Chapter Text
They say that Eve was the first witch. That all witches are descended from her and her snake daemon, who settled in the knowledge of their crime. That Adam was tempted in turn by Eve and her snake, though his soul was magnificent enough to be the first lion of God.
Crowley knows this is bullshit.
Okay yes, all witches descend from Eve but that’s because all people are Eve’s descendents in one way or another; made in her image if not perhaps the children of Eve’s children. Saying Eve is the mother of all witches, is like saying God is the Mother of all angels and demons. Technically correct but missing some of the finer detail that paints the correct picture.
Plus they get the daemons all wrong. Crowley - okay Crawley then - watched knowledge creep across Eve’s face, watched her daemon come close to her and settle as a monkey with bright, curious eyes; never to leave her side again. And how dare humanity turn Adam’s brave little ewe into the lion they’d slain together, like a sheep couldn’t be as brave as a lion when she had something valuable to protect.
But yeah, the witch thing really gets him. Humanity at it again, deciding that the people who have reversed one of the curses of the Apple must be in some way bad . Even - and somehow especially - when it is not the fault of the human that they have become a witch.
Because after all, witches are not born. They are made .
Crowley’s seen it a thousand times. He’s been witness to the creation of a great many witches, the acts of intentional cruelty needed to make a human a witch something he often stumbles across. Something about daemons brings out the worst in people, like seeing this soul outside the body is a glaring red light asking for another human to hurt it.
He knows Aziraphale has seen more of the personal sacrifice that can also make a witch. Not that that is much more logical - maiming oneself for the promise of power or for the protection of another just seems ridiculous to Crowley. He might not have a daemon but the idea of breaking a bond between yourself and well, yourself, just seems so utterly stupid .
So utterly human .
Neither he or Aziraphale much like talking about the accidents that create witches. Those are just cruel acts of a heartless God.
And they never, ever talk about the first witch they saw made.
That was somehow the only time Crowley’s ever seen a witch made out of both cruelty and sacrifice.
Well. Until now. But now, now is a long way from then and Crowley doesn’t quite believe what he’s lived through to end up here screaming in agony as a new witch is made by the cruelty of Heaven and the sacrifice of well, the sacrifice one can only learn from humanity.
Six thousand years… and Crowley wouldn’t change a moment.
Aziraphale, do you remember?
*
It’s barely a hundred years after the humans leave Eden that Crawley stumbles upon Aziraphale, once again watching a group of humans. There’s a few more this time, all armed with spears and burning torches, pushing along a woman with tied wrists. The sack containing her daemon screeches in fear and pain as they are dragged along the ground, their calls echoing with those of their humans.
‘What are they doing?’ Crawley asks, unsurprised when Aziraphale doesn’t flinch. He just glances in her direction before looking back at the humans.
‘They say,’ he says in a tired tone, ‘that she has made a deal with the devil.’
Crawley flinches at the note of accusation in Aziraphale’s voice. ‘I just got here,’ she grumbles, ‘and none of my lot have figured out there’s more than one group of humans yet.’
That gets a shadow of a smile from Aziraphale. ‘Yes. Well. She’s been accused of unnatural acts and…’ he looks down and sighs. ‘And they say she’s the reason young John died. And Mary. And Seth.’
That gets Crawley to hiss. ‘Like she has any control over illness.’
‘Quite.’
‘Surprised you’re not helping angel. Isn’t that what your lot does?’
Aziraphale sighs. ‘I would but she’s not been sentenced to death. Or injury.’
Crawley blinks. ‘Then… why are you here? ’
He points to a dead patch of land just beyond the humans. It feels eerie to Crawley, but then all dead lands do , even in this particular desert. The one Aziraphale is pointing out does feel different, has a creepiness that reminds Crawley of something he cannot place, but well. This is a whole new world, of course some times are going to be unfamiliar in a familiar way.
‘They’re taking her there and well… the punishments were death or this banishment. The elders chose this and,’ he frowns and takes a silent step forward, ‘and they implied this was the worst sentence.’ He shifts in place and looks her in the eye. 'Besides I… I feel like I need to be here.'
Frowning herself, Crawley tries not to fidget. She hadn't actually wanted to come here but her feet had taken her in this direction and now Aziraphale voices it, there is something screaming at her to be here.
She sighs. If she has to be here, might as well be here. With a snap of her fingers they blink out of existence, appearing unnoticed amongst the crowd.
‘Crawley!’ Aziraphale hisses, clutching at her robes.
‘If you want a good view angel,’ she says, pushing unseen through the crowd and pulling Aziraphale along, ‘you need to be among the people.’
Aziraphale hisses some more but lets her pull him along until they are at the front of the crowd. The eyes of humans and daemons alike slide off them without actually seeing them, but the daemons still miraculously keep their distance. Crawley has no interest in touching any human soul, thank you.
The human holding the accused woman finishes whatever speech he had been making and pushes her into the dead land, her hands still bound. She lands a spear length in, easily seen as the humans spread around the edge of the dead land, pointing their spears at her. She won’t be getting back this way.
A proper banishment then. Crawley frowns, shifting her shoulders as her wings ache in sympathy. Not death but also not a good thing to have happened to anyone. But hang on, isn’t that human missing something?
The man holding the sack with her daemon finally opens it. A bright little bird daemon throws themself out of the bag and into the air, headed for their human.
Only to stop, as suddenly as if they had hit a wall.
