Chapter Text
January 31st, 1933
Crowley has a newspaper in hand, newly bought from a fresh-faced young boy in the street. He’s shouting himself hoarse, waving the remaining few of his stack in the air. “Latest paper!” the boy, who can’t be any more than twelve years old by Crowley’s best estimation, is yelling, “latest paper, latest paper, get the latest news, latest paper -”
Latest paper latest paper, the words all run together. Crowley turns away, ignoring the way his fingers stain black as he runs them over the paper. The headline of the paper yells at him, similarly to the boy, black against white, a threat for all to see.
HITLER FORMS HIS FIRST GOVERNMENT
He bites his lip in thought. He doesn’t need to be a demon to know that the storm brewing in Germany won’t be contained for long. All of Europe is concerned, although some still believe that horrors of the past can’t be repeated. Although some still believe that no war will come of it, that they’ve learnt from what happened only two decades earlier, their entire world view shattered and reeling -
Crowley had only woken up in 1917, and had only lived through half of the World War. Hell had still sent him a commendation for it, though. Only justifies his thoughts that they aren’t really paying attention when they’re not giving him direct assignments. He’s been sleeping since 1862, and Hell hadn’t even noticed.
London is different, now - all of humankind is different. There’d been a switch, after that first war, and Crowley now wishes he’d enjoyed the nineteenth century a bit more. Sure, it had its own issues, but what century doesn’t? The war had shaken all of Europe to its core, to its very beliefs, in a way that few things ever had. Crowley would know - he’s seen it happen. He’s seen it, before, two or three times in his lifetime. In almost six thousand years.
And, stupid foolish idiotic morons of humans - they’re doing it all again. He’s giving it a few years for war to break out - if they’re lucky, ten more, but probably sooner. The world is speeding up, technology advancing at a rate it never has before, and it seems like humankind is hellbent on changing their entire world in a century.
There’s not going to be a new century if they keep going like this, though. Crowley shakes his head, still standing in the middle of the street with his paper. People are pushing past him, always concerned about their own daily lives rather than the inevitability of war.
He remembers waking up, learning of what was going on. He remembers what his first thought had been, upon waking. The quick panic that’d settled into him until he learnt that Hell wasn’t responsible, not really.
If there’s another war coming - well, this time he’s not sleeping, is he? He can make sure it ends quickly. Crowley starts walking and lets his newspaper drift to the ground. A bit of littering never hurt a demon’s reputation, and the pages are ripped as people walk over the news, walk all over HITLER FORMS HIS FIRST GOVERNMENT.
He grins, and wonders how much of a spy network England truly has.
~*~*~*~
September 2nd, 1939
One of the largest advantages to being part of England’s Secret Service, Crowley has decided, is that he’d really, really, really didn’t want to get drafted.
For God and country, it’s all nice and well, of course, for those who need that type of reassurance. In Crowley’s book - well, he’s not going to do anything for God, is he now, and he’s not really English, although his passport may state otherwise. His passport also says he was born on 21 October 1898, and that’s off by about five thousand and nine hundred years, too, and that’s not even counting whatever time he had before Earth was created.
So Crowley’s not going to fight for England in that way, and he’s glad. It’s bad enough to see it all from a distance, but he’s been to wars himself before. He’s heard of the horrors of the first war; he’s not eager to get discorporated by a lucky bullet or get felled by something even worse. He can fight while being comfortable in London, keeping close to his apartment and his Bentley and Aziraph - no. Better not go down that route.
Another advantage to not being near the slaughtering is that he can do far more with his nice colleagues than he’d ever be able to do in the field, with wild-eyed, dying soldiers. He is with Section D now, and the entire reason for their existence is to spy, get information, and spread misinformation. It’s the kind of chaos Crowley likes to sow, really, and he has always preferred to work his miracles from higher up, which is of course the only reason he doesn’t want to be shipped to Germany or France.
Besides - he’s seen enough people die miserably in his lifetime. The fourteenth century was rather enough for him, in that regard. It’s not the most important reason, of course. The main reason is just that Crowley’s very comfortable in London.
St Ermin’s Hotel could be far more uncomfortable, like Hell, for example, although it’s a little crowded. There’s a war at hand, and Crowley’s in a position where he can - not solve it, really, but maybe make a bit of a difference anyway, so all in all things could be worse. Although, with the way his humanly colleagues are now buzzing, something’s changed.
“Anthony!” One of the humans comes to stand near him, hand on his desk as he leans closer to Crowley. His name is Henry Worthen, and somehow he’s fancied himself something like Crowley’s friend, in the two years they’ve been working together. “Did you hear?”
“I assume I’m about to,” Crowley says nonchalantly. There’s a lot of buzz going around, and Crowley’s been working around the clock. He still has some smaller assignments for Hell going on, and apart from that, well. Germany invaded Poland, a day earlier. There’s more than plenty for him to do, and he’s been in the office since before most people were awake.
Worthen grins. “Chamberlain’s given Hitler an ultimatum. If he doesn’t take it, we’re at war.”
“Nothing to smile about,” Crowley mutters, and rubs his eyes underneath his glasses. “He’s never going to take it, the man. He’s bloody insane, is what he is.”
“Means we can shoot him,” Worthen says.
“Yeah, or they’ll bomb us,” Crowley says. “Either way, it’s going to be bloody.”
“It already is,” Worthen says, and his smile turns into something softer, something that’s not about humour but rather survival by faking humour. The man’s about the age that he thinks Crowley to be, and generally his good mood is unbeatable. Even in the face of war, he manages to smile and look at the bright side. Unfortunately, Crowley doesn’t think they’ll have a great many bright sides in the foreseeable future.
“Yeah,” Crowley says. “Wager it’s going to be a lot more work for us, anyway.”
“Section D always survives,” Worthen says, clasping Crowley on the back. “Look bright, Anthony! This is what you’re good at. I’ve heard rumours that Laurence Grand is thinking of promoting some people, and I’ve heard your name buzzing around. Anthony J. Crowley, at the top of the chain.”
