‘im on it. He deserved a good thrashin’ is what they’ve been sayin’, an ‘s not like you couldn’t ‘ave taken ‘im.”
Crowley did turn around then, short of malice yet high on amusement. There was a figure hiding in the shadows of the building behind him, a boy no older than fourteen. His posture was lazy in a come-hither sort of way, despite his age, and he looked like the ground wouldn’t stay put beneath him, as he swayed eternally.
“What’s your name, son?”
His eyes were kohl smeared and curious. “Jack.”
Crowley ducked down enough for the boy to see his eyes properly as well. And the lad didn’t cringe back, in fact he leaned closer, but Crowley couldn’t be sure that he had meant to, that it wasn’t some trick of his tide-pulled blood. “Well, Captain Jack, I’m going to give you a little piece of advice.”
The boy’s lips parted and he nodded.
The demon leaned forward and hissed in his ear, the softest of sounds. “Why fight when you can negotiate?”
Dirty brown eyes lit from somewhere hidden, and with a flourish, Crowley removed his hat and set it on the young lad’s head. The brown leather tricorne looked fetching over the red bandana. Suited him. Didn’t fit yet, but he would grow into it.
Crowley had seen to that.
There was a wicked laugh, and then the demon was sauntering up the gangplank and out of sight.
Other work to be done below deck.
END
Title: Right Between the Deadlights
Author: use_theforce_em
Recipient's name: vulgarweed
Fandom: Good Omens
Characters/Pairings: Crowley/Aziraphale, War, the Kraken and a surprise
Rating and Warnings: definitely hard R, NC-17 to be safe, slash and explicit sexual situations, bawdy sea chanteys
Prompt: “What on earth is Aziraphale doing in Tortuga? You tell me. Bonus points for seasick!Crowley, a bar brawl, and cameo appearances by War and the Kraken. Oh yeah, and slash.” Well, I believe you got everything you asked for. *g*
Summary: “How the bloody he- Barbados did you end up here, Aziraphale?” A warning: this fic fudges time period a bit. This was mainly due to the fact that the Kraken in the story decided that it wanted to be the Kraken from POTC2, and things just went nuts from there. Sorry for the random cross-fandomization. XD Look for another special cameo….
Notes: Special thanks for betaing by ciryatureseaelf and youngcurmudgeon. I don’t know how I’d manage anything without you two. Really really. Also thanks to Hans Zimmer. It was so much easier writing a bar brawl with the Two Hornpipes playing all the time (from the potc2 sountrack). Not to mention Kraken theme music. :)
It smelled.
Of rum, of dirt, of promise and missed fortune, of sweat and vomit and urine, of brine, of off-key merry-making, of sex in twos and threes and however-many-you-please, of rot and gunpowder, but more than anything, of Sin, inherent and unrelenting, the kind that couldn’t be cured through a thousand sermons or a million cups of tea.
Aziraphale took a deep breath and firmly decided not to believe in reality.
For however long it took.
He had been more telling than was probably allowed when he had begged the captain of his ship not to engage in talks with the other “merchant vessel.” That vessel had turned out to be nothing of the sort, naturally, and the entire ship was ransacked, plundered and otherwise stripped down to spare parts. Far too many men had died. There was nothing he could do. Most of them met noble ends, and he could only hope… well, even uttering the word seemed a cause lost to the wind in a place like this (for to actually say its name was worse than saying “Australia”, in his humble opinion).
He had actually stowed away. Him. On a deck far below that was dark and damp and full of vermin, where he stopped breathing just to be certain that it would do no more than seep into his pores. There was no other choice, unless he fancied being discorporated at the end of a rather pointy cutlass, or worse, keel-hauled. Aziraphale had shuffled off his mortal coil… er, form rather, in a number of displeasing ways in his time on Earth, and when he could avoid adding other ways to that list, he did.
He wasn’t sure why he had prayed for better. Surely he was supposed to, being what he was, but that didn’t make it any more fruitful, contrary to popular belief. The ship and its less than becoming crew had made berth in the one place that Aziraphale had promised himself he would never be found.
“Shall we go to the dance? Shall we go to the dance?
Shall we go to the dance?” said the fair, young maiden.
“The hell with the dance and down with your pants!” Said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
“The hell with the dance and down with your pants!” Said Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
Aziraphale cringed as the people sang, truthfully embarrassed at the fact that he seemed to be the only person on the street who didn’t know the words. Perhaps if he had been able to mouth them at least, it wouldn’t have been quite so obvious that he didn’t belong there.
He spotted his reflection in a dirty puddle, glinting off moonlight and oil lamps: starched collar, clean shaven, hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck, reticent expression.
…Perhaps not.
He’d tried entering one of the brightly lit taverns, but going in alone was clearly a move made only by the astonishingly-disturbed, the astonishingly-inebriated, or the astonishingly-interested-in-loosing-anything-they-deemed-valuable-including-ones-clothes.
He couldn’t really recall a time that he’d ever had quite so many bosoms thrust in his face in the period of one hour, nor a time when so many owners of said bosoms had smiled such knowing smiles and then pointed him in the direction of young men who were clearly…
…well, that didn’t bear discussion or thought at all.
There was another problem entirely in the fact that Aziraphale had no idea what most of them were saying.
“An’ what aboot you, sirah? Would ye be lookin’ ta fire yer cannon through me porthole?”
“Come again, dear lady?”
“Oh, I’d be ‘appy ta do that fer ye, fine sir, agin an’ agin, all the night through…”
“…?”
Anyone could see the conundrum here.
The angel was utterly lost if he didn’t find a way to get out of port, and fast. However, no ships would set sail this night, or so he’d been told, and he still had to be careful about where they were headed anyway. Couldn’t very well board a ship that was headed on a futile quest for buried something-or-others, liable to crash upon the rocks and be heard of nay more. It would be most inconvenient.