‘What?’ Aziraphale says and takes a half step forward. Crowley grabs at him and drags him back, a step away from the dead land.
The cursed land, she realises, watching the little bird try again. It has to be cursed, nothing else could keep a daemon out so thoroughly. A bad one too - not even Hell is so accursed.
Of course by the time humans reach there their daemons are Dust, powdering the realm of wherever their human ends up, but that's neither here nor there.
The bird daemon does everything they can to try to get to their human but they cannot pass into the land where nothing grows and their human cannot get any closer than a spear’s length from the edge of it. When she tries to go further around the crowd spreads, in what Crawley begins to realise is a deliberate fashion, so she cannot return.
If she wants to live this human will have to walk away from her daemon.
‘No!’ the little bird cries, flying furiously at the invisible wall. ‘No, Lilith, no!’
But Lilith squares her shoulders and meets the eyes of the man who had dragged her here. ‘I want a knife,’ she says in a firm voice. ‘So that I may unbind my hands on the other side.’
‘You’ll die before you reach it,’ he says in a flat tone.
‘Then let me die with a knife in my hands.’
They stare at another for a long moment before he nods at a man behind him. A knife is thrown, landing in the ground several feet past Lilith.
Further from her daemon than Crawley’s ever seen a human go.
‘No,’ she whispers as Lilith raises her head and looks at her weeping daemon.
‘I’ll see you on the other side Yambe,’ Lilith tells her daemon and then turns her back.
Ignoring Yambe’s cries, Lilith walks. After a long moment, Yambe screams and Lilith tenses but keeps going. Keeps walking.
The humans around step back, spears falling down as they watch Lilith go. She does not turn, does not look back, even as Yambe’s cries grow louder and more piercing. Each step is slow and careful, her only stop to pick up the knife with fumbling hands.
Her Yambe screeches the entire time.
Crawley can tell the moment she is free of the dead land because it is the moment the bird daemon drops, like they have been stoned. They sit in the dirt, making sad noises that dig into Crawley’s heart in a way the screeches hadn’t managed to.
The feeling of need, the anxiousness screaming at Crowley to be here settles. Ah, so this is what she needed to see. This is why she is here.
Then one of the humans raises their spear, pointing it at Yambe, still making pitiful noises on the ground.
Crawley is moving before she even thinks, falling to the ground behind the bird and picking them up with gentle hands. She cups them to her breast and stares up at their would be murderer with her serpent eyes. Yambe whimpers softly but makes no other noise of protest.
Around them the humans recoil and oh yeah, hidden from human eyes only works if you stay out of the focus of everyone’s attention.
The leader points his spear at her with hard eyes. ‘Are you with her .’
‘Hardly,’ Crawley snaps, cupping the little daemon to her chest. ‘You’ve done your punishment; your business with this one is done.’
‘My business-’
‘Is done,’ Aziraphale says in a hard tone and Crawley glances to her right to see the angel standing there, with the faint glow that no human can see and mistake for anything else. His head is raised and his eyes unfocused as he looks into the distance. His wings aren’t visible to the humans, but the way his shoulders flare back gives the illusion of what Crawley can see barely a plane away from this one.
‘I-’ the human starts to say.
‘You,’ Aziraphale interrupts, still staring off into the distance, ‘have no idea what forces you have unleashed on this world.’ He blinks and the glow disappears with that far off look. Now he is nothing more than a mortal looking being - but the humans are still backing up. Crawley notes the smarter looking ones have already slunk to the back of the crowd, one step away from running away.
‘Angel?’ Crawley asks, standing. The spear in her face goes to move closer but a glare from Aziraphale has the man fleeing into the safety of the crowd.
‘Come,’ he says, ‘we have to meet her on the other side.’
Crawley blinks, then lifts her head too and - oh .
Oh yes. Not done yet. There is more to this.
Yes, they have to go. They have to meet Lilith on the other side. Hell - and Heaven if Aziraphale is any indicator - must be there to acknowledge her existence as they have acknowledged all significant firsts of this world so far.
She is the first witch.
*
'Thought you would be out searching,' Crawley says as he approaches the angel. It's not exactly a polite greeting but well. 'There's so many of your lot here; must've lost something important.'
Azirapahle just sighs as he gives Crawley a glance of acknowledgement. 'They do rather stand out.' He runs his fingers along the back of the dove on his shoulder.
Crawley gives it a Look and yes, he can see the compulsion on her. The same 'don't look at me, I'm just a daemon the necklace around his neck has.
'Couple of humans weren't impressed. Saw them fussing over your lot back there.’ Crawley raises an eyebrow at Aziraphale who is every pointed in his looking away. ‘Going on about witches?’
Aziraphale groans, the emotion in it causing something to stir in Crawley’s stomach. Did eating last week give him indigestion? Is this what humans mean when they talk about it?
‘Not again ,’ Aziraphale says, drawing Crawley out of his thoughts. ‘I’ve told them before!’
Ah, not indigestion. Sympathy which is about as bad as indigestion for a demon. ‘Daemons?’
‘Daemons,’ Aziraphale agrees, running another finger along his dove. She gives him an unimpressed stare then shits on his shoulder.
Crawley crackles. ‘With that kind of thing, I’m not surprised your angels aren’t bothering.’
Aziraphale vanishes the droppings with a wave of his hand and glares at Crawley. ‘Oh like your lot are much better?’
