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California, Earth, 1967 AD: The Summer of Love
Nothing spreads demonic influence faster than a hippie near a group of old women. Luckily for Crowley, her red hair fell long and straight down her back, and the loose fit of her t-shirt did nothing to hide her lack of bra.
She walked past the granny gaggle with her hands full of maps to San Diego, smiling politely at them as she did. A quick ‘peace and love’ typically finished the job, today being no exception. The taste of disgust and hate hung heavy in the air. Crowley held her cackle in until the door swung shut behind her.
The van she’d acquired had nothing on the Bentley, unable to swerve through traffic or reach fun, life-threatening speeds, but the old girl served her purpose. Mostly, that meant stalling at green lights and blocking everyone’s view of the road. But it was a short job, and soon she’d be back to the sleek beauty of her own car. At least, that’s what Crowley told herself as she clambered gracelessly into the damn thing.
This festival, gathering, whatever the humans were calling it, was bound to stir up division between them all. Conservatives and Jackie ‘O wannabes were always quick to anger, unable to keep up with the rapid rate of progress passing them by. Their insecurities meant she didn’t even have to prod them to get whole groups up in arms. On the other side, the hippies. They were a mostly alright group, preaching all the values she quietly agreed with, but there was so little organization to their club; sooner or later, it would be their death knell. Anyone could break formation and start accidentally stirring up trouble. It would be an easy thing to just nudge that certain passionate someone out of line.
She just had to get there to do it. Crowley pulled out of the gas station and onto the interstate with the music blaring. California was only a day away.
Aziraphale tugged again at the collar of her shirt. She did hope it looked right. It had been so long since she’d last taken a female form, and the fashion had changed so dramatically since then. No one wore bustles anymore, at least from what she had seen. (New clothes would have been a bother, so she’d simply adjusted what she had to accommodate her larger chest and hips.)
Heaven had assigned her to a medical clinic in San Diego, where she could bring Their light to those who needed it most. She’d only perform small miracles, but there would be considerably large payoffs if done well. It felt like the perfect assignment for her. Helping people, really truly helping, felt good, like what she was meant to be doing. Showing those downtrodden souls that God hadn’t forgotten about them, leaving them with a quiet sense of hope. That meant something.
Others at the clinic grumbled about the sudden influx of people rushing in for some sort of event. The words ‘hippie’ and ‘junkie’ got thrown around plenty. But for all the medics' complaints, they did their jobs dutifully, something Aziraphale admired.
The hours were long and hard, but her mind wandered to Crowley in the idle moments. Since the church bombing, something had changed between them–or perhaps just in her. It seemed the demon had forgiven her for refusing the request for holy water. They’d been together whenever work allowed, which was far more than they had done before. But their relationship as it stood was fragile, something so like and unlike what they had had before the bombing, and that scared her more than she knew. They understood each other; that much was clear. After the encounter with Furfur, though, the warm closeness they had held for that one blissful night had disappeared, replaced instead with a careful distance strongly enforced by Crowley.
She missed what they’d had prior; Crowley was dear to her. But Aziraphale didn’t want to hurt her. So she didn’t push, didn’t demand more from Crowley than what the demon was willing to give, didn’t think about the holy water.
It was for the best.
After healing another patient, this one long, willowy, and far too thin, she resolved to call Crowley after her shift.
The scene Crowley arrived at was perfect. A whole park, full of tents and run-down vehicles and people. So many people. They charged the air, leaving it sweet with the taste of their hope. But bitter notes of frustration lingered underneath the sweetness, strong as anything, concentrating around the young and hungry in the crowd.
She slinked up to one of these groups, listening eagerly for any hints of something that could lead to a counterstrike against the upstanding citizens of San Diego’s upper crust. The hushed bickering she heard turned out to be of the ‘we were supposed to approach her as a pair’ variety, so Crowley beat a dignified retreat and re-examined the air around her. Ah . Mingled with the heavy clouds of smoke was the spicy taste of lust.
Well, all the better. Infighting worked nicely in a pinch.
She moved deeper into the crowd, getting the lay of the land and drawing more than a few appreciative looks. A few groups seemed promising, leery-eyed huddles with bare feet and hungry expressions; these kids were the type to be readily drawn in by someone with their same righteous anger.
By the time she’d circled back to the van, a plan was starting to take form. It would take more thought, but Crowley had found several candidates she could tempt towards violence. She’d earned a break; stargazing on top of the van and smoking sounded better and better with every passing second.
She had only just pulled a blanket from the van’s recesses when a cry for help pierced through the general merriment of the night.