“Splendid,” Crowley drawls. “Rather be a ground agent, you know. Fancy I’m rather good at tempting people to give me what I want. Although you could find me ruining Germany’s communications any day, if I could.”
Worthen rolls his eyes at him. “You’ve been a ground agent for years,” he says. “How long have you been here, now?”
“Oh, about six thousand years,” Crowley says.
“Feels like that, sometimes,” Worthen says, laughing. “Anyway, I don’t think you’ll have to wait long, my friend. There’s going to be enough clandestine operations going on that we won’t be able to do all of them. Heard that the men from Military Intelligence are going to be focusing on uniformed troops, while we can keep the secrecy going. More of a division of tasks, now that the war’s going to usurp all our time.”
“Can’t imagine the missus will be glad about that,” Crowley says, and rises. There’s a stack of paper on his desk, and while people hurry by, it becomes apparent that he’s only going to get more.
“She thinks they’re going to take the deal,” Worthen says, following him around. He does that sometimes. Crowley doesn’t mind; humans tend to stay away from him, something in their basic nature screaming that coming near Crowley is usually a bad idea. Otherwise, Crowley’s gotten very good at staring menacingly with glasses on, and that’ll scare away the rest. Worthen’s not very good at picking up these cues, though, and with his sincere belief that Crowley is something of a similarly-minded fellow in Section D, he’s just been befriending him instead.
Crowley would be amused if he also didn’t feel a bit pathetic for letting Worthen try it. He’s not had a friend in almost eighty years.
Somewhere in his mind, a very prim voice says we were fraternising, that’s all, and he tries to banish it.
“She’s mad, that woman of yours,” Crowley tells Worthen. His wife Anne is - well, human, mostly, with all her little sins, but she has plenty of good going for her, too. Kind-hearted, mostly, if a bit gullible. Not the kind of woman who should be living in war times, really. Crowley has met her once or twice, introduced as Worthen’s colleague. Anne is convinced they’re regular police.
Henry Worthen smiles, like a man who knows he’s in love with someone a little bit hopeless. “In the best of ways,” he agrees. “We’ll see in twenty-four hours, I suppose. If there’s still a bit of good left in Germany.”
Plenty of good in Germany. Crowley’s pretty sure that Hitler is going to be taking the elevator down, once this is all over, though. There’s just some people that can’t do good, and Hitler’s going to be dragging a lot of normal humans down with him. That’s the sad part about it, really.
He’d had this argument with Aziraphale before, but that was before the world had seen these wars. He remembers arguing that not everyone got the same chances. That God didn’t deal fairly with who went to Hell and who went to Heaven. That everything depends on context. Aziraphale had called it ‘ineffable’, he remembers, and offered him more wine.
On a screen in the corner of the room, there’s some footage of the invasion of Poland. There’s no sound, but Crowley doesn’t need it. War always sounds the same, although he imagines there might be a little more metallic clanking involved, now. Still screaming, though. Humanity’s a noisy bunch, and who could blame them? Everyone likes to think they’ll be heard, without failing to realize there’s no one Up There who listens.
“I doubt it,” Crowley says quietly. “I think everyone’s going to be robbed of whatever bit of good’s left in this world.”
Worthen sobers, and Crowley almost wishes all of them could still hope as quietly as Henry Worthen and his wife did.
~*~*~*~
January 27th, 1940
“We’re still rather getting used to it,” Anne Worthen tells Anthony Crowley. “Rationing is one of those things, you know - I understand why we do it, but it’s such a thing to get your head around! My Henry’s gone day and night, and I wish I could just feed him properly. And you too, Mr Crowley, really, you’re too thin. You need your strength, sir!”
Crowley has never known how to deal with chatty people. Well, he knows how to deal with one chatty person, but that’s neither here nor there. Chatty women, then, maybe, because the men in his general area tend to be rather rough and short. Their job doesn’t leave them with a lot of time for mindless socializing and asking about domestic life, really.
Worthen rubs his hands awkwardly as he leads Crowley further into his home. Crowley wouldn’t be here, but Worthen had insisted, and really, he isn’t going to use his own rations anyway. Might as well make sure Worthen gets a little something to eat, since he’s going to be working with him. He needs his colleague at full strength, preferably.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” he mumbles vaguely into Anne’s direction. “Erm. Lovely home.”
“Thank you,” Worthen says. “Anne, don’t complain about the rationing to Anthony. It’s not too bad, you think? We’ve only been doing this a few weeks. The situation will likely get even worse the longer the war goes on.”
The first one lasted - what was it? Four years? Crowley only lived through two of them, but that’d been enough to last him for quite a while. He wonders how long he’s in for it during this one, especially now he’s in Section D. Life isn’t necessarily more exciting, as a spy, but he has his fingers in some pies, so to speak, ready to move if he needs to.
“Sugar and butter,” Anne says reprovingly. “You love butter. How I’m going to make you a birthday cake with this rationing will be anyone’s guess. Well, now, come on. I’ve made some lasagna! Do you like lasagna, Mr Crowley? I asked Henry, but he didn’t know.”
“Lasagna’s fine,” says Crowley, who doesn’t eat unless Aziraphale nags him for long enough, and even then only tries one bite before giving his angel the rest of his portion. There’s a nagging bit of guilt when he thinks about these people making food for him that he doesn’t need.
There’s a war on. It steals whatever appetite Crowley might have had to hear the numbers of people dying in Poland, dying in Germany, dying. The weapons mobilised, the preparations made. Section D has already been on high alert for two months, and there’s talk about a new section of some sort. Crowley’s not supposed to know, of course, but he’s keeping his eyes out. He won’t be surprised if Section D is made into something new entirely. They’re overworked and exhausted; some missions have been complete flops. Crowley’s still cursing whoever was in charge of the Venlo incident for sheer incompetence.
Anne pulls out a chair for him. They eat in their living room; there’s a telly, which is rather unusual but not that surprising.
“So how are you doing, Mr Crowley?” Anne asks in the middle of the meal. Crowley’s trying to not pick at his food, but his plate is definitely not going to be empty at the end of the evening. Why did he agree to this, again?