It’s Crawley’s turn to groan. ‘They are though and that’s a problem . Can’t be all creepy and spooky when you look like the rest of the mortals! I’ve told them a thousand times to be fully human, to hide themselves when they come up but nooooo , they refuse and then they get all mad at me like I’ve not dumped a thousand tablets about it down there.’
‘And then they see the screaming humans around angels and moan about it like I’ve not told them they look like ‘mere humans’ with their selves being dragged around.’
He is huffing at the end of his rant, looking over at Aziraphale who-
Who is nodding along. ‘A dozen memos I’ve sent up,’ he says, coxing the little bird into his hands, ‘all of them about how humans don’t like the humans who go around without daemons, how they’re called witches. I did a full presentation on Lilith! But…’ he trails off and bites his lip.
‘But they don’t bother,’ Crawley finishes when it’s clear Aziraphale isn’t going to finish. ‘Instead they come down and don’t even act like they’ve suffered , let alone suffered the kind of cruelty that makes a witch.’
That gets a side eye from Aziraphale. ‘Or performed the act of sacrifice needed.’ He blinks then adds, ‘Not that the archangels wouldn’t sacrifice, just, ah.’
‘They don’t act like it,’ Crawley continues. Aziraphale nods, stops as if he’s just realised what he did and looks away again.
‘I’m sure they’re just a little busy and will read them later,’ he says eventually, breaking the silence. ‘Especially after this.’
‘Yes, what are the oh so noble archangels doing in the good city of Sodom?’
‘Ah well, they’re going to look. For someone.’
Crawley lets the silence sit after Aziraphale’s non-answer. It’s awkward but he’s sure Azirapahle will be the one to brea-
‘Ten someones actually,’ Azirpahale says in a rush, just as Crawley thought he would. ‘Ten righteous men. They’ve headed to Lot’s home as a base while I’m ah, supposed to wait here. Be a lookout.’
‘If you’re being a lookout, you should’ve been over there,’ Crawley points. ‘Much better view of the roads in and out.’ He doesn’t say or even look at the small shop behind them that is selling baked goods. Nor does he look at the crumbs on Aziraphale’s front which his dove is even now pecking at.
Aziraphale shifts in place. ‘I’m sure they won’t need me. It’s not like there’s a mob after them, after all.’
Crawley just hums in agreement. ‘Well, as interesting as this conversation has been I’m going to leave. No point sticking around here if your lot are going to tear it apart looking for something I’m sure is right under their noses.’
That gets an offended noise from Aziraphale but Crawley’s already halfway gone by that point.
Later, when he hears about the mob that nearly tore apart the archangels for being witches - among their many other sins - Crawley’s not sure if he should laugh or cry. Humans .
They didn’t deserve their fate but then, Heaven still hasn’t heard of the concept of ‘fair and proportionate’ punishment. No mercy in their Justice, for sure.
*
Crowley groans, breathing deeply even as a part of his mind screams that he doesn’t need to breathe. He’s been here too long, he should have this under control and be able to breathe now, he doesn’t need this .
‘ Come on,’ he snaps at himself, pushing himself into a sitting position so he can see the ash cloud still floating out of Mount Vesuvius. Dawn’s light attempts to reflect through it, giving the world a nightmare feel. Hell on Earth feels appropriate, even if there’s a hell of a lot more ability to breathe in Hell right now than in Pompeii.
He should… he should go back. Aziraphale is there, he knows . They’d been arguing in Pompeii - fighting over Crowley’s recent temptation of Restitutus of that lovely Vettii family Aziraphale was working with - when the volcano had first exploded.
Aziraphale had gone white as the ash had first started to fall, forgetting himself enough to let the butterfly daemon on his chest turn back into a broach. ‘Oh no ,’ he’d whispered and turned to look at Crowley with wide eyes.
Crowley had been annoyed - and still is honestly - that Aziraphale could make him do anything with just a look, no matter what his face looked like.
Thank someone the angel doesn’t realise or Crowley really would be toast.
Or just probably toasted. By Hell. To start with.
‘I’ll get the people out of Herculaneum,’ Crowley had said and transported himself there.
He’s not seen Aziraphale since.
He should go back. Return to Pompeii, now that Herculaneum is beyond helping. He has to help those that can be helped. After all people that are dead are beyond tempting, beyond Crowley’s reach. All those children that could grow up into awful humans can’t do that if they don’t grow up and -
Mount Vesuvius explodes again, the same surge of death and destruction headed for Pompeii as steadily as it had gone for Herculaneum.
‘No!’ Crowley cries in the second after the explosion. Then… then there is a sense , a feeling of warmth and light and something… something headed right for him .
Crowley steps aside as the light solidifies into a person right where he’d been standing a moment ago. There is the sense of Grace, of an infinite Kindness, of a touch of anger at Her Cruelty and and SO MANY EYES.
Aziraphale collapses just as he gets his feet under himself, the light fading from the surrounding hills and his wings sinking back into their usual dimension, along with everything else of his inhumanity. Crowley’s there in a second, catching Aziraphale just before he hits the dirt and he looks up at Crowley with something that, on someone else’s face, might be gratitude.
‘Angel? You alright?’ Crowley says as he lowers Aziraphale into a sitting position and takes a seat beside him. There’s not a lot of ash here - yet - due to the wind but Crowley is sure that’s soon to change. No way would God let any part of this area go uncovered if She’s this mad at everyone.
‘Just fine,’ Aziraphale snaps, running shaking hands through ash covered blonde hair, the longer than usual curls spreading ash over his palla. ‘Thousands of people are dead or dying and I’ve ended up sitting beside a demon when I was aiming for someone ethereal.’