“Hey, Fell, Toni and I are meeting some friends across town. Want to join? I think you’d fit right in.”
Aziraphale smiled knowingly. No matter how she presented, certain assumptions were always (correctly) made. “Next time. I have a friend to call tonight.”
She bid the two women farewell, then did the same to the night shift medics filing in. With a final wave, she walked out and started towards the apartment she’d requisitioned for her assignment. It wasn’t what Aziraphale would call a pleasant space, but the Formica counters and shag carpeting made valiant attempts to brighten the otherwise bleakly lit rooms. If nothing else, the flat afforded her plenty of room to store books.
When not at work in the clinic, she would scour the city’s antique shops and bookseller’s wares, seeking books she’d let slip through her fingers over the years. A curious repertory had found its way into her flat; there wasn’t a surface in the place that hadn’t been enlisted in service of her fragile collection.
She’d just gotten her hands on a first edition of “A White Heron” and looked forward to settling in with a cup of tea before calling Crowley. Unfortunately, Aziraphale’s short walk to her flat was interrupted almost before it had begun by a van speeding impossibly fast around a corner. She hadn’t seen driving like that since–well, that would explain the flash of red hair.
With an almost beleaguered sigh, Aziraphale turned back the way she came. She could already hear the lecture she would get from the clinic director about overworking herself.
The van screeched to a stop in front of the clinic, brakes abused in the way only a demon could achieve, and Crowley threw the driver’s door open with reckless abandon. Aziraphale would have been concerned about her getting hit by a passing car if not for the demon’s snakelike ability to dodge almost anything. As it was, she only barely avoided a yellow Thunderbird racing by.
Crowley opened the passenger door with a manic air, pulling a small, limp body out of the seat.
Finally, she was close enough to draw Crowley’s attention. The demon turned to her, the desperation in her yellow eyes shining clear through her oversized sunglasses. “Help.”
That simple word said more about the severity of the situation they had found themselves in–yes, they , Aziraphale whisked them into the clinic without a second thought–than any explanation could have done. But she would demand one just as soon as the girl in Crowley’s arms was cured.
She ushered the two into an exam room, shut the door firmly, and started working on the girl before Crowley could set her on the bed. First assessments showed she was unconscious, with a slight bruise on her head. A deeper, more divine look revealed an epileptic seizure. It was a simple fix for someone like her, but she could understand Crowley’s distress. To have known what it was like to heal, and then to have lost the ability; Aziraphale could only imagine how much that would have pained this particular demon.
After a bit of (what she assumed to be) angelic interference, the girl was sat up with a glass of water. Once she was settled, Aziraphale told her in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t to move from that spot and dragged Crowley out of the room to find out exactly what had happened.
“Well?” Aziraphale crossed her arms in a way that made her angelic nature shine through. Imperious, foreboding. Beautiful.
“Her mum was high off her arse, saw the kid seize and go down, started screaming for help. Wouldn’t shut up, and I’d heard this place didn’t ask questions.” She shrugged. “Did what I could, Angel.”
Crowley hated this part. It always left her feeling like a naughty schoolgirl under Aziraphale’s judgmental, headmaster-y gaze.
But something in the angel’s eyes changed. Softened, maybe.
“I’m glad you found me,” she confessed. Some renewed distress must have shown on Crowley’s face because Aziraphale rushed to continue. “She would have been alright regardless; if the others couldn’t have treated her here, they would have rushed her to a hospital. But that’s not what I meant. I- I missed you, Crowley.”
Oh. “Missed you too.” The clinic’s green walls were suddenly fascinating. Never mind the heat on her face. “Your shift just starting, or…?”
Aziraphale smiled in that way of hers that lit up a room. “I was just heading home when you arrived.”
“Sorry to, er, interrupt, then. I’ll just- take the girl home, get out of your hair.” She did not sound like a kicked puppy. That’s not something a demon does.
“Oh- I didn’t mean to suggest- Crowley, you’re welcome to stop by once you return our little patient.” Aziraphale wrought her hands together. Or, she did, until Crowley laid her hands on the angel’s clasped ones and stilled them.
“Hey.” She leaned in. “I just might.”
Crowley wanted to stay, to walk back to that mysterious new flat with her, but there really was no excuse for keeping that poor girl’s mother in distress. She squeezed Aziraphale’s hands where they were still wrapped in hers and smiled crookedly before poking her head into the exam room. “Oi! Kid! Let’s roll.”