“Fine,” he says quickly. “The food’s lovely.”
It’s not. Crowley has been spoiled by the many little peculiar restaurants Aziraphale used to take him to. Aziraphale has a knack for finding the cooks that create the most wonderful dishes, the best blends of flavours. He’s been to the restaurant that makes London’s best risotto before the rest of London caught on, and Aziraphale was moaning about a tiramisu in a restaurant that was later labelled the world’s best. He can just sniff out these things, and as a result, the only things Crowley has ever eaten is top of the game. He used to joke about that, and Aziraphale always looked away, ridiculously pleased that Crowley liked the places he took him. He always took pride in that, and Crowley enjoyed seeing it, even if the angel would’ve denied it until the end of time.
Which is to say that Anne’s lasagna is fine, but there are many, many reasons that Crowley doesn’t feel much of a reason to finish.
“Anthony’s not a big eater,” Worthen says, waving away Anne’s concerned look. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him more than take two bites of something.”
Crowley takes the way out. “S’ true,” he says nonchalantly, and leans back in his chair now that he doesn’t have to pretend to eat anymore. “It really is a lovely meal, Anne. Sorry for not informing you about my lack of eating habits.”
“That can’t be healthy,” Anne scolds him, but she does rise to take the plates back to the kitchen. “Someone ought to make you eat, Anthony Crowley.”
“Don’t bother trying,” Worthen tells her, stretching her neck to see her disappear. “Really, Anthony. Sometimes I wonder how you’re even alive. These past few days, I’m exhausted, and you’re still running around like you’re owning the place. Have you been home this week?”
“I’ve been home,” Crowley says. “I was home Tuesday. Hughes made me.”
Anne comes back, brushing her hands against her skirt and tutting at him. “It’s not right, that they’re making you work like this,” she says. “War or no, officers need to be home, too. It’s not like you can even really do anything!”
“Tactics,” Crowley and Worthen say at the same time.
“Nonetheless,” Anne continues, “the war’s not going to be affected just because you go home and have a good night’s sleep. At least I can make Henry promise to come home, emergency or not. You don’t have a wife, do you, Mr Crowley?”
“I told you not to bring it up, Anne,” Worthen says tiredly.
Do you know what trouble I’d be in if - if they knew I’d been - fraternising? Crowley tries not to show anything outward, just adjusts his tie.
“I’m not trying to pry, Mr Crowley,” Anne mutters. “Henry’s just been talking about you, and you’ve been working together, and I appreciate that you’re - I know you’re looking out for him in some ways, and I know we don’t know each other very well, but I’m just concerned about you. With the war going on, it’s not easy to be alone.”
Crowley has seen a great many wars, and for most he’d been alone, although not always. The first one had been the worst, mostly, when he’d still felt his wings burning and desperation clawing at him. Since then, he’s always had someone to go and visit if the humans got a little too cruel. Not anymore, though.
“On the contrary,” he says. “It only makes it much easier if you don’t have anything to worry about.” I have lots of other people to fraternize with, angel.
“Try to tell yourself that,” Worthen says.
Crowley makes a noise. “Me?” he says. “How dare you insinuate I have feelings.”
Worthen laughs. If Crowley had felt a little more demonic, he’d have miracled a creak in their stairs or something equally pettish. As it is, he lets Worthen laugh at him, lets Anne fuss him into at least eating a little bit of pudding for dessert, and leaves for home feeling like he can live like this.
~*~*~*~
June 12th, 1940
Crowley doesn’t think he’s been to France since - since - was it the French Revolution? Must’ve been.
Last time he was in France, he’d had some crêpes. He’d eaten two of them, almost feeling hungry with the power of the miracles he’d performed. Throwing oneself from London to Paris in a matter of minutes isn’t necessarily easy, but he’d known Aziraphale was in trouble.
Has he ever been in France without Aziraphale? He doesn’t recall.
There’s some drab in front of him now that’s not crêpes, but it’s the best the war has to offer him. Surely there’s some higher-ups eating steak and boiled potatoes and whatever else the humans like eating these days, but Crowley doesn’t mind. Although he could do without the smell.
“Eat, Monsieur Durand,” the Nazi officer, Kettler, says. “We can discuss business after.”
The German is a bit of a switch for Crowley, who’s lived in England for the better part of five centuries, now. Angels and demons pick up languages easily - kind of necessary, for what they do. The Fall of Babel had made the situation a bit more difficult, because it takes a few days to really get back into a language, but Crowley has been practising his German and French exactly for this reason.
He takes a bite of whatever the drab in front of him is. It’s bland and tasteless. Why is food such a big deal with the humans? Crowley wishes they could just get along with it without having to force-feed him in some misguided attempt to make him trust them.
“Sehr gut,” he says, laying on a bit of a French accent. “Do you want some, Herr Kettler? I’ve had a large lunch.”
He rests his arms on the table, leaning forward. They’re meeting in a clandestine backroom, because of course they are. Crowley has been to a dozen hotels and tiny back rooms in unused theatres. Currently, he’s in a cellar of an abandoned home in Compiègne. He doesn’t try to think of why it is abandoned, but he suspects it might’ve something to do with their religion.
“No,” Kettler says, looking mildly disgusted. “But if you’re not going to eat, Monsieur Durand, we should occupy our time with other things. Your military collapsed. Your people are fleeing. What ports are they fleeing from?”
“Now, now,” Crowley says, and flashes a smile. Kettler stills a bit, light blue eyes searching him. “I’m rather high up in the chains in our precious général d’armée, but if you want that kind of information, I want something back, Herr Kettler. I wouldn’t want you to kill my countrymen on a whim.”
“Double-dealing spy,” Kettler mutters.
“I need to report something back,” Crowley says, and this time, he makes sure he’s not threatening as much as he’s drawing Kettler in. He taps his fingers on the table, hearing the fork rattle against the plate, full of uneaten drab. “Germany must be ecstatic - you conquered France in six weeks. I’m aligning with you because I know you’ll win, Herr Kettler. But until then, if you want me to be of use, this will be a mutually beneficial relationship.”