There’s more bite in his voice when he speaks of the dead than when he calls him a demon, so Crowley lets it slide.
‘Same difference,’ he says and grins in the face of Aziraphale’s dirty look.
They are bickering, Crowley knows, as it’s the easiest way to ignore the ever increasing Dust in the air. It was subtle at first but now it is starting to become choking, in a metaphysical way that Crowley can’t quite get his physical lungs to ignore. The sky is glittering, gold visible to the human eye - or Crowley’s snake ones, which equates to about the same thing in this kind of lighting. If he can see it he’s very sure the humans can. They’ll stop being able to see it when the ash thickens but for now...
Beside him, Aziraphale starts to melt into the shape Crowley is more familiar with and bites at his lips with a pained expression. He takes a deep breath then starts coughing, hand on his heart.
‘Aziraphale?’ Crowley pats him on the back awkwardly like humans do, looking round to make sure that their hill is still as deserted as it was moments ago. Yes, everyone who has come out to gawk has decided this hill’s view is poor despite logic dictating that the highest vantage point must be best.
‘Sorry my dear,’ he says and shakes his head, slipping fully back to his usual form, shorter hair and all. ‘But…’
He bites his lip and looks back over Pompeii, glancing between it and Crowley.
‘Whatever you’re sensing,’ Crowley finally growls, ‘I can’t sense.’
‘Death,’ Aziraphale says in a toneless voice. ‘A thousand moments of pain, fear, suffering and, in the instant before Death comes, loneliness.’
Crowley blinks, which takes a lot of effort at the moment with how snake-like his eyes are. ‘Loneliness?’
‘Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return,’ Aziraphale quotes, wheezing as he takes another breath.
‘Stop breathing,’ Crowley grumbles and Aziraphale’s chest goes still to match Crowley’s. ‘Why are you quoting Her at me?’
Aziraphale half turns, as if… no, he can’t want a hug . Not from Crowley . ‘They’re alone, in the moment they die. Their souls are Dust long before they are.’
‘Long?’ Crowley says as it dawns on him that his hand is still on Aziraphale’s back. Is leaving it there more awkward than removing it? ‘You said in the instant before Death comes.’
‘Long enough,’ Aziraphale says and… is he leaning into the touch? No, Crowley’s imagining it. ‘Especially felt a thousand times.’
Yeah. Right. ‘Okay, angel, come on.’ Aziraphale blinks up at him as Crowley grips the back of his tunic. ‘Hold on, I’m gonna find us a tavern and we’re going to see if there’s enough alcohol in the place to wash the Dust out.’
There isn’t.
But the feel of Aziraphale under his hands as he miracles them to a tavern far enough away to not have heard of Pompeii’s loss yet… well it gives Crowley’s imagination a taste of hope - hope that gets him daydreaming of actually maybe, possibly, hugging the angel one day. Or of being permitted to place his hand on Aziraphale’s bare skin.
Of being able to maybe, just maybe, touch his the angel. In an acknowledged friendly way rather than awkward accidents.
Daydreams, of course. But pleasant ones.
*
Crowley pulls at the ropes binding him and hisses. Yeah, still blessed. What kind of a priest is so prepared as to have blessed ropes hanging around?
The townspeople are starting to gather, the priest and headman quietly talking at the front of the crowd. There's a tension in the air but also a sense of excitement, of relief.
A witch is about to die.
Crowley would want to scream at them even if he wasn't the witch in question.
He kinda wishes he knew how it had gotten to this point.
His assignment here had been going fine! Chaos in the town, no one the wiser about the cause and people being petty and cruel at another without Crowley lifting a finger. Practically a holiday, if anything in this place could be called a holiday.
Well, right until that woman accused him of having an unnatural daemon. Just because his little snake didn’t talk! Or move. Or, you know, breathe all the time. Crowley’s gotten good at keeping himself breathing but the daemon is so much harder and this woman was clever enough to see through the ‘don’t think about this’ compulsion he usually uses. But that’s fine. He'd talked his way out of that, he’s a shy thing who’s hiding and of course he breathes , what kind of a daemon doesn’t breathe.
But then his 'daemon' had to be on display at all times. You know. Just in case. And well. Just because he’d talked his way out of death didn’t mean he was any better at remembering the daemon has to move. Plus he really shouldn’t have tried on a more feminine body before coming into town but Hell had insisted in a rare display of them caring about how he did his assignments. Still, even with all that he might’ve been able to to talk his way out of that again - or at least talk his way out of town.
Right up until the moment he may have implied he didn't ah, like the king. Whoever that was this fucking century, like Crowley could keep track.
That was the point when things got heated and then someone threw the first stone, knocking his glasses off. Clever woman saw through the glamour on his eyes and… well that was when the Holy Water and the blessed rope came out and well.
Here he is.
By the sounds of it the headman and the priest are debating a couple of things quietly, namely whose job it is to kill Crowley and from there, how. It’s not the best respite Crowley’s had but as a time waster, he’ll take it.
Then the crowd begins to part, like the sea before Moses, and Crowley’s almost glad of the gag in his mouth since it stops him saying anything.
Aziraphale .
The angel doesn’t look at Crowley, instead making a beeline for the front of the crowd before turning to face them. The headman and priest break off their discussion instantly.
‘Friar Fell! What good fortune brings you here on this day!’ the priest says. The tone in his voice is that of someone who has just gotten backup and is delighted to see them. The headman just looks sour.