The drive back to the park was spent bickering with a 10-year-old about the radio station. Finally returned to her mum, all the tears the woman had held back came forward in full force, spilling over as she held her daughter close. Crowley nodded a quick goodbye to the kid but ducked out before her mother’s manners could return. Stomaching a ‘thank you’ after everything that had happened that evening…the thought made her shudder.
Besides, Crowley had somewhere she’d much rather be.
Aziraphale wouldn’t admit it, most certainly not to Crowley, but she spent the time before Crowley’s arrival scrambling madly to clear space for the demon in her flat. Everywhere she looked, from the books piled on her furniture to the fine layer of dust that covered everything but the armchair by the window, all of it suddenly threw her off. This space wasn’t the bookshop; Aziraphale couldn’t hope to predict what Crowley would think.
(Of course, at the bookshop, Crowley hadn’t minded those things, just carefully relocated the books to the floor so she could sprawl across the sofa or run a brazen finger through the dust to write rude words.)
She had just moved on from cleaning to summon a veritable spread of liquors when a knock sounded from the front door.
Ah, right. Heavenly embassy. “Come in, dear!”
Crowley strolled in hips first, as she was wont to do. She stopped in the entryway to get a good look around. Aziraphale held her breath.
“‘S a nice place you got here. Plan on staying a while?”
Relief ran through her. “Oh, only a month or two. Just as long as the clinic needs me.” She gestured to the booze on the table. “Anything catch your eye?”
“Yeah.” Crowley stayed silent long enough for Aziraphale to turn back to her with concern. They locked eyes for a moment, just long enough to realize Crowley had been watching her, before the demon broke her gaze to look out the window. “Yeah. Pour me a whiskey, will you?” Whatever tension had been there before was gone. The demon moved through the room as if she’d done it a million times before, settling heavily on the couch exactly where space had been made for her.
She put the drink (a generous two fingers) in Crowley’s outstretched hand on her way to the corner armchair and absolutely did not take note of the long column of her neck twisting to watch her. The inhuman ways she contorted herself had always fascinated Aziraphale, who had never bothered to stretch further than her cup of tea on a side table.
“And you? Is Beelzebub planning to relocate Hell’s efforts to California?” She tried to sound flippant, as if the thought of Crowley being out of reach didn’t make her want to squirm.
The demon all but cackled. “Not in a million years. The Americans have got it handled out here. Besides,” she said. “I’d miss the Bentley too much.” Her sunglasses had slipped down her nose to reveal those enchanting slitted eyes. Aziraphale knew the look there, recognized the loneliness in her gaze for what it was. Knew she had something to do with keeping it at bay.
She wanted to brush away the pensive expression there, take Crowley into her arms and show her that she would never be alone, not if she could help it. But they weren’t meant to do such things, already toed the line enough as they did, so she didn’t.
“I’d have taken good care of her in your stead,” Aziraphale promised instead.
When Crowley barked out a laugh, she tried not to feel insulted. “That’s a good one, angel.”
Aziraphale took a long sip of her wine and reminded herself that she loved her friend dearly.
Far too many drinks later, they were both absolutely, without a doubt, drunk. Crowley had conjured up a record player 3 bottles ago to show Aziraphale the marvelous things humans had done with music. Secretly, she was testing how much so-called ‘bebop’ she could sneak under the angel’s nose before she noticed. (That plan had flown out the window after the third album by The Who, but no one present was going to tell Crowley.)
She stood up from the sofa, only barely more loose-limbed than before, and pulled Aziraphale from her chair. “Dance with me, angel. It’s all the rage.” She hung her wrists around Aziraphale’s neck. The angel radiated warmth, so when she pulled Crowley closer, she couldn’t keep a dopey grin from spreading across her sharp features.
They swayed together for a long while.
Crowley liked Aziraphale’s hair. She’d kept it short and curly like before. It smelled nice.
Crowley was very drunk.
She told Aziraphale this, whispered it into her ear. The angel nodded and said that she was too.
They stayed together, rocking back and forth in the center of Aziraphale’s flat. Crowley’s fingers played with the short hairs at the base of her angel’s neck.
“Why…why did you ask for holy water?”
She pulled away sharply. “What?”
It wasn’t just the alcohol leaving her on shaky ground. She’d thought they were over this. The whole ‘trust’ thing.
Crowley watched Aziraphale steel herself. “I want to know-”
“No.” They’d fought over this time and again, each time with her refusing to consider any other viewpoint. She was sick of all their repeat performances.
“Crowley, please.” She reached for her hand.