“What do you want, then?” Kettler asks. “Victory is around the corner. France is ours, and Belgium and the Netherlands are under Germany’s rule, too. England will soon fall. Italy is our ally, now, and the rest will follow.”
This is the difficult part. Crowley would prefer some information, but since he’s pretending to have defected, Kettler would be suspicious. He also doesn’t really want to give the Nazis any insight in Operation Ariel, because he’d rather get the people evacuated instead of killed by Germany.
“My wife,” he says. “I want to know where she’ll be safe. She refuses to leave France, mon ange, stubborn as she is. I just need her to be safe.”
“Ah,” Kettler says, and grins. He’s missing a part of one tooth, Crowley notices absent-mindedly, and it makes him look older. “A man in love. We can protect your wife, Monsieur Durand. Both of you will receive amnesty in Germany when we have won the war.”
“I want safety now,” Crowley says. “You’ve got France, but England and France haven’t given up yet. They’ll strike back -”
“Yes,” Kettler drawls. “I’d rather hear about that.”
Crowley hesitates, making himself duck back in his chair a bit. Kettler needs to think he is winning, here; needs to believe that Crowley is concerned, that he’ll blurt out anything. The longer he’ll be silent, the more Kettler will believe that he can draw something out of Crowley, and the more he himself might inevitably give away.
“Then we have a deal?” he asks, uncertainty marking his voice. “Protect my wife, and I’ll give you information. Weygand, he’ll - I’m not sure.”
Kettler’s eyes are greedy with the hint of information. “Weygand won’t be able to stop anything,” he says, “or any of the other French. You’re defeated.”
“Oui,” Crowley says, and tries not to smile. He’s got an in.
~*~*~*~
August 1st, 1940
Most of Crowley’s life is mostly spent hanging around 64 Baker Street when he returns from France. Section D has vanished while he was abroad, and a new organisation has taken its place. Crowley is now a proud member of the Special Operations Executive, although he doesn’t think his daytime job has really changed all that much.
People pat him on the back his first day back, congratulating him for a moment or two before returning back to their own things. Soon enough, he’s used again to the English air. German and French are pushed back in his mind again, and if he doesn’t have to hear either of the languages again anytime soon it’ll be too early.
He likes playing mind games with the Nazi, but it does get exhausting.
Johnson and Ackland are whispering furiously to each other when he’s been back for four days. He knows Ackland from the day he first joined, but Johnson is a later addition. He doesn’t know much about them except that they’re friends, but they send him odd glances now.
“Hey, Crowley,” Ackland says, joining him just when he’s seated himself. “We heard you did a bloody good job across the sea. Got quite a standing with the Germans, did you?”
Crowley rolls his eyes. “What’s it?”
“You’re an odd one,” Johnson says. “Didn’t know you spoke both German and French. What’d you need that for, anyway? Bloody hate German. It’s all full of long words and weird vowels.”
“Get off his back, Johnson,” a new voice says, and Worthen casually sits himself on Crowley’s desk.
“Didn’t realise we were having a party here,” Crowley bites. “What are all of you, twelve? Stop bothering me.”
Johnson and Ackland share a look, but trod back to their own desks. Telephones are ringing all over the place, codes stacking up, information to win a war being assembled. There are secret messages to disassemble, spies to put on cases, information to be assessed. Crowley never wanted that type of job in Hell, and he’s glad he’s not doing it right now.
Worthen stays on top of his desk, smiling wryly at him. His suit doesn’t fit him as well as it used to, and his tie is a little undone, but he seems fine, mostly. Tired, his mousey brown hair mussed.
“Glad to see you,” Worthen says. “Had fun in France, then? Stirring up some trouble?”
“I’m always stirring up trouble, France or not,” Crowley says. “Didn’t see you for a few days, there. On a mission?”
“Nothing important,” Worthen shrugs, and puts his hands in his coat as he moves off of Crowley’s desk to stand beside him instead. “Don’t mind Johnson and Ackland, by the way. You’ve made a bit of a name for yourself, is the truth.”
“So?” Crowley says, annoyed, and puts his feet on his desk. He thinks that’s a properly demonic thing to do, and he’s got an image to maintain, besides. He takes a cigarette for good measure, lighting it up slowly. “S’ not my fault the Germans are ready to trust anyone who speaks a bit of French and two brain cells.”
“Well, rumours go with that kind of fame,” Worthen says, and shakes his head at him. “The Germans just loved you, apparently. Says you charmed their socks off. Ackland and Johnson have a bet going on about whether you slept with some of them. They’ve got about ten others in on the bet.”
Crowley sends him a sharp look and takes a deep drag of his cigarette. “You’re really all twelve years old,” he says. “Don’t tell me you’re in on it.”
“Course not,” Worthen says, almost offended. Crowley’s about seventy percent sure that Worthen definitely had betted on something. “I’ve been working, you know. Hughes gave me an important one. Dealing with some German spies running around in London. They’ve been killing some people, but it’s all been rather hush-hush. Have a hard time tracking them down. Since you’re back now, I thought you might want in on it.”
For good measure, he miracles Ackland and Johnson. They certainly deserve having their zipper down any time they’re making a romantic advance. That’s what you get for betting on someone’s love life.
“Hah,” Crowley says. “Hard pass. Do your own job, man.”
“Rather you do it for me. The famous Anthony J. Crowley on my case. I might swoon.”
“Sod off.”
~*~*~*~
October 22nd, 1940
Crowley didn’t expect to find Henry Worthen at his door in Kensington, but he doesn’t really have a choice about letting them in. The air raid sirens are loud as ever, although both of them are really rather used to it by now. The Blitz has been going on for over a month, and Crowley’s almost more annoyed by the noise than he is by the damage done to the city he’s called his own for centuries.
He’s pretty pissed about that, too. All in all, it still could be worse, though. The Germans don’t have a great strategy, the way they’re going about it. And Crowley mostly knows where the bombs are going to land in advance.