He would have set up lodging for the night, but he couldn’t find a place that didn’t have some sort of duel or orgy happening on the lower level, and that made him nervous. And so, he was briefly contenting himself in wandering the docks; getting lost in the hustle of repairs, the stocking of rations, the drunken and warn-through stumbling about on all sides. It was all very tawdry, but certainly preferable to what the angel would have faced otherwise.
The trouble was, Aziraphale reflected during his wandering, that he didn’t know what to do with himself and in a place like this that was dangerous. It made him a target for every hoodlum, every lowlife, every ruffian, every…
…demon in hell…
Oh, it wasn’t possible. Spare him, for the love of -
Aziraphale ducked behind a barrel of something that smelled like fish guts and salted meat. It was probably filled with the latter, the additional aroma emanating from every space on the island that wasn’t taken by cheap alcohol or cheaper perfume.
Traipsing down the gangplank, a feather in his hat long enough to match his ego was He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named-In-Places-Like-This-When-One-Is- Hoping-To-Avoid-Him-This-Century.
And Aziraphale had certainly been planning on doing that.
He was as he always was. Tall, angular, confident, well-dressed (which always looked terribly uncomfortable in the angel’s eyes), mysterious, and... staggering?
The angular, mysterious fellow couldn’t seem to keep his balance, and when Aziraphale took a good look at his face, unhidden by hat brim from his low vantage point, he found that the poor boy looked quite… well, ill.
Each post marking the edges of the dock was connected by rope, forming a rail guard of sorts, and this was what the dark young sailor appeared to be using at the moment as a guideline to make certain he was placing one foot relatively in front of the other. He was headed in the wrong direction as well; not toward the island’s central ruckus, but out toward the unplotted jungle, places that were not inhabited by anyone for miles.
Well, that wouldn’t do.
Aziraphale sacrificed his hiding place and his wavering peace of mind, and caught up with his associate-by-proxy. “Er… Crowley?” he began, patting the demon awkwardly on the shoulder.
Crowley whirled around like he’d just been stabbed in the rear with a hornpipe, (an image that rose to mind because it was actually happening toward the other end of the dock; intoxicated buccaneers found the strangest things amusing…) and swatted the air to no effect. After a moment’s focusing, his eyes seemed to adjust well enough that he could make out the face in front of him, and his expression quickly turned -
“Don’t say it, please.”
“I’m… I’m not,” coughwheeze, “really, I’m not.”
“I mean it, it would be most ungracious of you to take advantage of the situation - ”
“Although, entirely appropriate - ”
“Yes, well, it doesn’t make it anymore of a kindly gesture towards someone who - ”
And then he couldn’t hear himself because Crowley was laughing and swooning at the same time, like his guffaws were throwing his balance to the brackish winds and he was going to tip into that pile of netting any second now.
The demon was shaking his head back and forth, grasping Aziraphale by the lapels of his jacket (adding stains because his hands were certainly not clean after where he’d been) and yanking him this way and that, apparently unaware that he was still throwing himself about like he was… oh. Well, that explained some of it. It seemed he didn’t quite have his, er, what were they called again? Shore legs? Dock feet? No, neither of those were right….
“How the bloody he- Barbados did you end up here, Aziraphale?”
“I really don’t want to talk about it.”
Crowley snorted and then his eyes narrowed on Aziraphale in a disconcerting way that made the angel wonder if he had something on his nose. “I’ll just bet you don’t,” the demon murmured, so suddenly lucid that Aziraphale took a step back in surprise.
It didn’t last long. A moment later the demon was enacting even more bizarre behavior, covering his eyes with one hand like his view of the world simply could not be borne, drifting to one side and clutching his stomach. Aziraphale huffed firmly after a moment because it was unbelievably childish - what the demon had to have been doing to get into that state, that is.
“Heavens, Crowley, how much did you drink already before getting into port?”
A slit pupil peered out from a gap between two slim fingers and actually blinked for a change. “Oh… loads,” the demon answered with a decidedly deciding air, rocking back on one foot and precariously catching his balance again. “Tankards. A barrel. These ships are never short a storage room or two and I made myself quite at… why are you looking at my like that?”
Aziraphale was, in fact, inspecting Crowley as thoroughly a plantation master might inspect a new shipment of workers, though he was certainly more polite about it. He sniffed the air about the demon, raised a hand to a shadowed temple and trailed one finger down to his jaw with a look of distaste. “You’re sweating.”
“How observant of you,” Crowley said flippantly.
“You never sweat.”
That was just asking for a sadistic grin. “Now, we both know that’s not true.”
But Aziraphale was too busy putting the puzzle together. It was one of those 3-D sorts that looked quite impressive once they were all built up, no matter how much they wasted one’s time. “You-you’re not drunk,” the angel hissed at him, gradually discerning that if the moonlight would stop lying to him about colors, he would have seen that Crowley’s skin was a wan shade of green. “You’re seasick.”
Crowley’s narrowed serpentine gaze had never been less intimidating. “I am not.”
The angel grabbed a guttering lantern from a swarthy, softly muttering old fellow passing by (said fellow did not notice, and probably wouldn’t have even without the angel’s interference) and waved it to and fro in front of the demon’s face. “No?” he said sweetly. “What does this remind you of, then?”
Crowley batted the thing out of the angel’s hand and it hit the wood planks with a sizzling shatter as the flame’s life drew to a premature close. “Bugger, Aziraphale,” he growled. “You are - ”
This was all he managed to get out before throwing himself over one of the ropes at the edge of the dock and proceeding to heave violently. It actually looked quite painful from where the angel was standing. Oh dear.
“Are you… vomiting?” he asked, creeping around the word precariously as though it might be contagious when uttered.
“No, I made sure there was nothing for me to get rid of. This is what they call ‘dry retching’. Add that one to a Bible for me somewhere.”
“Really, there was no call for that,” Aziraphale tutted, starting to grin a bit too sharply to be benevolent. “I can’t help the fact that a little swaying on the salty waves, has made you… well - ”
“Toss my cookies,” Crowley provided helpfully from the rope.
“Now, I’m fairly certain that no one says that.”
“Not yet.”