Aziraphale looks up and down the priest. ‘Ineffability I’m sure,’ he says and even Crowley wants to roll his eyes. Aziraphale catches himself and adds, ‘The Grace of God has brought me here. What are you all doing?’
‘Cleansing a witch.’
‘Punishing a traitor.’
Both priest and headman speak at once and then glare at another. Great, turf wars over who gets to kill Crowley. Just brilliant.
‘A witch?’ Azriaphale looks from man to man before he steps back, turning to face Crowley. He shies back instantly, an over the top motion that makes Crowley want to roll his eyes.
But the crowd gasps and something clicks for Crowley. Aziraphale must be known here, to have been greeted by name. The crowd all look to him with awe, with respect . Even the headman and priest are being deferential in their manner, staying a step behind and explaining the situation like he’s not some outsider who just walked into town. The headman’s lion daemon has a bowed head, while the priest’s hawk has buried her head under her wing.
All of which give a clear message. Aziraphale is the authority figure here.
Well then. This just got interesting.
‘Friar Fell, your help last year was noted but this creature is a danger to us,’ the headman says, though the way his lion continues to bow her head undermines any authority in his words. ‘We are going to stone it-’
‘Here?’ Aziraphale sounds incredulous, exactly as outraged as he’d been when Crowley proposed his little idea all those years ago. ‘With all your daemons visible?’
That gets a blink from both leaders - and Crowley, though no one’s paying any attention to him. The crowd are all focused on Aziraphale, with some of them clutching at their daemons. Where is he going with this?
‘Our daemons?’
Aziraphale turns his back on the men and looks over the crowd. ‘I know how this scares you, but I have dealt with creatures such as this before. And I know of the dangers that such things conceal within themselves…’ He looks down, putting a hand on the bag he’s wearing. It wiggles but no daemon pops out of it.
‘I was present last year, when a village much like yours caught something just like this-’ he points at Crowley who hisses, reading the cue, ‘-and I saw what it did to them when it died.’ He clutches at the bag which wiggles again. Has he actually got a real creature in there or is he really using the miracles?
‘What happened Friar Fell?’ a woman in the crowd asks, when it’s clear Aziraphale is not going to continue.
Aziraphale lifts his head, face screwed up in what he probably thinks is fear but does not quite get there. Crowley would be laughing except you know. Gag.
‘Their daemons. It took their daemons with it when it died.’ Aziraphale shakes his head as the crowd gasps and step back from Crowley. ‘Some dark magic, some deal with Satan,’ he continues and looks over the crowd, ‘allowed it to take with it all the daemons in the area that it had seen.’
‘All of them?’
Aziraphale nods. ‘My dear one was safe in her bag, our shyness a saving Grace from God. But so many of that village were left… empty. Alone.’ He looks at Crowley with a frown. ‘I cannot be certain this creature is not the same thing as before.’
‘So what do we do? Let it go?’ The priest hisses, his hawk’s feathers all ruffled.
‘Of course not. Tie it to my horse, I’ll ride it out to the field south of here.’ The headman goes to protest but Aziraphale talks over his words, ‘You follow behind at a small distance - you should be able to see when it’s safer to approach.’
‘You’ll do this out of the kindness of your heart?’ the priest asks, even as the headman is already gesturing for men to untie Crowley from his pole while another runs for the back of the crowd where Aziraphale’s horse must be.
Aziraphale nods, eyes on Crowley as he is shoved over the back of the extremely nervous horse. ‘Yes,’ Aziraphale says, ‘I would do anything to not see what I saw again.’
He moves over and calms the horse, the Grace of his miracle another burn on top of everything Crowley’s already feeling. Then he mounts in a fluid movement, his back touching Crowley. He says nothing to the crowd, just urges his horse into movement and out of the village.
They ride in silence until Aziraphale reaches a field. Then he’s off the horse in a moment and pulling at the ropes binding Crowley’s hands.
‘Crowley!’ he cries as he pulls the ropes off. ‘Are you alright?’
Crowley just wants to sob in relief as the weight on his chest vanishes, giving him access to his abilities for the first time in hours . The burns on his wrist don’t vanish but the heat of the ropes is gone and it’s so good . He pulls the gag out of his mouth and rolls off the horse. He doesn’t have the energy to stand yet but kneeling is good.
‘What do you need?’ he asks, looking up at Aziraphale who blinks. ‘To convince those people?’
Understanding dawns on Aziraphale. ‘I… Something big. Attention grabbing. An explosion perhaps?’
Crowley nods. ‘Hold onto your horse,’ he warns and clicks his fingers the moment Aziraphale has a grip on the stupid creature.
The blast knocks Crowley to the ground - not that he’d been far off it - and causes Aziraphale’s horse to rear. But there’s the hint of a miracle in the air as Aziraphale protects himself and his horse from the shockwave. It also blackens the grass around them, in a perfect circle.
‘Shift!’ Aziraphale says as Crowley tries to get his breath back. ‘The villagers are coming and I can’t have a body after that.’
Oh yeah good point. Crowley starts to go for his usual form then pauses. ‘You got a daemon in there?’ he says with a nod at the bag.
Aziraphale blinks. ‘Ah no. Not managed to replace the last one yet.’
‘Good,’ Crowley says with a sigh and melts into the form of a hedgehog. Aziraphale stares down at him in confusion until Crowley waddles over towards his dropped bag and tries to get in with legs that are still shaking.