He’s given his colleague a glass of wine. Worthen stares at it as if he’s never seen red wine before.
“What?” Crowley asks, taking a sip of his own. “Expected something different?”
“You don’t have beer?” Worthen asks.
Crowley snorts and puts the bottle of wine on his table. “It’s wine or water, Worthen,” he says. “Very biblical of me, don’t you think? I can offer you a cigarette, but that’s about it. Not much food to be found in the Crowley residence.”
“I don’t know why I expected anything different,” Worthen sighs.
“Why’re you here?” Crowley says, and takes another sip of his wine. It’s odd, having someone opposite him. He’s lived in Kensington for quite some time, but he never has had visitors. There’s been some neighbours trying to be friendly, but Crowley has always quickly managed to dissuade them from that notion.
Worthen shrugs and sits down on the sofa, almost drowning in it. His thumb plays with the rim of his glass, the wine sloshing inside. There’s almost a bit of a waste in the way the man doesn’t even pay attention to the bottle. Crowley got it in 1927, and it’s rather good.
“Anne’s gone to some of her family,” he says. “The Blitz, she’s having difficulty coping. A lot of stress, you know. Someone that she knew died and she’s been jumping at every sound since then.”
“Ah,” Crowley says, and downs his wine. If he’s dealing with this, he needs to get sloshed. “You’re having a domestic.”
“No,” Worthen says while Crowley fills up his own glass again. “I just. I didn’t say anything, really. She wasn’t listening to what I really said. Didn’t want to sit in a house by myself, after. I thought I’d go mad, just listening to the air raid sirens.”
“You get used to it,” Crowley says.
Worthen tilts his head. “Do you, really?”
“That’s it.” Crowley stands up to rummage in his kitchen. There’s still a few good bottles of wine. He hasn’t had much occasion to drink, but when he has, he’s drunk a lot. “Drink up, Worthen. You’re no use to me sober.”
“We’ve got work in the morning,” Worthen says.
Crowley smiles. “Maybe a bomb’ll fall on it,” he says. “Who knows, right? For now - drink. Yes, good, like that. Tomorrow’s another concern. Let me tempt you.”
Worthen doesn’t take long to convince. Crowley would like to say it’s because of his own good taste in wine, but from what he knows of Worthen, the man has no inclination of the price of the stuff he’s drinking. That’s the way that Crowley prefers it, really; he’d rather they just treat it as bottles he got for a cheap penny, because that way, they’ll go through it faster.
It’s surprisingly fun, really. Crowley’s last night drinking with someone was in - when was it? He doesn’t even remember. Nineteenth century, somewhere before they fell out. Aziraphale had gotten a new copy of some book or another and seen fit to celebrate. He’d invited Crowley, because they already had plans for that day anyway. Crowley thinks they’d discussed the finer points of some ballet or another, and Aziraphale had ended up on the floor by the end of it. It’d been fun and it’d been easy.
“She - she should’ve stayed,” Worthen hiccups, almost completely supine on Crowley’s sofa, when the air raid sirens have already stopped. It’s a clear night, with the stars mostly visible. Something smokes on London’s horizon, and Crowley laughs as he looks out of the window, a few feet away from the couch.
“They don’t stay,” he points out, blinking hard as he spills some wine on his jacket. He blows on it, and it disappears. Worthen is too far gone to notice, and Crowley sniffs. “S’ what they do, isssn’t it? They go on about their - their, sides, and boom, they’re gone.”
“Families are hard,” Worthen complains loudly. “They didn’t want her to marry me, you know, but what could we say? We’re happy, and they shouldn’t - shouldn’t push her against me. That’s unfair! It’s not their say!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley mutters, and falls down onto the couch, pushing away Worthen’s legs forcefully. “I know. Fraternising. D’you know what he said? Fraternissssing! As if I’ve ever - I’ve only ever asked him for one thing, only one, and he goes, ‘I don’t need you’, as if - as if, as if I need him! I don’t, but he needs me, but he won’t - ugh. Stupid angel. Who does he think got him out in Paris, huh? Moron that he is. Stupid angel.”
Worthen stares at him, looking far less drunk than he did before. Crowley takes another sip of wine, looking back, and then replaying what he just said. With a shudder, he drops his wine.
“You’re in love,” Worthen says slowly, sitting up more clearly, “you’re in love. With a man. That’s why you never talk about it.”
Shit. This is why he shouldn’t get drunk with humans, and especially not humans who will very much frown upon something between two men. So backwards, sometimes, even if Crowley’s not even necessarily a man. Or Aziraphale, but he bets it’s going to be a little while before humanity starts addressing the whole gender-idea.
“Don’t,” he says, and curses some more at himself mentally. If he doesn’t play this right, everything he’s worked for could be gone in the morning. He’ll have to start all from scratch. “Whatever you heard, it’s not what you think.”
“Who is it?” Worthen says, still staring at him.
“Does it matter?” Crowley snarls, very aware he should be nicer if he doesn’t want Worthen to make a big deal out of it. But he doesn’t talk about Aziraphale, anymore, tries not to even think about Aziraphale. There’s not even anything going on. There never has, and still Crowley’s afraid.
Worthen looks at him. “I’m not going to turn you in,” he says. “I’ve known - men like you. It’s not - I couldn’t. You’re a good man, Anthony. You’ve just got so many secrets.”
“I don’t,” Crowley says.
Worthen laughs at that. “Your sunglasses and your mysterious eye condition,” he says. “The way you never talk about your personal life. I still don’t know what that J stands for, in your name. Why you know French and German well enough to pass as a native. Why you barely ever eat. I’ve taken you to meet my wife, Anthony. I’ve known you for years. I’m your friend, I’d like to think. Your only friend, it always seems. And you need to talk about - him. Whoever he is.”
“I can’t,” Crowley stresses now. “Just. Go away, won’t you?”
“Anthony -” Worthen starts.
“Go. Away,” Crowley shouts, and lets a bit of his demonic essence creep into it. Summons the tiniest bit of his power, the darkness of his will. Worthen goes very, very still, and Crowley lets it seep away. Worthen puts his glass of wine, emptied by now, on the table.