She snatched it away before Aziraphale could make contact. “All these years, I save your arse, no questions asked. But the one time–The one time!–I need your help, sssuddenly it’s conditional,” Crowley hissed. She was probably too drunk to have this conversation, but she couldn’t think of any other opportunity to be honest enough with herself to say what she needed Aziraphale to hear.
“I won’t let you kill yourself! Don’t expect me to apologize for that.” The angel crossed her arms as if that made her point stronger.
Crowley scoffed. “I’m not– D’you hear yourself? It’s not up to you!” She could feel everything falling apart beneath her. Some part of her knew she was being hysterical. But she wasn’t going to keep trying at sensibility if Aziraphale couldn’t be bothered to try to understand where she was coming from.
The angel opened her mouth to continue, only to be cut off by the strength of Crowley’s glare. “You want to preach about this? Fine. But learn your audience first.”
Aziraphale made weak protests while she pulled her glasses back on and rooted around for her keys. She’d tossed them somewhere early in the night when Crowley had still held out hope for a nice reunion.
“It’s been a lovely night,” she bit out. The door closed behind her with a quiet ‘snik.’
She’d thought things were getting better between them.
It wasn’t until Crowley reached the van that she started to cry.
She’d fucked up. Somewhere along the way, Aziraphale had derailed a delightful evening with her inability to leave well enough alone. Any hope of returning to what they’d had at the magic show, those perfect few hours of bliss, with that hopeful look at something more, had gone up in flames with a single question.
Two miserable days had passed since Aziraphale had practically pushed Crowley out of her flat. She’d gone through her daily routines, steadfastly ignoring the voice in her head (which sounded an awful lot like a particular demon) that kept coming around to tell her that she was hiding behind her tasks to put off having to face Crowley.
The voice wasn’t wrong. Aziraphale just didn’t like it.
Knowing how close the demon was and how unwelcome her presence would be hurt. Even worse was thinking of Crowley, in distress because of her. Something she’d said had struck a nerve in her friend. And with no apology or attempt at communication, there was no way to soothe it.
Well. No more. Aziraphale had practiced all she needed to say to Crowley in front of a mirror. Human television said it was the best way to approach such a thing. She’d memorized a speech, all about how she cared too deeply for the demon to allow her to do that to herself and what a weight this whole debacle had been on her soul. Hopefully, it would get the point across.
Her walk to the van was refreshing after seeing nothing but the bad parts of this ‘hippie’ gathering at the clinic. All around the city, though growing in number as she neared the park, were young people set on making a difference. Their colourful clothing and spirited demeanor brought vivacity to the city that Aziraphale hadn’t seen from humans in quite a long time. Their disorder was beautiful, in a very human way.
People strummed guitars and sang from the sidewalks as she arrived. Crowley emerged from the back of her van and caught sight of her immediately. The demon leaned against the closed door and waited for her to approach.
Suddenly, that felt like a much harder thing to do.
She watched Crowley take a drag of a blunt while they both stood there, blowing it out heavily. The smoke lazily dissipated as if mimicking her flagging courage. She had to remember why she was there.
Aziraphale took a deep, grounding breath, then stepped into the maze-like campgrounds of the park. It had felt like a mighty barrier, that first step; after that, the rest came easy until she faced Crowley directly.
The demon’s pupils were blown wide, close enough to human that she didn’t bother with sunglasses. She stared at her, unblinking. No greeting was offered.
Right. Angel first. Steady as she goes, Aziraphale.
“You deserve a much better life than one that leaves you considering death. And if I played some part in that, big or small, I beg that you forgive me of it, Crowley.” There, she’d said the crucial bit first. It was wooden and awkward and probably the last thing anyone would ever want to hear, but at least it was out in the world for Crowley to know.
After a moment, she put the blunt out on the van door. “‘S not you,” she muttered. “Besides, I don’t even want to die. That’s the whole point. Insurance.” Oh. She’d never considered–
“I just want…” Her pupils sharpened to slivers, sobering to be deliberate in her words.
But rather than speaking, Crowley stepped forward and bridged the gap between them. Time seemed to slow as she leaned close and brought a tender hand to her jaw. Aziraphale glanced at her lips, more tempting and forbidden than the first apple, and wanted.
When Crowley kissed her, she saw stars.
When Aziraphale kissed her back, she almost cried with relief. It was more than she’d ever dared to hope for. The angel had surged forward where Crowley had started to pull away, hands fisted into her vest, and deepened the kiss.
She’d responded in turn, poured damn near everything she could into the angel, years and years of built-up love and need. Her tongue licked at the seam of Aziraphale’s soft lips, drawing a sinful sound from her angel.
Oh, how it haunted her now.