‘Oh!’ Aziraphale drops him into the bag and rises, just as the cries of the villagers start to reach them. ‘Crowley-’
‘I know,’ Crowley says, shifting his voice to a slightly higher pitch. ‘Humans and their preferences.’
‘Friar Fell!’ the headman cries as they get close. ‘You’re alright!’
Crowley feels Aziraphale turn to face them, and shuffles his head closer to the bag’s opening. He can’t see anything from here!
‘Yes, thank you. I hope I didn’t alarm you too much?’ Aziraphale reaches into the bag and pulls Crowley out, holding him close to his chest. ‘But as you can see we are still in two pieces and are perfectly fine.’ He runs a hand over Crowley’s spines which is ah. Okay. Yes. Crowley finds himself pushing into the pat without thinking about it.
‘By the Grace of God!’ the priest says, his hawk fluttering around. ‘Look at what the Grace of God has saved us from!’ He points at Aziraphale and Crowley can feel the Envy and Greed in the air. Oh dear, ambition . ‘You must come with us Friar Fell, so we can give thanks.’
Aziraphale bows his head. ‘My good Father, I would love to but I fear that I cannot. I did not mean to visit your town on this journey but for a voice calling me to pass through.’ Crowley sticks his head back into Aziraphale’s chest to stop his eye rolls at Aziraphale’s words being visible. He’s really putting it on. ‘I need to continue my journey.’
There’s a note in his voice and Crowley can taste the miracle in the air. The villages believe Aziraphale’s lie, or at least enough of them believe it that sheer mass of belief drags the rest of them into if not belief, then compliance.
‘Come my dear,’ he says to Crowley, who looks over the crowd one final time before letting Aziraphale put him on the horse. ‘We need to be off.’
‘I’m not the one on the ground,’ Crowley snarks, though quiet enough he’s sure the crowd won’t hear.
Aziraphale cluckles as he mounts, before saying some vague farewells and then urging the horse into movement. Crowley digs his claws into the saddle as Aziraphale puts a steadying hand on his body.
‘Where are we headed angel?’ Crowley asks, switching back to his normal voice now they’re out of earshot. Couple more miles and he’ll swap into human form; something a little less feminine this time.
'Bar,’ Aziraphale says in a toneless voice. ‘Best place to go if you don’t want to be overheard.’
Crowley blinks and shuffles as close as he dares to Aziraphale without risking falling off of the fast moving horse. ‘What are we doing that can’t be overheard?’
Aziraphale lifts one hand and runs it along Crowley’s spines. ‘You… you wanted an… an agreement. A way to stop us cancelling each other out in damp places.’
Crowley’s tiny heart starts to pound. He stops it with a grimace. ‘I did. You ah, weren’t exactly open to that idea.’
The hand gently patting Crowley pauses. ‘I think,’ Aziraphale says in a weary voice, ‘that perhaps I was…hasty. Before.’
‘You’ll do it?’
‘I’ll discuss it,’ he says and refuses to say a word more until they reach the next town, a far busier town on this pilgrim’s route. So busy with strangers that the innkeeper barely acknowledges them when they enter - no mind to the fact it had only been one man on the horse that rode up. A couple of people eye them for their daemonlessness, until Aziraphale’s bag moves and Crowley miracles their attention away.
No point in getting himself nearly killed twice in one night.
‘So,’ Crowley says, throwing himself into a chair in the corner. ‘We’ll discuss it?’
Aziraphale bites his lip as he settles into the seat across from Crowley. ‘It does seem… a little pointless sometimes. To cancel each other out. But if we… if we were to keep one another updated on our movements. To, aaah, compare assignments on occasion… maybe lend a hand if…if needed.’
He trails off and Crowley finishes the sentence for him ‘-that wouldn’t be terrible?’
‘No,’ Aziraphale says in a rushed breath. ‘It… it would have the same net result after all and…’ he looks down, then back up, ‘and it would mean knowing where you are.’
‘Want to keep tabs on me?’ Crowley growls, waving his hand to summon the pair of drinks on the bar. No one notices when they disappear then reappear before Aziraphale and himself.
Aziraphale, who just stares at him intensely. ‘I want,’ he says in a flat tone, ‘to know if you’re in a situation like this again.’
Something warms inside Crowley and he swallows to push down the feeling. ‘Like playing the rescuer?’
‘I don’t want to see you killed,’ Aziraphale says, far too earnestly. He seems to realise that, because he swallows then adds, ‘Your replacement would hardly agree to drink with me.’
That gets a smile from Crowley. ‘Okay then angel, let’s drink to a deal - to comparing assignments.’
Aziraphale picks up his glass and pauses. ‘To… to our Arrangement,’ Aziraphale says, and there’s something in the word, a Capital that settles on Crowley’s chest.
They drink together.
Then, as Crowley goes to gulp down the rest of his drink, Aziraphale bites his lip and lowers his glass. ‘Can…can I add something?’
Crowely raises an eyebrow, making sure it’s visible over his glasses. ‘ You want to add something?’
Aziraphale nods. ‘I…I think I do.’
‘Well then, main terms of the deal are set but I’m open to some adjustments on the details. What do you want to add?’
Aziraphale narrows his eyes at Crowley’s language but seemingly decides not to comment. Instead he examines the inside of his glass for a long moment.
‘I want,’ he says just as Crowley’s about to prompt him to speak, ‘to add a clause that ah, if needed, we… we willactasoneanother’sdaemon.’