Aziraphale glared. Crowley said things like that often, and he never quite believed him. “Well, what’s a cookie, then?” he challenged.
“An undignified way of saying ‘biscuit’.”
The angel rolled his eyes as Crowley forced himself into a relatively upright position. The demon might have caught the tail end of the eye roll, as he immediately blurted out his half of things in a hurt voice.
“It was a great bloody storm, all right! We were tossed around like great masses of kelp for the better part of a day. You’d be miserable too.”
Aziraphale almost felt guilty, but his opportunities to catch Crowley in a disadvantageous state had been limited over the past century, and he wanted his rightful chance to gloat. Fair was fair, and the demon had been no kinder to him a moment ago. “Oh, yes. I’m sure the storm was just monstrous, that Poseidon was furious this evening and your poor wardrobe bore the brunt of it.”
“You could say that,” Crowley said dismally. “I made the mistake of pissing off Davy Jones, and that turned out to be just as bad.”
Aziraphale had been composing a nice little set of jibes that he could use throughout the evening to further this victory. It flew off in a hurry as that sentence tried to cram its way into his head. “That’s the most… preposterous thing I’ve ever heard. From you or otherwise.”
“What makes you say that?” Crowley asked as he straightened his sword belt, attention now drawn to the fact that his appearance had shifted too much for his liking.
“Davy Jones isn’t real, Crowley,” the angel said with a sigh, giving the sudden impression that he ought to be in a classroom surrounded by classical busts and quotes from toga-wearing philosophers. “He’s a metaphor, a symbol, like all the other pagan idols that have allowed humanity to give name to their fears. Don’t tell me that you’ve spent so much time here that you’ve forgotten - ”
“I haven’t forgotten anything, angel, and most of all, I’ve not forgotten to believe my own eyes. They’re quite good eyes, you see, and they saw Davy Jones, who I happened to get in a bit of a snit when I made a nasty comment about the state of his… appearance.”
“Really, Crowley, I can’t believe you honestly - ”
“And from what I heard, we were lucky for the storm. He could have sent - ”
Crowley’s sentence did not follow through to its apparent ending, because at that moment something creaked ominously, too slow and uproarious for it to be a deck in need of repair or a dumb crook sneaking up from behind. They turned around in unison to face the ship Crowley had so recently discharged from, and found it surrounded on all sides by a creature that was only said to be at home in suspicious fisherman’s tales.
It had tentacles.
It had a fatal, gut-wrenching scent.
It had a slippery hide and a rolling eye that provoked madness, the kind fashioned by the acute pressures of fathomless depths.
It was larger than any manmade vessel in the world and could choose to rise as silently as the feet that danced on the graves of the damned.
And it was angry.
The tentacles wrapped around the ship, coiling and slithering in ways that even Crowley didn’t approve of before pulling it into a tight embrace, squeezing and snapping like a ruthless and fixated lover as it rent the ostentatious frigate for its betrayal. Masts snapped like fruit stems, wood strained hard against rigging until it shattered and shook free from its caulking, becoming nothing more than sea-bedding or possibly a rather fine supper.
Crowds fled in well earned terror.
Deckhands screamed like bed-wetting children.
A few people thought the world was coming to an end and dove behind sacks of grain as though it might help to soften the blow of judgment and brimstone.
The mighty vessel fractured in twain before it was pulled down under the oily, unforgiving water. And then there was quiet on that side of the pier, a fairly comical thing to hear in the wake of total destruction.
Two man-shaped beings stared open-mouthed at the rather large gap of air and sea that touched the dock.
“…”
“…”
“Er…”
“…”
“…”
“… Well. He’s not supposed to show up for a long while, I thought.”
Crowley turned in the other direction and started walking. “I need a drink.”
Aziraphale could find no quarrel with that declaration and wisely followed.
Fortunately for Tortuga, no one act of devastation could actually halt festivities outside of a half-kilometre radius. Which meant that after a short walk they were in the thick of it again, and Aziraphale’s headache was making its excited comeback among the rising ruckus.
“What’s that thing between your legs? What’s that thing between your legs?
What’s that thing between your legs?” said the fair, young maiden.”
“How many verses does that wretched atrocity have?” Aziraphale exclaimed wincingly whilst getting shoved about, more often than not, right into Crowley’s back. He didn’t realize that they had merely started the tune over again.
“Oh, I love this song!” the demon (predictably) shouted over the din, waving his arms like a conductor, and the angel was positive he was only doing it to embarrass him when he joined in with, “It’s only me poll to stick up yer - ”
Aziraphale clapped a hand over Crowley’s mouth and dragged him into the nearest tavern with nothing more than a furious glare to teach the demon to follow. Crowley seemed to find that desperately amusing, and permitted it, sinking into a seat in the corner of the dingy room without complaint. “I hope you realize that this means you get the first round,” he said with an incomparable, slithering leer.
“Stay there,” Aziraphale told him stiffly, before turning toward the bar and discovering that he would like nothing less than to approach it. But rather than turn back and plead with his insufferable companion, he swallowed what dignity he had ever been allowed and trudged up to the barman resolutely, determined to come back successful.
After much confusion over what was being said (or rather, growled), a number of snappish rejoinders to rude questions, and the uncomfortable realization that the toothless man sitting nearby had been staring at his arse the whole time he’d been standing there, Aziraphale slapped a few pieces of eight down on the counter and returned to their table with a pint for each of them.
Crowley looked awfully entertained. “You know, that chap right behind you was - ”
“I know,” Aziraphale ground out irately, quickly taking his first gulp and nearly choking. “This is absolutely squalid.”
“Dear me, next time I’ll remember to get us into that nice place on Tortuga where they serve mango cocktails to you on silver trays,” the demon bit back sarcastically, taking a swill for himself and wrinkling his nose smartly. “What did you think it was going to taste like, cognac with a splash of fresh spring water?”
“Of course not, now kindly stop being so rude or I will leave you here by yourself.”
Crowley frowned at that, but pointed a finger in the angel’s direction a moment later. “No changing it into something nicer. If you’re going to be here, you better do it right.”