The moment the angel had realized the moan was her own, Crowley felt her turn to stone under her touch.
Her hands dropped. Aziraphale had stepped back, determinedly refusing to meet her eyes.
Crowley shivered at her absence.
They stood in silence for a tense moment. Finally, Aziraphale had looked at her. She looked lost. “I…I can’t…” Warring expressions crossed her still-flushed features.
While the angel fought with herself, Crowley shrank back. She’d known where that indecision was headed; from the moment she’d stepped forward, bridged that gulf spread impossibly wide between them, she’d known. Hope, in all its cruel sympathies, wasn’t meant for creatures like her.
She’d watched Aziraphale run from her with a sinking dread in her stomach that told her she deserved it.
That was the last Crowley had seen of the angel for two months.
Her assignment in San Fransisco had soured instantly, so she’d walked off the job an hour after…well, she’d left. (In the report she’d sent to Hell a month later, Crowley took credit for all the city’s drug abuse and homelessness issues and conveniently forgot to mention the van keys she’d tossed to a group of hungry-looking teens. According to their records, she’d been in America until winter drew the festival to a close.)
Back in London, he redoubled his efforts on the holy water front. Now that Aziraphale was out of the picture, he had to approach from a different angle. Putting a team together brought him back to the fascinating criminal underbelly of Soho, where he’d found all manner of promising candidates. He threw himself into the work, eager for a distraction, and found that the weeks following his return had passed rather quickly.
His initial meeting with the best of the best (and Shadwell) wrapped with little fanfare.
When he climbed into the Bentley, running an appreciative hand over her steering wheel, something in the air shifted. He looked to his left to find Aziraphale sitting beside him as if nothing had changed. Nothing but that look. The angel watched him like something was wrong. “What are you doing here?”
“I needed a word with you.” Now that he was talking, he wouldn’t look at Crowley for more than a second. At his prompting, Aziraphale’s words tumbled out in the same rehearsed manner they had months ago. “I work in Soho; I hear things. I hear you’re setting up a caper to rob a church.” He stumbled over the criminal portion of Crowley’s endeavors.
Not that it meant anything. It didn’t matter that the angel knew–it’s not like he’d been subtle about any of it. Didn’t mean Aziraphale cared.
He launched into a lecture about the dangers of holy water. As if Crowley didn’t know. Maybe Aziraphale thought he leaped without looking. He might be right. Crowley rushed into things often enough, sticking his tongue out at power and laughing in the face of the enemy. Lying to Beelzebub was always a risk, but it came with such ease now to tell them he loathed Aziraphale or that humanity’s evils were brought on by yours truly. So no, he really didn’t need to hear the safety spiel again.
“You’ve told me what you think for 105 years.”
“And I haven’t changed my mind.” Aziraphale paused, just long enough to be noticeable. “But I can’t have you risking your life. Not even for something dangerous. So,” he started, “you can call off the robbery.”
In his hands, he held an endearingly patterned thermos.
Crowley didn’t want to believe it. That–it couldn’t hold what he thought it did. He yearned to take it–to snatch it out of Aziraphale’s hands, frankly–but knew he wouldn’t be able to cope if it were fake.
The angel still wouldn’t look at him, not like Crowley watched him then. His gaze danced back and forth between Aziraphale and the thermos, unsure. “Don’t go unscrewing the cap,” he warned, and finally, it felt real. Crowley reached tentatively for it, still waiting for him to snatch it away. But Aziraphale passed it to him instead.
Something in Crowley warmed. More than the holy water, the angel had given him his trust. All this time, that’s all he had ever wanted. ‘The holiest,’ Aziraphale had offered. It really was.
“After everything you said.” Some part of him still couldn’t believe it. Aziraphale cared. He didn’t understand, not yet, but he was willing to wait for Crowley to show him. “Should I say thank you?”
The angel’s throat worked. “Better not.” Better for them both.
“Well, can I drop you anywhere?” More dangerous than the holy water or the trust was the hope Aziraphale had given him. Going against Heaven once made it so much easier to do it again. They could finally start carving something out for themselves–together.
“No, thank you.” Crowley frowned. Aziraphale’s clipped dismissal sounded forced. “Oh, don’t look so disappointed. Perhaps one day we could–I don’t know. Go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.” One day. Perhaps. It felt like the angel was slipping further from his grasp with each word.
Right. No point in hiding how desperate Crowley was now. “I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.”
Aziraphale gave him a look full of emotion. He couldn’t decipher it.
“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”
The angel left without another look.
He considered the tartan thermos. It was worth it.
It had to be.