Crowley blinks. No, that can’t be what he heard. ‘We what ?’
‘We act as one another’s daemon!’ Aziraphale says, clearly louder than he meant to. Luckily no one is paying them any attention.
That was what Crowley heard. ‘You want us to be each other’s daemon ?’
‘It would fall under the lend a helping hand part.’ Aziraphale is slipping into his explaining tone, the posh one that Crowley’s had to rescue him from the consequences of at least twice. ‘And not a large strain.’
Crowley scuffs without meaning to, wishing he could take the noise back when Aziraphale gives him a hurt look. ‘Okay, that was uncalled for but angel… you and I both know it’ll only be me being a daemon.’ He shrugs and adds, ‘Snake after all.’
Aziraphale stares at him before looking around the pub. ‘Is anyone paying us any attention?’ Crowley focuses then shakes his head. ‘Anyone…’ Aziraphale looks up pointedly and then down.
Oh. Crowley focuses again before shaking his head once more. Just to be sure he adds a miracle to the pub, a ‘everything is normal’ sort of vibe along with a specific compulsion on the humans to ignore the pair in the corner.
‘We’re clear,’ he says.
Aziraphale nods, closes his eyes and lets his shape shift . It takes a moment but he shakes his head out as a white cat, blue eyes striking as he sits on the top of the table. His stare is just as intense as it was a moment ago as his tail swishes off the edge of the table.
‘Not just you,’ he says, his usual voice a touch too big for the small creature he is now.
Crowley tries to find his voice, grabs it then loses it again as his mouth opens and shuts uselessly. Finally he manages to say, ‘So I’m to be stuck with an angelic cat as a daemon then?’
Aziraphale frowns - well frowns as much as his cat face is able to, his displeasure broadcast into the room - before shaking his head. Brown slowly spreads through his coat leaving a cat that, while not black, is a respectfully darker coloured creature.
It looks so wrong .
‘I don’t do black Crowley,’ Aziraphale says, his tail raised as he moves along the table. He hops off it, into Crowley’s lap.
Crowley’s lap .
It takes Crowley a moment to realise Aziraphale is copying the daemon two tables over, caught as he is on the feel of soft fur and the weight of an angel. He nudges at Aziraphale who hisses for a moment, before settling down.
‘Yeah no, that’s… that’s fair. Black isn’t your colour.’ Crowley bites at his lip before adding, ‘Go back to white. It… it suits you.’
Aziraphale stiffens, then changes until he is a fluffy white hound that is putting its head in Crowley’s lap and looking at him with soulful eyes. It’s a look straight from Aziraphale’s human face, if Crowley’s honest, complete with those piercing blue eyes.
‘I don’t want you to be in a position like that again,’ he whispers to Crowley. ‘Promise me you’ll ask next time. Ask and I’ll come.’
‘Aziraphale…’
‘Promise me.’
‘...I promise.’ Crowley pauses, looks around the room before putting his hand on Aziraphale’s hound head. ‘And you?’
Aziraphale blinks, large puppy dog eyes that make Crowley want to start offering food. Nothing new there. ‘What?’
‘It’s mutual angel. You call me if you need a daemon.’ Crowley leans in, speaking in a whisper, ‘promise I’ll mix it up too.’
That gets Aziraphale to smile, a dog’s dopey grin. ‘I don’t know; I’ve always liked snake daemons. I’ve never met a cruel one.’
Something in Crowley goes tight and he lifts his hand from Aziraphale. ‘Come on, change back. You can’t get drunk as a dog and we need to be drunk to celebrate this.’
For a moment there’s a glint in Aziraphale’s eyes, that Crowley realises might mean he’s going to take the unintended challenge in Crowley’s words. But a moment later Aziraphale is human again, sitting in the chair beside Crowley - if perhaps a lot closer than before.
‘To us,’ he says, holding out the glass that hadn’t been on the table a moment ago, ‘and to our Arrangement!’
‘To our Arrangement,’ Crowley agrees, and for a moment swears he sees a flicker of gold in the corner of his eye. But no. Just his imagination.
There’s nothing there to see.
*
In the fourteenth century Crowley gets into a fight with a gentleman - a rich Lord playing at scholarship. It might have become a minor brawl, a tiny thing, but Crowley gets ah, carried away and insults the manhood of the gentleman. Humans are so touchy about gender, he always forgets. Plus he’s been a little on edge this century, jumps to insults a little faster than usual.
Humanity deserves it right now.
It is, however, his great luck that he's here to meet Aziraphale who shows up just as the swords come out. Aziraphale, who takes one look at the scene and jumps right into it with a punch to Crowley’s face. This knocks him down, giving him the chance to slink off to the local inn while Aziraphale deals with everyone else after having firmly established himself as not on Crowley’s side.
Probably talks them down if Crowley's any judge. The angel hates fighting and is extraordinarily good at talking - or lying - his way out of one.
‘The problemss problem’s problems is,’ Crowley slurs, now more than halfway to drunk. He looks up as Aziraphale takes off his coat and falls into the seat across from Crowley. His clothes are clean and there's a smugness around him that means he definitely talked everyone out of fighting.
'The problemssss is that that they are wrong!’
‘About many things,’ the too cheery Aziraphale says as he steals Crowley’s bottle swapping it out for the jeweled insect daemon box he’s taken to carrying this century. Crowley has a rather nice snake necklace around his neck he can miracle into moving if needed which serves the same purpose.