“But it’s utterly vile!”
“So what, you’re not going to get indigestion from it. Tough it out for once, angel. You might like it.”
There was something in the tone of that last sentence or so that Aziraphale knew he wasn’t catching. He ignored it in favor of leaning over his drink, finally settling into his chair. “Tell me what you’ve been up to. I’ve had my suspicions, but you know how I enjoy getting the details direct.” As an angel, he probably should have sounded more apprehensive with that comment, but he didn’t. In fact, he looked quite the opposite.
Crowley smiled like a - well, you know.
* * *
Time is rather irrelevant to agents of Heaven and Hell, especially where casual conversation is involved. So naturally, the only people who noticed that Aziraphale and Crowley had been sitting at the table for six hours, chatting away with no signs of slowing, were the bartender and the owner of the tavern. It was just as well that they left them alone. What with several decades of catching up to do.
Neither was very good at keeping track of how many rounds were consumed, but they kept buying them to assure that they wouldn’t be disturbed.
The demon was currently filling Aziraphale in on just how far Portugal was willing to go to get the Kongo Empire under its belt. Aziraphale listened with fascination. He had stayed away from Africa as much a possible these days, having gotten it into his head that the northern American continent was going to become important very soon. The angel was right, of course, but Crowley didn’t say so, preferring to keep silent and take care of things as they came up.
“You know, I think I’d like to join you sometime on one of those trips.”
Crowley coughed into his tankard. “What?”
“Jest, dear boy. Really, you must learn not to take everything so literally.”
Crowley eyed him suspiciously over the rim of his inebriated consciousness. Aziraphale was a pain that way - you just never knew what he would actually pull. “Right. Litet- litea-right.” He stared into his grog, unsatisfied with his conclusion.
“You really are getting more paranoid as time goes on, you know,” the angel tutted lightly. “Never thought I’d see it from you.”
“It’s called the benefit of experience.”
“With me? How interesting.”
A knee brushed his under the table. It couldn’t have been an accident.
This time when Crowley looked up from his drink, it was Aziraphale who glanced away, and it looked like his mind was wandering. Where, Crowley obviously couldn’t say, but it looked like a very interesting place to wander to.
He nudged the angel’s thigh with his knee, just to see.
Aziraphale drew in a breath sharply and when his gaze returned it was to stare unabashedly at Crowley’s mouth.
He felt his pulse leap to life.
Well, well. They hadn’t done this dance in a long time.
He leaned forward, intent on giving the angel a lesson in latent body language, but his gaze unfortunately happened to flicker up and catch something.
“What?” Aziraphale said quietly, waiting.
Crowley refocused on his companion, his mouth tilting into an apologetic half-smile. “Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll be right back….” He stood up from the table, sobering a tad as he went.
Aziraphale looked rightfully puzzled. “Where are you going?”
“I’ve spotted an old friend at the bar. I’m just going to say hi. You can amuse yourself for five minutes, can’t you?”
“Don’t leave me here,” the angel pleaded, becoming all too aware of the unseemly surroundings once again.
Crowley eyed the standard navy-issue saber at the angel’s hip pointedly, then waved a hand to dismiss the panic. “I won’t, I’ll be back, I swear. Just watch the band in the corner. It’ll make you look preoccupied and no one will come over to gang rape you.”
Aziraphale looked about ready to do something very unangelic in response to that. He was probably holding back to avoid giving Crowley the satisfaction. The demon winked and swerved in the other direction.
He made his way over to the bar with a swagger in his step, caused by the alcohol no matter how he would deny it, all the way up to a woman with hair the color of fresh blood and rubies. She seemed to know he was approaching before he got there, her head turning the barest fraction in his direction, a dangerously enticing quirk touching her lips.
Crowley leaned on the bar beside her casually, his forearms taking the weight. “I didn’t know this place was in need of a fight, considering the typical patron around these parts.”
“Everyone needs a fight. You’re fighting with him.”
“Leave him out of it.”
“Like I thought. You like to think it helps, don’t you? Leaving him out of it. Doesn’t do a thing. And he can take care of himself.”
“I know that.”
“Just watch yourself with him, eh?”
“…You know, this conversation is unnecessarily cryptic.”
She smiled like a fatal sword wound cut deep into a man’s heart. “I only deal in obscurities and symbolism.”
He grinned back. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. What’re you having?”
“I can get my own drinks.”
“Oh, I’m fairly certain you can, I was thinking maybe you’d get me one.”
She laughed like the blow by blow of a fist fight. “Ever the snake charmer. All right then, I’ll level with you this time around.” She looked him square in the eye, and Crowley carefully managed not to blink. “Want to help me start one?”
“What? A fight?” Crowley glanced around the bustling tavern, full of seafaring men too drunk to know mate from villain, too high on the night air to care much where the moonlight led them. He smirked evilly then, and if his tongue darted out once or twice in a compulsive reaction, no one noticed but the lady at his side. “Absssolutely.”
It was like someone had flipped a rather flashy switch on the transcendental plane, and suddenly the woman standing at the bar was spotlit, calling the attention of every man for a mile around. Heads turned, mugs dropped, conversations dropped off the sides of dirty, rum slick tables.
It didn’t take long for someone to decide that a woman like that should be in the company of a real man.
Had the heavy-footed young swab been paying attention, he would have noted how the dark-haired man sniggered as he pushed his way between him and the lady. However, this particular Jack Tar had never been known for his powers of perception, or he would have had a higher rank and probably the sense to be in a different tavern that night.
“What’s a fine young lass like you doin’ with a squiffy like ‘im, I wonders?”
The lady didn’t answer.
The man on the other side of him did. “Oi, the lady wasn’t talking to you, if I recall correctly.”
“She will be now,” he answered, not taking his eyes from her curving form, all shaped like cut stone and brass. “Shall we be splicin’ the mainbrace, you an’ me, luv?”
He was tapped on the shoulder. “Are you deaf, man?” came the uppity voice again.