“Okay,” he says, and stands up. Suddenly, the absence of the air raid sirens feels off. It’s too quiet in London, in his apartment. Crowley’s never been so close to telling a human about Aziraphale, but what good will it do? Aziraphale had made himself very, very clear.
Worthen leaves, and Crowley sags back on his sofa and empties the rest of the wine bottle.
~*~*~*~
October 23rd, 1940
“We’re not going to talk about it,” is the only thing that Crowley says when he stops by Worthen’s desk, that morning. “If you ever utter a single word about him again, you’re not going to like what comes after.”
“Yeah,” Worthen just says. He’s got bags under his eyes. It might well be from that it was just very late by the time Crowley sent him away, but he rather thinks Worthen may not have slept at all during the night. “Whatever you want.”
Crowley sighs, and drops a box of chocolates on his desk then. “In my experience,” he says quietly, “the best thing you can do is offer up some sweets. Have a good conversation about it. Anne loves you, Henry. You’ll be fine.”
With that, he walks to his own desk, and ignores the burning eyes of Worthen in his back.
~*~*~*~
March 13th, 1941
Humans can be so tedious.
Crowley growls as he stalks through the streets of London. Smartly dressed, hat on top of his head, sunglasses perched on his nose, and completely invisible, as he should be. Another dead body, another forgotten son of war, and for what is it, really? Because there’s some people who like to play God.
She really did make them in Her image, didn’t She? With all the wars, and the pain, and the unforgiving coldness with which other sides are regarded. Don’t ask questions, because you’ll ask the wrong ones. Just obey, mindlessly, tirelessly. Or die.
He’s still mad as he walks into 64 Baker Street. A few people try to get his attention, probably for whatever mission he’s supposed to be doing now, but he’s very much done. He doesn’t wait to go inside Albert Hughes’ office as much as he storms in there.
“They killed my informant,” he says, and folds himself down in the man’s chair. “This is getting out of hand.”
Albert Hughes just raises an eyebrow at him. He’s not exactly the SOE’s big boss, but he’s supposed to be Crowley’s direct one, in charge over two of the direct departments. A little odd, having a human boss. Crowley’s been in employment before, but the new world has made it all so formal and everything. It’s almost as if they want him to feel like a step in the working world means a step in status.
Ha. As if Crowley would ever really care what Hughes thinks of him. Nice to be a respected employee, for a change, in as far as Crowley’s ever been a respected employee. Better than Hell, though, which only has bad books. Crowley’s never been one for impressing Hell, because it tends to go directly against the kinds of chaos he likes to inflict upon humanity. They like him well enough, anyway, and that’s the same it is with Hughes.
“What informant?” Hughes just asks, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “Mr Crowley, I’ve asked you before, please take off your sunglasses inside.”
“Nah,” Crowley says, and leans forward. “The - the girl, Sarah. The one with information on the German pilot. They killed her. Must’ve been the German spies moving in London, no one else would’ve known as fast.”
Hughes rubs his forehead. “Mr Crowley, I know it’s a problem. They’ve been getting bolder. If you want to do something about it, you can work on it with Mr Worthen. He’s been tracking and eliminating them for months, but the leaders still remain out of sight. God knows your own lead might just have ended, if the girl’s really dead.”
“Fine,” Crowley mutters, and stands up again. The chair wasn’t that comfortable anyway, and he’s out of the door in almost a second.
He always needs to do things himself. He tries not to think of the young woman, brave enough to contact the authorities, brave enough to dig deeper. Now she’s dead, murdered by the Nazi in her own city, in his city, a city being burnt to the ground with every day the Blitz continues.
Worthen’s on the main floor, looking through photographs and papers. He’s muttering to himself while he reads, his jacket still on. He seems to have just come in, and his hair’s messy from the wind.
Crowley grabs the first of his files. It’s a mission report; a scouting on one of the German Nazi that Worthen’s been following. Greta Kleinschmidt, born 1913, moving around London under the alias of Rose Montgomery. A real piece of work, that one.
“What,” Worthen says, looking up wearily, “are you doing?”
“Looking through your files,” Crowley says. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Worthen repeats, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Does that mean you’re finally interested in helping me out? The big bad German spy ring in London finally attracted your attention?”
Crowley hums. “Killed my informant is what they did,” he says. “Now I’m stuck without a clue. It’s the second one, you know. It’s getting a bit tiring, and you’re not a fast worker, it turns out. How long have you been on this case, again? So I thought I might help you out. What’s Kleinschmidt doing, then?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Worthen says. “I think they’re after artefacts of some sort. For months, there’s been whispers about all sorts of things. Magic stones, Excalibur, maybe even a bit of the Round Table, that sort of nonsense. I don’t even know where to start searching. Hitler’s after fairy tales, and he’s hunting them down in London.”
“Well, we always knew he was a bit insane,” Crowley says, and takes the new file that Worthen offers him. “So what’s got you in such a hurry that you can’t even take off your jacket? You’ve been running the streets.”
“They’re planning something today,” Worthen tells him as Crowley looks over another face. More German spies, all with fake names, all with some sort of purpose. Suspected crimes, suspected hiding places. All the actions that the SOE have taken against them, all for nothing so far.
“Yeah?” Crowley murmurs.
Worthen tilts his head. “New fantasies. All kinds of books of prophecy, is the latest rumour. I tracked Kleinschmidt yesterday, a lucky shot. She’s made some deal with some sort of antique bookseller in Soho. Not sure if he’s one of them or if she’s fooling him, but I’ve gathered there’s supposed to be a meeting tonight. I just don’t think we’ll be able to make it there in time, not with the kind of manpower needed. Glozier and Harmony are supposed to be involved, too, and they’re two of the biggest names running around.”
Crowley’s heart has stopped somewhere in the middle of Worthen’s story. He stares at the file for a few more seconds, then promptly closes it as his body regains its functions. “An antique bookseller?” he repeats. “Soho? Is that A.Z. Fell and Co? Fell’s Antiquarian and Unusual Books, is that the one?”