If only it was safe, if only it wasn’t a danger… If only he could always have Aziraphale around for the role! Have his angel pretend to be his soul , to never be more than a few steps away - no way could Crowley pretend to be a witch, he wants Aziraphale, wants him as close as possible. Or to be his angel’s soul, to wrap himself around Aziraphale’s neck as the snake he is or hover on his shoulder a little bird and preen Aziraphale’s hair to his heart’s content.
But Crowley’s taken to keeping that card in reserve for only the greatest need. To resist asking for it unless he has considered it twice which is more consideration than he ever usually bothers with. Because otherwise he would be always asking. Otherwise they could always be one another’s daemons and well.
Crowley loves Aziraphale but he’s not stupid. His greed is not worth Aziraphale’s Fall if they’re caught.
Nothing is.
‘But what in particular?’ Aziraphale adds, taking another sip and breaking Crowley out of his stream of thought. Steam of thought? Thoughts.
‘Witches.’
Aziraphale’s cheer slips off his face and he gulps down half the endless bottle. ‘Ah. How?’
‘They- he he he said witches are born ,’ Crowley growls and Aziraphale grimaces.
‘Right.’ Aziraphale hesitates, then hands back the bottle and Crowley nods in thanks. Aziraphale has been reluctant to let Crowley drink in front of him since… well since then. Thank goodness he can see this is a moment Crowley really needs it. ‘Who this time?’
‘Butcher’s daughter.’ Crowley runs his hands through his hair and gulps down more wine. ‘Took herself there at least.’
‘That’s something,’ Aziraphale says and takes the offered bottle back, sipping at it a few times. ‘Better than the alternative.’ They both flinch at the reminder of where Aziraphale found Crowley not ten years ago - no one there had had a choice.
‘I’ve never understood why though,’ Crowley growls, snatching the bottle back from Aziraphale and ignoring his noise of outrage. ‘What isssss the point of maiming themssselvessss for a little more movement?’
‘Bit more than that,’ Aziraphale says and Crowley nods to acknowledge the point. ‘But my dear it is their choice and really, everything is inf-’
‘Not drunk enough for ineffable.’ Crowley snaps and a second bottle is summoned from somewhere nearby that won’t miss it until both of them are out of town.
He holds up the bottle until Aziraphale puts his own against it. ‘To the world’sss newessst witch,’ he hisses.
‘To the world’s newest witch,’ Aziraphale says softly and they both drink.
*
The moment he leaves the bar, Crowley disappears the snake on his neck, sending it back to his flat. It’s been a while since he’s had to interact with humans on a long term basis with a fake daemon and he’d forgotten how much focus it takes. Even if he’s not likely to end up facing his own execution over a bad fake, it still makes his skin crawl when humans treat him as lesser.
His latest curses have been on humans who talked down to him like that, like being daemonless - or even just with a ‘weird’ daemon - is something that makes him inhuman. Never mind that he is inhuman, he doesn’t deserve to be treated like it!
But the only way to avoid this is not an option right now. Not if he wants to pull off this heist. Aziraphale made it perfectly clear a century ago that he’s not helping, Crowley can’t ask him to be his daemon for this. No, he has to go this alone.
Crowley hops into the Bentley and tenses instantly as he feels the miracle of an angel.
Turning his head, something loosens in his stomach when he sees it is Aziraphale. Who just miracled into the car.
What on Earth? Usually Aziraphale is more polite than this.
The conversation doesn’t get any less bizarre and soon Crowley is holding a thermos of Holy Water, his chest full of something he can’t name, can’t let slip.
‘Should I thank you?’ he says, looking over at Aziraphale.
Who looks devastated at the thought. ‘Best not.’
And Crowley, Crowley… Crowley aches with the desire to show Aziraphale how much this means to him, to show him how much Crowley trusts and cares for him. He wants to give Aziraphale his still beating heart and know that it will be safe because it’s in Aziraphale’s hands.
Oh.
If only Crowley had a daemon, some human thing he could give to Aziraphale. His soul in living form, to be put in Aziraphale’s hands so that Crowley could see him caress it with as much care as he held that thermos. To show that he trusts Aziraphale, above all things.
To put his very existence on the line to prove it.
And a part of him yearns for that trust in return. A greedy part, that awful never satisfied thing that was a part of his Fall, but a large part nonetheless. He wants to hold Aziraphale, to possess him wholly. To know that Aziraphale trusts him entirely, that Aziraphale knows the depth of Crowley’s devotion - entirely unspeakable for a demon - to him.
Crowley wants and it’s an ache he didn’t know he was capable of feeling. And right now, there is a look of such longing in Aziraphale’s face that he can almost believe that Aziraphale feels the same.
What it would be like being human? If we were human and could do that?
Would I give up eternity for a lifetime of being his?
Yes.
But he’s not. They’re not. So he can’t. Instead, all he can do is endure and offer his soul to Aziraphale as best he can.
‘I can give you a lift, anywhere you want to go?’ he says.
Aziraphale gives him a moment of a look, something heartbroken before he looks away and says ‘You go too fast for me Crowley.’
Oh.
No.
RIght,
So… Right. Aziraphale would not hold Crowley’s soul even if he had one to give.
At least, not yet .
Because that, that is a promise of one day.
Crowley can live with one day.
*
Then he’s called to a graveyard, to deliver a baby and his hellhound daemon, and Crowley realises that one day might never actually come.
Fuck .