With a snarl, he turned around with every intention of pulling the sprog’s teeth out one by one and keel hauling him until his face wasn’t so pretty. He was somewhat surprised to find a fist cracking against his jaw before he could coordinate properly.
Crowley grimaced and pulled his hand back in quickly, trying to shake it out. His aim had been dead on, but he wasn’t exactly conditioned for this sort of thing. The punch did little more than daze the man and his knuckles hurt. He still managed to take his cues well, though, and with a nod from the beautiful woman three feet away, they both grabbed the fine, stupid lad by his arms and tossed him over the bar to crash into a fairly large supply of liquor.
People started paying attention in a different way now.
The violence broke out with all the speed of a flash flood, and the woman was soon quite busy punching, kicking, shoving men into tables and overturning them, getting others involved in the fray. Crowley, for his part, had pulled out his cutlass and already pummeled someone in the head when they rushed him. He had a feeling he was going to be doing a lot of that in the next few minutes.
He really liked that man’s hat though, so he exchanged it for his own and checked to make sure he was currently untargeted before turning around and searching for…
That. He spotted a large jug against the wall on the other side of the bar. Reaching over with his sword, he slipped the blade through the handle and pulled it back over to himself, taking a long swig and finally prying his mouth from the thing when he remembered that he had someone waiting for him over in the corner.
Why did bands always play faster when these things happened, like that was going to help?
He batted his way between various scuffles, ducking around this flailing arm and that flying body, only to be faced with a scowling angel who sadly looked like he wasn’t having a bit of fun.
“I cannot believe you - ”
“Try this, it’s better,” Crowley interrupted, setting the jug down in front of him and jumping over a low sword swipe that attempted to sever his calf muscles.
Aziraphale gulped from the bottle and apparently agreed, for he nodded enthusiastically. Something glass was thrown into the wall and broke over his head. He didn’t even twitch. “Your hat’s different,” he pointed out.
“It’s more comfortable,” the demon explained, and it was too, all soft and sturdy brown leather. “I lifted it off that brute under the bar stools.”
“I’m sure he deserved it,” the angel said distractedly, finally noticing something at the center of the room. “Is that - ?”
“Yeah, she needed a little help getting things - ” But Crowley never finished that sentence because he found himself, quite suddenly, in a viciously strong headlock, kicking his legs hard against the floor as he was dragged backwards to meet some certain doom.
Aziraphale sighed and crawled under the table, keeping the alcohol for himself.
The problem was, Crowley reflected, not the he was being choked, since breathing was clearly optional. The problem was that the man was twice his size, wider than three of him, and Crowley really didn’t want to change form right now because who knew how difficult it would be to get back when he was distracted?
The other problem was that being in such a prone position left him open to all the accidental beatings of raving knaves who couldn’t see straight, and he’d just been kneed in the stomach for the third time. Luckily, he caught a flash of crimson out of the corner of his eye and tugged on its coat.
“Little help?” he wheezed as she reeled around, the heart of the whirlwind.
“Sure thing,” she answered ferociously, and she dragged his captor forward by the head, cracking their skulls together with the sound of a grenade going off. The hulking wonder dropped to the ground, giving his comatose respect to the mighty power he’d fallen to. “You might want to get out of here,” she advised, and with no further words of wisdom to dispense, she dove back into the battle, her smile glinting off every cutlass, every sweat soaked fist, every shard of glass on the floor.
Crowley couldn’t really disagree with that particular pearl of advice, but he couldn’t leave without his other party, unfortunately. Much as he hated to admit it, he would feel guilty abandoning him.
Had he been able to see the angel in those last two minutes, however, he might have been impressed. Aziraphale had stayed safely under their table until two grimy hands had grabbed him from behind and tugged him toward the stairs in a lustful frenzy. The man’s hips pressed into his arse, and the angel had no ready problem discerning what was intended for him; it seemed that something about Aziraphale was radiating “jailbait” this evening, and he didn’t like it one bit. So with a roll of his eyes, he elbowed the sailor sharply in the stomach and cracked the jug of alcohol still firmly in his grip right over the man’s head.
It shattered loudly and the liquid splattered on the floor in huge tawny drops. The molester joined it in short order.
“Pity,” the angel said.
For the alcohol, naturally.
Aziraphale turned and wiped his hands on his ever-dirtying overcoat. Really, now would be a good time for them to…
now how did he ever manage that?
When he finally spotted him, Crowley was being crowded up the staircase, at least five snarling rogues between him and the bottom step. His cutlass seemed to be the only thing keeping them at bay (which he was swishing in a decidedly unintimidating manner), and even that wouldn’t hold them for long. Aziraphale decided to rely on the skill he seemed to be showing a knack for of late, grabbing a rum bottle from the next table over and chucking it smartly at a bald head.
One man down, four or more to go.
Crowley looked up from the wooden-toothed faces that reeked of anger and soured indulgence, and raised one eyebrow in his companion’s direction.
“Nice shot, angel.”
Just then, a rather large man in front got a nice shot in for himself, knocking the demon square in the mouth. Crowley winced and put a hand to his swelling lip, looking fascinated at the blood on his fingers when he drew them away. Had he been human, he would have been distinctly unconscious.
“Would you kindly hurry things along?” Aziraphale said testily.
Crowley shrugged. “Sure thing.” And with a quick glance around to be sure that no one was watching too carefully, he snapped his fingers, and four (or five) scabby cutthroats sunk to their knees, then to the floor.
One of them snored. They all effectively blocked the stairwell.
“Show off.”
As if to prove the point, Crowley leapt over banister and landed soundly on the balls of his feet like a cat. He tipped his hat dramatically before rushing to the angel’s side.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said, sheathing his sword and making a break for the door.
* * *
The fight had spread it seemed, spilled onto the streets, taking up grievance with every brothel and inn and tearing the island apart fist for fist, metal on metal. One thing was certain; they had to get away from the center of it.
Crowley had an idea.
The galleon toward the west end of the dock was lightly guarded and seemed quiet. He put the guards to sleep and started up the gangplank, even as he felt the angel hesitating behind him. “No one will bother us here; I thought you wanted to get away from the fighting.”