There is a pause before Worthen’s gaze shifts. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “You heard rumours, too, or do you know the place? Look, it’s the next photograph in the file, that’s the shop.”
Crowley turns a page, and yes, that’s the bookstore, alright. He throws the file back at Worthen. “Believe me,” he says humorlessly, “he’s being tricked. There’s not an evil bone in Fell’s body. Where’s that meeting?”
“St. Dunstan-in-the-East,” Worthen says, and hurriedly gets up out of his chair to follow Crowley when he starts walking, “it’s a church near the Tower of London. Anthony, even if we leave now, we might not even be on time. You can’t go rushing off all on your own! There’s no plan, no one who knows who exactly is going to be there and what’s going to be down, and we don’t even know who Fell is in all of this!”
“Doesn’t matter,” Crowley says. His Bentley sits faithfully where he’d left her in the morning. Finding and tracking down what's happened to his informant had taken up most of the day, and the evening is already in sight. It won’t be a far drive, but the air raids will start up again soon.
“Anthony!” Worthen yells, even as Crowley gets into the car. “At least let me come with you!”
As if. Crowley’s got a rudimentary plan, but he wouldn’t let a human anywhere near it. Worthen doesn’t know a single thing about Crowley, but he’s tried to be his friend. It’s not really the man’s fault that Crowley only really has had one friend in his whole life, and it’s never going to be a human.
“See you tomorrow,” he says pointedly, and shuts the door. The engine revs him comfortably, and he drives far too quickly, his hands trembling on the wheel.
~*~*~*~
There’s a gun pointed at the angel.
It’s the first thing Crowley sees when he enters St. Dunstan-in-the-east. The second thing he notices is the burn on his heels, the sacred reminder of his unholiness, of his Fall, of the very thing he’s supposed to be. He can’t stand still for very long, and he’s forced to almost jump his way forward, clinging to the church benches as if to relieve his burning feet. Well, it could’ve been worse. He’s never really tried to go into a church before.
He is on time, that is the important thing. He’s on time, and Aziraphale stands there, looking at him, and he hasn’t seen him in seventy-nine years and he looks surprised. Crowley can’t help but let out gasps as he hobbles his way towards the angel. Three Nazi - well, that’s not too bad. He can keep them talking long enough for the air raid to start, and then it’ll be all up to Aziraphale.
He really does hope Aziraphale won’t just - leave him here. Maybe he’s still mad?
“Sorry, consecrated ground,” he bites out when he gets closer to the assembled group. He recognises all of them. Seems Worthen’s information was right on the money; it’s Glozier, Harmony and Kleinschmidt. “Oh, it’s like - being at the beach in bare feet.”
“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale hisses at him, taking a few steps closer. He doesn’t necessarily seem very upset, but there’s something guarded in his expression. Crowley shouldn’t be surprised, really.
“Stopping you,” he says, “from getting into trouble.”
“I should have known, of course,” Aziraphale says, turning back to the Nazi, indignity already in his tone. “These people are working for you.”
For him? He’d almost feel insulted as he leans into one of the church benches, trying very hard not to grind his teeth at the pain. “No! They’re a bunch of half-witted Nazi spies running around London blackmailing and murdering people. I just didn’t want to see you embarrassed!”
He walks a little round, trying to walk off the pain in his feet. How do people deal with this when they’re at the beach? Is this a valid excuse to just never go to the beach? For the first time, he hopes the air raid starts soon, just so the church will be gone. Will the remains of the church still be consecrated? Questions, questions.
“Mr Anthony J. Crowley,” Mr Glozier says, drawing out his name. “Your fame precedes you.”
“Anthony?” Aziraphale asks.
Oh, yeah. He’d almost forgotten that he hadn’t had the first name, last time he saw Aziraphale. Feels like so long ago. “You don’t like it?” he asks.
“No, no,” Aziraphale hurries to say, “I didn’t say that. I’ll get used to it.”
Well. Ringing endorsement, that.
“The famous Mr Crowley,” Kleinschmidt says. The sound-struck quality of her voice would’ve been more enjoyable if she hadn’t been holding her gun, the muzzle alternating between pointing at him or Aziraphale. “Such a pity you must both die.”
Nazi. So sure of their own success, aren’t they? He tips his hat at her, still trying to find a position where he can stand still during his daring rescue mission and not be in pain. It can’t be long before the bombs start falling - it’s fairly easy to time them, these days. Two minutes, one? The three Nazi are still staring at him, and he stares back. There’s holy water behind them, which is by his estimation far more interesting than the three of them will ever be.
“What does the J stand for?” Aziraphale asks.
Crowley lets out a noise. “Erm. It’s just a J, really. Look at that, a whole fontful of holy water! It doesn’t even have guards!”
“Enough babbling! Kill them both,” Glozier says, turning away from him. Crowley smiles, and leans back to the party.
“In about a minute, a German bomber will release a bomb that will land right here,” he says, gesturing for emphasis. “If you all run away very, very fast, you might not die. You won’t enjoy dying, definitely won’t enjoy what comes after.”
“You expect us to believe that?” Glozier asks. “The bombs tonight will fall on the East End.”
Crowley tries to wobble on one feet. It doesn’t work much better. “Yes. It would take a last-minute demonic intervention to throw them off course, yes. You’re all wasting your valuable running-away time!” He can feel Aziraphale looking at him, even as he starts walking again. “And if in thirty seconds a bomb does land here, it would take a real miracle for my friend and I to survive it.”
“A real miracle?” Aziraphale repeats, nodding along faintly.
“Kill them,” Mr Harmony says, “they’re very irritating.”
The air raid sirens sound. It’s the first time that Crowley has liked hearing them. He can almost hear the whistling of a falling bomb, too, if he focuses, and he grins, pointing at the sky. Well, he gave them a chance. It’s not really his fault if they refuse to take it. It’s more than they’ve given their opponents, really.