Aziraphale’s edgy expression was in his voice. “I do, but don’t you think it’s wrong to just board without - ”
“Anything we take we can put back,” he argued wearily. “And I assure you that we won’t find anything more comfortable around here than a captain’s cabin.”
The angel sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”
Said captain’s cabin was actually quite nice. It seemed this particular boat had hit on good times, and was well stocked with riches of all sorts, including some very fine wine. How Crowley had known that, the angel did not ask. Aziraphale fingered the extravagant, heavy curtains on the windows while something was poured behind him. He felt a goblet get placed gently into his hand, and looked back into eyes that glowed comfortingly orange in the lamp light.
He actually looked more of a mess than Aziraphale did at this point.
“You let yourself get hurt more than usual,” he pointed out.
Crowley stared off to the side. “Just sloppy, was all. Should have sobered up completely before getting involved, I think I was still tipsy for most of it.”
“I should say,” Aziraphale answered, almost laughing. He looked at Crowley’s throat then, trying to pick out the emerging bruises from that brutal headlock. His brow furrowed in sympathy. “Are you injured anywhere else?”
Not going to tell you about the ribs, Crowley thought carefully, guarding his mind. The last thing he needed was the angel looking him up and down like that, what with that maddening concern of his, he was likely to….
And then Aziraphale was staring at his mouth again, raising a hand to it. “You know, you’re bleeding there rather badly, maybe I could - ”
But Crowley brushed Aziraphale’s hand out of the way, bypassing it for a kiss.
The angel stepped back abruptly, eyes wide and flickering bright from the reflection of fire off the silver cup in his hands. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked severely.
Crowley’s eyes froze then narrowed, irate and defensive. “I thought you wanted….” He shook his head, drained his goblet in two short gulps, stared furiously at the floor. “Nevermind.”
Aziraphale cringed and let himself breathe. He hadn’t really meant to upset Crowley, it was more that the demon had caused such a sharp surge of something deep down in his gut, and he hadn’t been prepared for it.
Oddly enough, his next instinct was to drop his beautifully wrought wine cup and pull Crowley against him, kiss him harder, fiercer - and then shove him away.
Aziraphale tried to steady the chemical rush in his system, all the stupid hormones that he didn’t need or want. Maybe this place was finally getting to him. Maybe he was truly no better than a scowling, chantey-singing, rum drowned…
Crowley almost looked angry. Almost. But there was too much confusion in the room for him to cling to it righteously. That lower lip trembled now, and Aziraphale couldn’t tell whether it was because he had caused pain or desire.
When he took a step forward, Crowley took a step back.
“Don’t go coy on me now,” the angel tried to tease, though his heart wasn’t in it. “I didn’t mean to… that is…. You caught me off guard.”
Crowley’s eyebrows spoke efficiently enough for him: I caught you off guard?
“Besides,” Aziraphale continued, trying to learn from the pattern of his breath what is was that he wanted, “you can’t go cold on me that easily. After all, we’ve been having such a lovely night. Dare I say, you owe me?”
Crowley snorted, but it was more haughty than offended. “Braggart.”
“Cur.”
He stepped forward again, but Crowley didn’t move this time.
“We’re always so bad at starting…” he murmured mostly to himself, deciding that he would put an end to it right there, leaning forward tentatively. He felt the shifting in the body in front of him more than he saw it.
Aziraphale touched his tongue to Crowley’s lips, sliding and tasting, healing the bleeding split down the center with a sigh. It set something off, had Crowley pulling him closer on a sound that was far too close to a whimper, needy and wild. Aziraphale watched the demon’s eyes fall shut, the way his mouth opened eagerly, inviting, and he had to wonder just how long it had been for his friend to find him wanting all of it that badly, to make him so hazardously open.
When he reached one plump hand down to grip at the demon’s chest, he heard something like a wince. Injuries there too, then. Aziraphale healed those as well, draining blood from under the skin like it was so much stardust, back to air and wind he reversed it. Crowley could do it himself, of course, but the angel was feeling generous… or maybe not. Maybe he was doing it for the most selfish reason of all.
The demon didn’t thank him for it. Aziraphale didn’t expect him to.
Crowley pulled his hand away, effectively halting everything. “Not here,” he said softly, kissing the tips of Aziraphale’s fingers one by one.
The angel was too far gone to understand the request, a little drunk on his command of the demon’s mortal form, knowing it well enough to heal him without causing more damage. “What?”
“It’s stifling. Let’s just….”
“Oh….” He could feel his eyes grow dark to match Crowley’s temperament, his heat. “You want to go out on the deck, don’t you?” he whispered, catching the game at last.
Crowley mouthed at the skin of his jaw, begging with his lips in a new way. Aziraphale was of no mind to refuse. He let himself be led by the hand, out under an inked sky splashed with sparkles like a scattered treasure chest. There things were clearer, and Aziraphale felt no shame in pressing Crowley up against the side rail, rubbing close, getting his hands tangled in buttons and weaponry and damp skin.
Crowley noted with little concern that his hat was now by his feet, his clothes probably ripped in several places where the brigands hadn’t touched him. He was too preoccupied in his hands wiping smudges of dirt from the angel’s cheeks, and his thigh pressing slowly between two legs to calm the fire, and that scent touching his nose but never staying long enough to make him stop breathing for it, and how could Aziraphale be sea-weathered and still so soft?
“I thought we weren’t going to do this again,” he panted, scrabbling to undo clothes because they both seemed to have decided without words that vanishing everything would be an absurd copout when they could struggle for it. “We haven’t, not since…”
“I was angry with you,” Aziraphale tried to explain while his teeth scraped the demon’s throat. “Because you weren’t there during the fourteenth century. I was mad at you for sleeping and leaving me alone to handle it.”
“Really?” Crowley drawled with a smirk. His voice dropped off the deep end then, low and grinding to match the angel’s hips against his leg. “Wish you’d told me. I would have repented….”
There was no warning, no fairness to how quickly he was seized and spun around, thrown up against the rail, wrenched back by the hair, his slick throat now exposed to cool, tormenting salt breezes. “Would you have, serpent?” the angel growled, his voice gone thrillingly rough.
He was flush against Crowley’s back and the demon could feel him, every inch of him, but there was one place that he wanted to feel more. So he strained his neck to stare back into the wrathful gaze and slipped his tongue across his lips, slower than a snake, faster than a human. “You know I would have,” he whispered. “Please…”
And a few moments later Crowley’s breeches and stockings were around his ankles. A hand grasped at the inside of one leg, urging it apart from the other and forcing him to remove those garments along with his boots.
“I can’t do this with one leg lifted on the railing, you know.”
“What a shame, I was looking forward to seeing you try.”
“Oh, how droll, haha.”
A stool appeared next to his right leg and Crowley set one knee on it, glad for assistance as it was unlikely that he’d be able to pull anything out of raw firmament for a long while. If he’d tried, they probably would have ended up with something completely unhelpful, like a telescope or a rocking horse or more rum. More rum definitely wouldn’t help.
He was still being held close, even - dare he think it? - coveted, and when one hand wrapped around to cover his mouth, he stilled in question. “Fingers,” Aziraphale directed.
Crowley smiled subversively and laughed as he took the soft digits into his mouth, preparing them so they could prepare him. It was a rather beastly circle when he thought of it. Even more so when one finger breeched harshly and gave him no time to adjust.
“I-I didn’t even have to ask…” Just the way he liked it.
“Unbelievable,” the angel rejoined, and Crowley wasn’t sure what he was speaking about then, only that he agreed.
Minutes flashed by in a hurry, the sounds of broken glass and pistol shots still carrying on the wind, and the demon had a moment to wonder if they were a product of hers too tonight. That woman with eyes that pierced and tore like torpedoes. To wonder what it meant that they fought in such a different way, with stretching and gripping and hnaaa -
“After all that abuse this evening,” and here Aziraphale twisted viciously, for he was getting impatient fast, “and you still want it this rough.”
“Hey, rough… mmm, is circumstantial. They weren’t… trying to bugger me, thank you very much,” Crowley said through gritted teeth, hips bucking helplessly with every twitch of that finger.
“Yes, thank goodness for that, or I would have had some smiting to do before sunrise.”
“Getting possessive, angel? Over me? How cu - aa-ahhh!”
And Aziraphale was deep inside him, fingernails cutting into Crowley’s chest as the demon writhed and snapped his spine back in a way that would have been painful, were he human. Or maybe it was painful and he simply didn’t…
“Does that burn?” Aziraphale hissed ruthlessly into Crowley’s ear.
“Yesss.”
The angel pulled back and pressed in again, torturous and slow, making Crowley feel every nerve light as he went. “And this?”
“Ooohhh, you’re set on murder this evening, aren’t you?”
It could have gone on forever like that, they knew how to make it happen. To keep each other on the edge for hours. That was what being immortal meant, only paying homage to time when you felt the need or saw the changes. They could have made it “last all night” in a way that humans only dreamed possible. They could have kept their bodies entwined for an age and lived in days of pleasure.
There were two problems with that arrangement.
One was that they were on the deck of a ship that would likely be weighing anchor before the week was out.
Two….
There was a right fine sight approaching. It was a group of scurvy, half drunk, ham-fisted sailing boys who were headed back to their ship for the evening to get some shut eye, all full of the sampled delights the port had to offer. It wouldn’t take them long to hear the commotion on their deck, and it would only take a bit longer for them to spot it.
Crowley, thankfully, caught wind of the situation and halted. “Er… Aziraphale?” he said, stifling another moan by biting his fist. “Aziraphale, we’re going to have to - ”
He didn’t see the angel’s face.
He didn’t see that Aziraphale had already seen those men coming a mile off, and he certainly didn’t see the dissident excitement on his companion’s still-so-angelic face as he distinctly did not slow.
“Angel, are you paying attention? We’ve got to - ”
“I’m well aware of the situation, Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped, and if anything, the pace picked up.
The demon’s eyes went wide as doubloons and he tried to look back over his shoulder. “But we’re…”
“Come now, dear boy, I’ve known for centuries about that streak of exhibitionism you’ve got, always trying to force me out into the open. Let’s put it to good use.”
“You… you - ”
“You’re going to come tonight in front of all those men,” the angel whispered fervently in his ear, nipping for good measure. “They’re going to see you depraved, helpless, desperate, and…”
And Aziraphale would get something that he needed as well.
* * *
Imagine, if you will, boarding your ship at night and finding that all the guards are asleep. They’ll likely get lashed when you’re sober, so you don’t worry much for it, but you do hear the tumult on the deck. It’s nothing new, of course. You’ve seen that before plenty a times, though truthfully not as often when there’s ready whores nearby. You continue up the boarding ramp with your band, cursing and chanting and making merry as well as any of the rest.
But perhaps this isn’t something you’ve seen plenty a times before. You realize it when you get closer, your party begins to slow, your conversation comes down. Because normally it’s quiet and ugly and too fast for reckoning. It’s on nights when you’ve not seen land for months and you’ve not had a fulfilling wank in longer. It’s after a great storm that nearly takes the life of you and all your crew, so you just need to feel skin to remember you’re alive.
That’s not what you’re looking on.
The young dandy is being served all right, and he appears to be liking it. Liking it more’n he should, that’s for certain. The one behind him is not giving him space to rest or breathe, and he’s rough, but he’s also meticulous. They move like they could swim in it, like they don’t belong on solid footing.
And when the older fellow spends himself with that final slamming thrust and a sharp growl, he looks like he might leave the lad there, just as he is. He slips out, does up his breeches in a hurry and steps away. There is a soft whining sound that just reaches the ears then, and he appears to change his mind, reaching one hand around the lean hips and closing his fist over something you can’t see. Coat’s in the way.