And now it’s all up to Aziraphale, although Crowley’s really rather sure that the angel isn’t thinking about the books that Harmony is still holding. Well, he has a little power left in him, enough for a small miracle. No use in saving Aziraphale if the angel is going to be moping about his lost collection for the rest of the century.
The bomb hits. Crowley finds himself standing in the ashes of what once was St. Dunstan-in-the-east. His feet still hurt, but the burning sensation is gone and only its aftermath remains. That’s one question answered, then.
Aziraphale stands opposite him, taking in the destruction, taking off his hat. Crowley’s not looking at him, cleaning his sunglasses instead. The ashes cling to the lenses. And now that he’s alone with Aziraphale, he can’t look at him. How to start that conversation?
“That was very kind of you,” Aziraphale says quietly.
Crowley puts on his sunglasses. “Shut up,” he says.
“Well,” Aziraphale says, and it’s a bit awkward for a moment. “It was. No paperwork, for a start. Oh. Oh, the books! I forgot all the books! Oh, they’ll all be blown to -”
Crowley grabs the bag. “Little demonic miracle of my own,” he informs Aziraphale. “Lift home?”
He starts walking. He parked the Bentley nearby, but he hadn’t dared to put it right next to the church. He’s willing to do a lot of things, but he’s putting his car anywhere it will be blown up for certain. He’s had her since new, not a scratch, and that’s what she’s going to be until the end of time.
Aziraphale catches up with him. “Oh,” he says faintly. “You - you got a car?”
“Yeah,” Crowley says, taking the driver’s seat. “1926. Wonderful machines. It’s an upgrade compared to horses, really. They go faster, too. Look, just get in. I wouldn’t discorporate you just after I helped save your neck, angel, really, what do you take me for? I’m a demon, I’m not soulless.”
“I didn’t think that,” Aziraphale mutters as he gets inside.
Crowley just starts the car, only mildly enjoying Aziraphale’s shocked face as the Bentley roars to life. “Relax,” he drawls, “it won’t be a long ride anyway. I can go from here to Soho in under ten minutes.”
The air raid sirens are still going off. Aziraphale is holding on for dear life, but he’s not saying anything as Crowley races past empty streets. Soho only takes him eight minutes, although he wishes he’d gone a little slower when he gets there. He doesn’t know what to say, and he really doesn’t know how to explain, when the bookshop looms in front of him.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale starts, and then stops. Sighs. Crowley waits for him to get it out, tapping the wheel as he does. “I just - do you want to come in? Erm. You’re not supposed to be outside when the air raid sirens are going off.”
Crowley considers him. Aziraphale is looking intently at him, gentle light playing over his features as he sits in the car. He hasn’t seen him in seventy-nine years, which is nothing, by all accounts. They’ve gone centuries without one another, all back in the beginning. Crowley doesn’t need him, not really. Angels and demons were made to face the world alone, in a way, no family or friends or partners needed. They’re not human, not really.
Aziraphale clutches his books to his chest, a desperate hope painted in the crease of his brow, the line of his nose. Fraternising, that’s what he said, and Crowley’s not sure they can keep doing this. If Hell ever finds out what Crowley’s gone and done, they won’t show him any mercy. If Hell finds out, Crowley will be over and done with. They’ll end him, and he won’t have any warning at all.
And what will they do to Aziraphale? Fussy, prim Aziraphale, the angel who’s gotten used to humanity’s soft parts of life? Aziraphale, who gave away his sword without any hesitation, who cries at the end of Shakespeare plays, who keeps calling him a serpent and yet always invites him in at the end of the day?
“Better not,” he says, and hates himself for it a little.
“Ah,” Aziraphale says, and makes no move to get out of the car. He looks away, though, to his books. The light falls on his light curls, now, catching. “So - erm. I’m sorry if it’s too forward, but - how did you know I needed help? Not that I don’t appreciate - but you know, it’s all - I was just wondering, is all.”
“I’m part of the Special Operations Executive,” Crowley says. “Been there for - what? Couple of years? Wasn’t always called that, though.”
“Secret Intelligence?” Aziraphale asks, blinking.
“Meh,” Crowley mutters, “more a sort of super-secret spy campaign. Don’t expect you to have heard of it, it’s all very hush-hush. Word on the street is that they’re calling us the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare. I rather like that one, I think. Don’t see what’s so gentlemanly about warfare, anyway.”
“So you’re sort of a -” Aziraphale grapples for the word, “spy?”
“That’s exactly what I am, angel,” Crowley tells him. “Anyway, we’ve been trying to deal with the German spy ring in London for months, now. Heard they were selling up a deal with a bookseller, and then heard it’s you. Did you know they thought you might be a Nazi yourself? Funny, that.”
“Hilarious,” Aziraphale mutters, and sighs. “Well. If you’re not going to come in, I should - leave, I suppose. It’s been a rather wearying evening, with all this action. Thank you again, Crowley, for saving me from an embarrassing discorporation, and for the books. It’s far too ni-”
“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley says. “Tell the whole blessed world, won’t you? Bye, angel. I’ll - I’ll see you around.”
“Will you?” Aziraphale says, something tugging at his lips as he steps from the car. “Thank you, Crowley. Have a pleasant evening.”
“Thanks,” Crowley murmurs, watching the angel walk for the bookshop. Aziraphale looks around himself once, his gaze falling on the Bentley for two long seconds. Then the bookshop opens her doors for its sole inhabitant, and falls shut behind him. A candle starts burning, soft and gentle light falling through the windows.
He sits there for a few minutes, grounding himself by holding the wheel. This is fine. Nothing’s really changed, but Aziraphale is still in London. They didn’t talk about the holy water. Didn’t even mention Heaven or Hell. There’s a church broken down before its time, but really, that was only a matter of time. All things return to dust, as they say.
Tomorrow, he’s going to have to explain to Hughes and Worthen why he ran off to save a bookseller who was also possibly a Nazi from other Nazi, why they died in a church, and how he got out unscathed. His feet feel blistered, still, and they’re probably going to be hurting for a few weeks.
He leans his forehead against the wheel, and breathes.