Your crew is standing on the deck now, open-mouthed like a bunch of drooling dogs. They’d been laughing a bit before, but that long since faded. You’ve never felt yourself go harder faster in all your life, and that’s with a bottle of grog in your gullet.
Then it’s nothing but vicious and raw and bestial cries, and when the young roguish one comes gasping it looks like he might faint dead before he comes to, gripping onto the rail like the earth is still flat and he might fall off the edge of it if he doesn’t have something to grab onto.
You hear more faint strains amidst the shivering. The elder master has let his head rest briefly over the other’s shoulder.
“…I thought… for a moment that you were going to just le- ”
“Hush.”
He gives the dark-haired one a sharp slap to the rear and a rough swipe of tongue against his neck. He gets another sweet whimper for his trouble as he turns around to face the crowd that has gathered.
“I wouldn’t bother with this one again tonight,” he says gruffly. “I fear he’s all used up.”
The man made for the boarding ramp to leave. He didn’t even have to call “gangway”. A path parted for him like water around a paddle, and he left the ship without another word, disappearing into winding labyrinth of transgressions below.
By the time you’ve turned back the other man has righted himself, looking more than a bit out of sorts. He can’t seem to stop shaking, but he’s at least managed to straighten up and he’s looking at every man there like he dares them to try it. They all know what “it” is.
Then he too left the galleon with a much more urgent, albeit awkward, step.
You could swear the younger’s eyes glinted gold under the starlight. Maybe he was a lad of dark magicks. Maybe the other one was.
Either way it is a sight that will follow you to your grave…whenever it is that Davy Jones sends the Kraken for you.
* * *
Aziraphale had survived his stay on Tortuga, and was now waiting patiently to leave. The winds were good and the sun wasn’t too cruel, and the sky spelled tropical paradise even in a place such as this. The isle wasn’t nearly so threatening in bright daylight, he had discovered. Even the squalor looked rather pretty when painted over in such cheerful tones. He leaned up against a barrel of fresh water, arms folded across his chest, surveying the crew of this particular boat as they prepared for departure.
Still, he couldn’t help but feel guilty, leaving without at least saying farewell…
Ask and ye shall receive.
There was a rustle, followed shortly by the Footfalls of the Perpetually Arrogant.
“You thought you could just slip off without even saying goodbye?”
If Aziraphale tilted his head just right, he could still see the mark on the back of that slender neck, the place where he’d bitten…. “I wasn’t planning on it, but I do have to leave, and I wasn’t about to search the whole port for you.”
He received only a nod in response. It was maddening. He probably knew that.
“Well, I had wanted to say…” He realized that he was speaking too loud and toned down a bit. “That is… I’m sorry.”
A smile. “No you’re not.”
“…No,” Aziraphale said after a moment, chuckling deep. “I’m really not. I mean, I’m sorry for you, but I had to - ”
“Have a conquest that equaled you to any bloody pirate in the Spanish Main. I got it.”
Aziraphale frowned then. Surely it couldn’t be as base as all that. “Well… no it wasn’t exactly like - ”
“How’ve they been treating you since then?” Crowley murmured pointedly.
The angel sighed in defeat. “…No one’s given me any trouble. Not since.”
“Mm-hm.”
Aziraphale had expected a little more fury. But if anything, Crowley looked relaxed, easy, keen on the horizon.
“So, what are you saying then?” the angel finally managed to ask. “That I needed that to be able to… survive around here?”
“Don’t go accusing me of saying things…. And also, don’t think that you’re out of the woods yet. I don’t care how celestially-shattering that was, or how many of my sexual fantasies you managed to fulfill at the same time. You owe me. In a bad way.”
If it was possible to blush and roll ones eyes simultaneously, Aziraphale managed it very well. “I’m really going to regret this, aren’t I?”
“Probably. But I can promise that you’ll enjoy regretting it very much…”
“You’re not funny.”
“Yes, I am. I’m the only person you know who’s got a proper sense of humor.”
Aziraphale stepped away from the barrel and stood tall. “Well then. I’m getting on board. I trust you’ll be joining me, won’t you?”
Lidded eyes with penny-thin pupils stared at the ship in question. “I’ll be down below shortly. You go on ahead, I want some more time out in the air.”
The angel acquiesced without protest and made his way on board amidst dozens of chanting sailors, all heaving and towing away. No one harassed him, not a soul.
The demon stared at the sun, unafraid of burning out his retinas.
“Rather pathetic, wasn’ it?” came a voice from over the demon’s shoulder.
“Beg pardon?” Crowley said idly without turning around.
“I said - ” The voice was quite young, but definitely male and it sounded very… drunk, in a way. But not quite. Too alert under it all. “Rather pathetic. I ‘eard about what he did to you, lots a people talkin’ about it, you know. You shoulda taught ‘im a lesson. You shoulda fought ‘im on it. He deserved a good thrashin’ is what they’ve been sayin’, an ‘s not like you couldn’t ‘ave taken ‘im.”
Crowley did turn around then, short of malice yet high on amusement. There was a figure hiding in the shadows of the building behind him, a boy no older than fourteen. His posture was lazy in a come-hither sort of way, despite his age, and he looked like the ground wouldn’t stay put beneath him, as he swayed eternally.
“What’s your name, son?”
His eyes were kohl smeared and curious. “Jack.”
Crowley ducked down enough for the boy to see his eyes properly as well. And the lad didn’t cringe back, in fact he leaned closer, but Crowley couldn’t be sure that he had meant to, that it wasn’t some trick of his tide-pulled blood. “Well, Captain Jack, I’m going to give you a little piece of advice.”
The boy’s lips parted and he nodded.
The demon leaned forward and hissed in his ear, the softest of sounds. “Why fight when you can negotiate?”
Dirty brown eyes lit from somewhere hidden, and with a flourish, Crowley removed his hat and set it on the young lad’s head. The brown leather tricorne looked fetching over the red bandana. Suited him. Didn’t fit yet, but he would grow into it.
Crowley had seen to that.
There was a wicked laugh, and then the demon was sauntering up the gangplank and out of sight.
Other work to be done below deck.
END